Category Archives: Season 2025-2026

Tales From Row Z And The Back Row

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Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 16 December 2025.

As I prepared for the trip into South Wales for our League Cup quarter-final at Cardiff City, I was relieved that I had finally caught up with the previous five blogs for games that I had attended. At last!

This was a huge weight off my mind

However, I couldn’t help noting that the viewing figures were significantly lower than average, and I guessed that was mainly due to the delays in publishing these. After the Everton game on the Saturday, I tried to improve my turnaround time and so published that match report in the small hours of Tuesday morning. For me, this is super quick. It usually takes a few days for ideas and themes to ferment. However, despite my relative rapidity, I was rewarded with the lowest viewing figures ever.

Yes, ever.

So, I don’t know.

Like some of Enzo Maresca’s team selections, I couldn’t fathom it.

There have only been two previous match reports involving away games at the Cardiff City Stadium – in 2013/14 and 2018/19 – but in the second one I went into quite considerable depth remembering our match at Ninian Park in March 1984. By a weird twist of fate, the games in 1984 and 2019 both took place on 31 March. The synchronicity was perfect.

I suspect that because the 2018/19 report included a big wedge of nostalgia from that iconic 1983/84 season, and the inevitable mentions of the football hooliganism of the era, it might well have attracted a different demographic compared to my normal readership.

Why do I mention this? It’s because the viewing figures for that match are particularly high. In fact, this game ranks at position number three in my all-time Top Ten views.

  1. Galatasaray vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,950
  2. Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,882
  3. Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 2018/19 – 1,678
  4. Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2014/15 – 961
  5. Preston North End vs. Chelsea : 2009/10 – 948
  6. Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur :  2015/16 – 898
  7. Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 1) : 2020/21 – 881
  8. Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 2016/17 – 812
  9. Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 2 ) : 2020/21 – 775
  10. Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 2018/19 – 767

Despite the falling-off of views over the past few weeks, I am not disheartened one little bit. All the individual game stats that I mention above are via clicks on game specific links that I share on Facebook.

As a comparison, the last five games have these totals.

Burnley vs. Chelsea – 99

Chelsea vs. Arsenal – 84

Leeds United vs. Chelsea – 73

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea – 65

Chelsea vs. Everton – 61

But the good news is that far more people click on my homepage to access the match reports; a huge total of 10,070 in 2025.

This signals to me that most of my readers don’t need individual Facebook reminders to keep in touch.

And I love that.

So, I’m doing OK.

Total clicks – including clicks on photos – are up from 53,888 in 2024 to 84,395 in 2025 so far.

I’m very happy with this.

Thank you.

For the game at Cardiff, I worked 8am to 4pm, and I collected PD and Parky at the latter’s house in Holt at 4.15pm. I envisaged reaching my pre-paid parking spot on Sloper Road, right opposite the away entrance, at around 6pm, but hideously slow-moving traffic in Cardiff itself meant that I wasn’t parked up until 7pm.

I had arranged to hand over a couple of tickets to Brad, a work associate, outside the ground but he was running late too. So, I had some time to kill. While the other two hobbled over to the away end to sort out ticket issues of their own, I joined a long queue at a burger hut just ten yards away. Although it was very convenient geographically, the £5 double cheeseburger and onions was one of the worst ever, but I was starving and gobbled it down regardless.

Needs must and all that.

It was a cold evening, but I was wrapped up warm.

I bumped into loads of mates outside while I waited. It always amazes me that there must be close on six hundred or more that show up at every single domestic away game, no matter where or when. I must know a fair proportion of these. Same faces, game after game; it’s incredible.

I spoke to Dave, who now also pens his own match-day notes.

“A nice little friendly competition, Dave.”

While I was waiting for Brad, the team was announced.

I dubbed it “The B Team plus Moises.”

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

George – Buonanotte – Gittens

Guiu

Brad and his young son Finley arrived at about 7.30pm.

“Let’s get in.”

I had decided to gamble getting my SLR in, but an over-zealous steward halted my progress. It was 7.45pm. The kick-off was at 8pm.

Not to worry, I walked the two minutes back to the car where, unlike certain managers in our recent past, I had a “Plan B” and replaced my Canon for my Sony “pub camera” and thankfully remembered – just – to swap over the memory card. I made it inside the large concourse and then the seats of the stadium as the teams were doing their “huddles.” While I made my way up the steps to my seat in “Row Z” – two-thirds of the way up – the game kicked-off.

I had left work at 4pm yet still only made it into the game by the skin of my teeth.

Just in time logistics is the name of the game these days.

The home side, flying high and on top of League One, contained such typically “Anglo”-Saxon names such as Trott, Lawlor, Chambers, Wintle, Colwill, Turnbull, Ashford, Davies and Robinson, plus the intriguing Ng.

Chelsea’s list of players sounded ridiculously exotic in comparison.

Cardiff in blue shirts with pinstripes, a memory of that 1984 game, white shorts and blue socks.

Chelsea in white with the green shorts and socks.

I spotted a fair few empty seats in our end. In the row behind me, for example, there were seven empty seats together. It had been a strange away game. For a week or more, there had been spares floating around yet many had not yet received their tickets by matchday and so had to get reprints at the home ticket office. Maybe this persuaded many from travelling.

The home team engineered the first real chance of the game at the end where the 3,200 Chelsea fans were stood. Callum Robinson’s header was thankfully weak.

Soon into the contest, a homophobic chant from the home areas aimed at us.

“Chelsea Rent Boys, you know what you are.”

Tut tut, and tut tut again.

Josh Acheampong arrived late on a tackle on Davies out on the Cardiff left but the referee played the advantage.

On thirteen minutes, a super cross from Tyrique George out on the right-wing raced across the box but nobody was on hand to get a touch.

Just after, a feisty retaliation tackle by Davies on Acheampong resulted in a yellow card.

Half-chances were shared, but no ‘keeper was stretched.

We had started off with a good tempo but soon reverted to type.

Pass, pass, pass, yawn, yawn, yawn.

Chances didn’t inspire much enthusiasm.

George had a shot blocked.

Davies was easily the home team’s biggest threat and an effort from him flew over the bar.

Marc Guiu’s shot from an angle was saved.

Then, a shot from Davies spun off perilously close to the corner flag.

A few songs were aired in our section.

“It’s Salomon!”

Chelsea also aired a very old song about sheep, and I almost split my sides laughing.

On thirty-five minutes, a ridiculously overhit cross from George evaded everyone. Just after a lovely sweeping pass by Moises Caicedo reached Jamie Gittens, but with only one person marking him rather than the usual two, he fluffed his lines with a dreadful touch and the ball embarrassingly spun away for a goal-kick.

 On forty-three minutes, Davies was again the danger man as his attempted cross took a deflection and was aiming for the net until Filip Jorgensen reacted s well to push the ball off for a corner at the near post.

Just after, the home team set up a header that was straight at our ‘keeper.

No, not a great half, and Cardiff had edged the number of chances created. Our two wide men were especially poor, and it meant that Guiu was given hardly any ammunition. Facundo Buonanotte looked neat but didn’t set up Guiu with many touches either.

At half-time I spotted Nat with Rob and Martin at the rear of my section so joined them, with me standing in the very back row. I never watch a game at the top level from two different perspectives, so the superstitious part of me was a little concerned.

At the break, Enzo Maresca changed things.

Joao Pedro for Guiu.

Alejandro Garnacho for George.

To accommodate the Argentinian, Gittens disappeared off to the far side – our right – where he had such an ineffective first half. Maybe it was to keep him away from the away fans.

This change brought a little Chelsea pressure at the start of the half. Eight minutes in, a great Buonanotte break set up Garnacho, in the inside-right channel for a change, whose shot was saved by the Cardiff ‘keeper Nathan Trott. A shot from Joao Pedro was blocked just after.

I struggled to understand how or why Cardiff’s Davies was substituted.

We were well on top now.

On fifty-seven minutes, Buonanotte intercepted a poor pass out of defence and ran at the goal. A selfless flick out to Garnacho and the ball was calmly passed into the goal.

GET IN!

The scorer did his trademark celebration, and I just about captured it.

Alan in South London : THTCAUN, isn’t it.

Chris in South Wales : COMLD, look you.

I was so pleased for the scorer; he needed that goal.

The Bluebirds’ support goaded us.

“You only sing when you’re winning.”

A shot from Buonanotte was surely going into the top corner but Trott finger-tipped it over superbly.

On sixty-six minutes, two more changes.

Pedro Neto for Gittens.

Malo Gusto for Buonanotte.

We kept up the continued pressure.

Shots from Gusto, Santos, Caicedo and Neto rattled into the danger zone. Joel Bagan almost ran the ball into his own net as he tried to clear. This was surely one of those fabled games of two-halves, and the Chelsea support were enjoying this second-half onslaught.

But football can be a crazy game and on seventy-five minutes the match took a surprising twist.

An excellent cross from Perry Ng on the Cardiff right, that curled into the penalty box, found the leap of David Turnbull. Chelsea’s defenders had switched off. He was unmarked. He steered it in magnificently, the header beating Jorgensen all ends up. In fact, our ‘keepers’ dive was so late he still hasn’t landed.

Bollocks.

The Cardiff fans livened up now.

The thought of, perhaps, penalties made my heart sink. Thankfully, seven minutes later, in the eighty-second minute, a lovely bout of passing on the edge of the Cardiff box resulted in a low angled drive from Neto, and we were all relieved – no, over-joyed – when the ball crept in at the far stick.

YES!

Soon after, with the home fans silent, we goaded them.

“You only sing when you’re winning.”

There was a slight scare at the other end when a bouncing effort from a Cardiff player ended up on the top of our net.

Just after, a neat ball in from the dominant Garnacho, a turn from Joao Pedro, but another Cardiff block.

The Chelsea choir aired a favourite from fifteen years ago.

“Three Little Birds”.

But the Bluebirds were worried; they doubted if everything was going to be alright.

The gate was announced as 33,027, a fine attendance.

In the third minute of injury-time, a little head tennis out of defence lead to Joao Pedro setting up Garnacho. This time, his right foot steered the ball home. It was another great finish from the Argentinian.

I was so pleased for him. He has been one of the plusses over the past six weeks.

I had enjoyed my time with Nat, Rob and Martin, and won’t be so nervous about changing positions at half-time – “ooh, er, matron” – in the future.

As the home fans made a quick exit, the blue seats of the neat stadium were soon exposed, but the top tier of the surprisingly huge stand to our right looked like a huge flesh wound, a cruel reminder of that insane decision in 2012 by the chairman Vincent Tan to change the Bluebirds’ shirt colour to red.

Outside, I met up with PD and Parky. PD had been sat just behind Paul Merson and his son. Despite his association with lesser clubs, Merse remains a staunch Chelsea supporter, and I bloody loved the idea of him in among the rank and file of our normal support.

We weren’t allowed to move out onto Sloper Road until the area was clear. This took about thirty minutes. This allowed the local police to flush out a mini-army of Stone Island-wearing fooligans to stumble past us. Eventually, we could move. I gave Nat a lift back to her hotel – past Cardiff Castle, past the Christmas lights, lovely stuff – but even this took an age. We reached Nat’s hotel at 11.30pm.

On the way back, the new Severn Bridge was closed and so I drove over the original one, the first time for decades.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am.

It has been a decent little run in this season’s League Cup.

Three trips to Lincoln City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, Cardiff City.

Where next?

Tales From A Crisp Winter Day

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 13 December 2025.

The three matches that had preceded our home game with Everton had been highly disappointing; a distressing 1-3 loss at Leeds United, an inconceivably dour 0-0 at Bournemouth and a depressing 1-2 defeat at Atalanta.

Disappointing, distressing, dour and depressing.

That’s some indictment, eh?

In such circumstances, I might be forgiven for feeling down before the Everton match.

Not one bit of it. In the latter stages of my day at work on Friday, I suddenly realised that the fatigue of the previous three weeks had evaporated and I suddenly felt energised.

I was, to use one of my favourite sayings, chomping at the bit for the chance to drive to London with a clear head and the opportunity to enjoy a typical Chelsea Saturday.

The three of us were away early. I collected PD at 7am and LP at 7.30am.

The first section of the two-and-a-half-hour drive to London involved Parky regaling us with tales from Turin, Milan and Bergamo. He had attended our match in Italy with Salisbury Steve and Jimmy The Greek and – the football apart – had really enjoyed himself. There were, however, long days involved. On the outbound trip, he stayed awake for thirty-six hours. On the return trip, delays at Turin airport meant he had to sleep at Gatwick on his return.

We also spoke briefly about the 2026 FIFA World Cup, and that is all it deserved. The price of match tickets is obscene, a clear indication of FIFA’s mission to make money from supporters with not a hint of a moral compass. Like the Qatar World Cup of 2022, I strongly suspect that I will not watch a single match. We also spoke about the ridiculous number of games. During that colossal first phase, there will be no edge and no jeopardy. I am getting bored just thinking about all those pointless matches.

As I have said before, FIFA’s mantra is “more is more”.

Well, I shan’t be part of it. If most of the stadia are half-empty, I shan’t be bothered.

I dropped PD and LP near the pub, and they slid off for a quick breakfast at “The River Café” while I backtracked across Fulham to eat at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road.

Two bacon, two sausage, two fried eggs, two hash browns, two black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea.

£11.

I’d include a photo, but you’d only be jealous.

I parked up and caught the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the lads were already getting into a decent sesh. On the short journey from West Brompton to Putney Bridge, with the sun shining gloriously, I had to admit that there is no greater place than London on a crisp Winter Day.

I strode into the boozer at about 11.15am and was happy to see the Normandy Division of Ollie and Jerome sitting alongside the usual suspects. On this day, our ranks would be joined by several from the US.

First up, Michelle from Nashville, who had also visited Italy and met up with the lads in Bergamo. Michelle entertained me with snippets of her post-match stay in Milan; a few days of opera and art, all very agreeable.

Next up was Tom from Laguna Beach in California, a friend of mine since meeting on the old Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2007, and at an away game at West Ham a couple of years later.

Lastly, my friend Natalie from Kansas City arrived with her long-time friend Amy – her first visit to London, and hence Stamford Bridge – and Amy’s two parents Ash and Julie. Natalie’s first-ever match at Stamford Bridge was alongside me to witness that unforgettable 6-0 thumping of Arsenal in 2014. I last saw Natalie at a home game against Southampton in January 2019. We enjoyed a great catch up, and I enjoyed talking to Amy and her parents before their first-ever Chelsea game. I had a few stories to keep them occupied. They absolutely adored the cosiness of “The Eight Bells.”

The five of us said our goodbyes and left for Stamford Bridge at 1.45pm. I took one last photo of Nat, Amy, Julie and Ash on the busy Fulham Road before going our separate ways. I would, however, be seeing Nat at Cardiff the following Tuesday.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 2.15pm.

Those in the Dugout Club had been given blue Father Christmas hats, and some of them were wearing them as they watched the players warming up.

I suppose for £5,000 a ticket, a Santa hat as part of the deal works out to be rather pricey.

Bless.

Right then, what of the team?

I couldn’t argue with Enzo Maresca’s choices on this occasion. It is, I think, what I would have chosen.

Robert Sanchez in goal, and possibly large parts of the penalty area too.

Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella as the full backs, with licence to roam.

Wesley Fofana and Trevoh Chalobah, the centre-back pairing for this game and perhaps others to come if this went well.

Enzo Fernandez and Reece James, the withdrawn midfielders, but able to burst into other areas.

Pedro Neto on the right, Alejandro Garnacho on the left, the Billy-Whizz twins.

Cole Palmer tucked in to the middle, but looking to ghost into areas unmapped by man nor beast.

Joao Pedro to lead the line, or at least to occupy defenders while others harried and carried.

During the day, I had reminded everyone that Everton last beat us in a league game at Stamford Bridge way back in 1994. I was scolded for mentioning it, but I was confident. I bumped into Hersham Bob – no laced-up boots, nor corduroys, alas – who suggested that the returning Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall would get the winner.

“That’s the spirit mate.”

The minutes clicked down.

It was a gorgeous day in Old London Town.

The game started.

“C’mon Chels.”

The first quarter of an hour was quite subdued, with tentative probing from us, and a few more direct bursts from the visitors. Their fans made a fair bit of noise at the start of the game.

On fifteen minutes, Dewsbury-Hall took a knock and had to be substituted. He was replaced by Carlos Alcaraz. I liked the way we clapped him off. He was honest player for us and has fitted in well with the Toffees.

I tried to catch Rob’s eye to let him see me wipe my brow.

“Phew.”

On eighteen minutes, Jack Grealish shimmied and advanced down below us and sent over a cross, but Trevoh Chalobah blocked. Grealish looked a handful in those early stages.

Two minutes later, a shot from Iliman Ndiaye that Robert Sanchez saved through a crowd of players.

A voice from the crowd behind me :

“They look more organised than us.”

At that exact moment – in fact, as I began tapping away those words from a worried spectator on my ‘phone – I looked up to see Wesley Fofana pass to Malo Gusto, who released the ball perfectly between defenders to meet the run of Cole Palmer. His finish was pure Palmer; a cool finish past Jordan Pickford.

The trademark celebration, the run to the corner, lovely.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Just after, Garnacho blasted over from a difficult angle, and then the same player latched onto a risky back-pass by Alcaraz but struck the ball just past the near post with an empty net begging.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency.

But then the visitors came again. It made a change for a team to attack us at home. James Tarkowski headed wide, then Ndiaye mishit a pull-back from Jake O’Brien. Then, a ball was rifled across the box by Gana Gueye but nobody was there to meet it. I was just grateful that KDH was off the pitch.

Next up, a skilful run from Grealish resulted in a shot that Sanchez somehow blocked with his shoulder.

We were riding our luck alright.

Just after, Pedro Neto did what Pedro Neto does, and I photographed him sprinting past his hapless marker Vitaliy Mykolenko. He reached the goal-line and played the ball into the path of Malo Gusto who touched it past Pickford.

GET IN.

By this time, Mykolenko was flat on his back, while Gusto slid towards the corner.

Phew.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

“That goal was beautiful.”

At half-time, I spoke to a few friends and acquaintances.

“Just doing enough.”

One replied –

“I think we’ve been diabolical.”

Throughout the first period, the atmosphere was quiet but that’s nothing new these days, eh? Everton were totally quiet.

“1994, lads.”

The second period began and a cross from the quiet Enzo teed up Garnacho at the far post, who was always stretching to connect. My photo of his lunge is almost as poor as his finish. The ball flew wide.

Throughout the first half and into the second half I had been impressed with the excellent play of first Chalobah and then Fofana. On fifty-two minutes, Wesley made a sensational block tackle on an Everton attacker who would have been through on goal.

I immediately thought “Bobby Moore on Jairzinho, 1970”; it was that good.

At last, a stadium-wide chant enveloped Stamford Bridge. It was initiated by the good people of The Shed, but the Matthew Harding soon joined in.

“CAREFREE.”

Garnacho shot over after a lightning break down our left. He was having one of those days.

On fifty-eight minutes, Cole Palmer was substituted, but Maresca went safe with Andrey Santos rather than with Estevao Willian. I approved of the way Palmer’s time on the pitch was managed.

I was impressed with Joao Pedro, who was something of a menace for the Everton defence, and he showed a few instances of great hold-up play.

On the hour, it was Chalobah’s time to shine defensively. He initially lost ground in a chase but recovered so well to make a last-ditch tackle just inside the box.

At The Shed, Sanchez tipped over.

At the Matthew Harding, Santos shot over the bar.

On seventy minutes, Reece James made a mistake in our final third, but that man Fofana recovered well. Just after, Grealish sliced well wide after arriving at the far stick at a free kick.

On sixty-five minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

On seventy-five minutes, Pickford tipped a Reece James free kick over the bar.

On eighty minutes, Estevao replaced Joao Pedro. Pedro Neto moved inside as a false-nine.

On eighty-six minutes, Ndiaye raced past Fofana and struck a slow shot towards goal. The effort bounced back off the far post. Clalobah then blocked a shot from Alcaraz.

In the first minute of injury-time, a Neto break but Gittens shot weakly over.

The whistle blew.

I had enjoyed this one. It had a little bit of everything. We weren’t at our absolute best, nor not near it, but we showed signs that it might be coming together. At least we stemmed that mini run of awfulness. Everton showed a willingness to attack, and, on another day, they might have returned North with a point or more.

I thought Fofana and Chalobah were excellent.

Here’s an idea, Maresca. Play these two together in all games. Cheers.

Oh, the run. Here it is.

Chelsea vs. Everton : Premier League.

19 August 1995 to 13 December 2025.

Played : 31

Won : 18

Drew : 13

Lost : 0

Oh, and to complete a perfect day, Frome Town won 4-0 at Tavistock in Devon to strengthen our position at the top of the table.

I will see some of you at Cardiff.

Tales From A Lack Of Vitality

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2025.

After the expedition north to the wilds of West Yorkshire during the week, here was an away trip that was a lot more agreeable.

AFC Bournemouth, to give them their rather annoying full name, play at the Vitality Stadium and it’s only fifty-eight miles from my house.

This would be a breeze; the car journey, if not the match.

PD shot off at 7am to collect Parky and I picked them both up in Frome at 8am, with Glenn shortly after. We were all chatting away during the first twenty minutes and I inadvertently took the slightly longer way down to the coast via Salisbury, through force of habit, rather than via Shaftesbury. It didn’t matter too much. We would be returning via Shaftesbury after the match since PD and I had remembered the lovely meal we enjoyed at “The Half Moon” pub a few years back, and we decided to repeat this.

PD remembered it well.

“We all had a starter of belly pork, and it was bloody lovely.”

“If it is a main course, I am having that again” I replied.

We had heard rumours that the weather was going to be wet and miserable in Bournemouth, but the weather was decent as I drove south. I was parked up at about 9.30am and we strolled into the Wetherspoons in the centre of the town, close to where the team stay at The Hilton, at about 9.45am. We have been using this as our base for this away jaunt ever since our first visit in the Premier League in 2015/16. This would be my tenth visit to the Vitality Stadium, on top of two visits to Dean Court in 1988 and 1994.

We devoured a typically good value breakfast.

The phrase “cheap and cheerful” fitted perfectly, and that’s the description of the breakfast and not PD, Parky, Glenn and me.

At about 10.30am we trotted upstairs to our usual tables and waited for enforcements to arrive. First to arrive was Johnny Dozen from Southern California, full of his miserable experience at Elland Road on Wednesday. Salisbury Steve and his son Leigh arrived. Dane from Bracknell joined us, as did Nick and his son Robbie and Nick’s brother Vince, who now lives in Dorchester and always pops up at Bournemouth.

After my bought with the flu, I was a little jaded and found the chit-chat a little tiring. I needed some fresh air inside me. I popped outside for about an hour and slowly walked through the park to the beach and the pier. Doing the same walk in 2020, I walked alongside the Chelsea squad for a few minutes. It was around midday this time and I suspect that “the walk” had taken place an hour or so earlier. When I returned to the pub, Jimmy The Greek joined us.

I include some photos of the beach and the pier to add some local flavour.

I also include a photo of what we called the “J12 Summit Meeting.”

At just before 2pm, I drove the two miles to the stadium. I have used “JustPark” on virtually every other visit to this ground but on this occasion, I surpassed myself. My parking spot was in a driveway on Thistlebarrow Road, no more than a two-minute walk to the stadium, or a four-minute walk to the away turnstiles.

There is never an issue getting my SLR in at Bournemouth.

Phew.

On this occasion, we – Alan, Gary, John and me – were further towards the corner flag, but only in the fourth row. It would hopefully be an ideal place to nab some up-close-and-personal photos.

As kick-off approached, there were no clouds in the sky.

Perfect.

The team was announced but I couldn’t stop thinking about that pork belly at Shaftesbury.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

James – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho  

Delap

No surprises with the number of changes since the Leeds debacle. This looked and felt more like a Chelsea team that meant business. It would Cole Palmer’s first start since the game at Old Trafford way back in September.

We were subjected to the usual “make some noise…for the boys” nonsense from the PA announcer who sounded like he had just taken charge of a primary school disco and had been overdosing on “Panda Pops” and “Sherbet Dip Dabs”.

The game began.

“They owe us one, Chris” barked Gary.

Within the first real attack of the game, the home team managed to bundle the ball in via Antoine Semenyo, and it appeared that we were already up against it, shades of Elland Road. It took a while for my grey matter to realise that a VAR review was taking place, and thankfully the goal was chalked off.

Bournemouth had begun the game with a flourish, but thankfully we were able to withstand this early pressure, helped by another offside flag and a little luck.

We began to attack with a bit more solidity, but our final ball was wanting on many occasions. With twenty minutes gone, however, we were on top.

The Chelsea choir wasn’t too loud, but after Robert Sanchez’ decent showing at Elland Road, and elsewhere this season, an old song was reworked.

“He used to be shite. But now he’s alright. Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

With that, a corner from Alex Scott in front of us was whipped in and Sanchez contorted his body to punch the ball away after the trajectory of the ball changed at the last minute. How I wish I had taken a photo of that.

A cross from Pedro Neto on the right was aimed towards the far post but Marc Cucurella headed over.

The ground was now shrouded in cloud. I hoped that the rain would stay away…

On thirty-two minutes, Liam Delap – who had struggled with the paucity of service – was injured and was replaced by Marc Guiu.

On thirty-five minutes, Sanchez reacted well to divert the impressive Semenyo’s low shot at goal, and thankfully Evanilson was unable to pounce on the rebound.

At the other end, Neto was faring better than Garnacho and curled a shot up and around the far post. It had been our best effort the entire half.

Yes, it really had been as bad as that.

We then fell apart in the closing minutes of the half as we called on Sanchez to save our bacon…

…mmm, pork belly.

Shots from Scott and Semenyo were parried. A rapid break in the final seconds thankfully resulted in a shot being flashed wide.

I was surprised that there were no Chelsea boos at half-time. Maybe everyone was in a football-induced stupor. It had been so quiet in all areas of the ground thoughout the first forty-five minutes. We might have controlled most of the possession, but our passing in the final third was very poor, and the home team probably deserved to be ahead at the break. Cole Palmer had began well, but got lost amid the mess of a very poor game thus far.

The second half began and we hoped for an upturn in our fortunes.

But again, the home team were on top as the game restarted.

In the forty-sixth minute, Marcus Tavernier dragged a shot wide when he really should have scored.

Five minutes into the second period…shock horror… a rasper from Pedro Neto was saved by our old friend Djordje Petrovic. It was the first time our former stopper had been tested.

Then, in a crazy spell – well, comparatively, let’s not get too fucking excited – we peppered the Bournemouth goal.

A Guiu header was saved, we hit the post via Garnacho and then shots from Enzo and Palmer were saved by Petrovic.

The noise levels within the stadium were still pretty low, but I liked the “In the net, Boscombe” chants from the home crowd who suddenly grew restless.

On fifty-eight minutes, Joao Pedro replaced the tiring Palmer.

A low shot from Guiu was easily saved.

On sixty-six minutes, a delightful shimmy from Garnacho – it was really enjoyable to see him go at defenders a mere five yards away from me – set up Guiu but he embarrassingly shanked it high and over the bar.

In the closing quarter of an hour, the travelling support somehow managed to make a little more noise; long overdue.

On seventy-one minutes, a strong shot from Garnacho grazed the far post.

On seventy-seven minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the Argentinian. This surprised me. Garnacho had been our most impressive player in the second half whereas Neto wasn’t at his best. I think Maresca took off the wrong wide man, but that’s just me.

The game detiorated.

There was an error from Malo Gusto and Semenyo pounced, but Sanchez was his equal, saving well at his near post.

The game finished with a lazy shot from the very disappointing Enzo that drifted over the bar.

It ended 0-0.

I was pleasantly surprised that hardly any Chelsea left until the final whistle. This was, at least for me, a big plus. Nobody likes to see empty seats in the away end at a Chelsea game well before the end.

I packed my camera away and sped back to the car.

From stand seat to car seat, it surely broke all records.

Glenn arrived, then PD and Parky.

It didn’t take me long to slide out and onto Wessex Way and I was soon heading north by north-west over the hills to Shaftesbury.

And it didn’t take us too long to dissect the game.

“Well, that was absolute dogshit, boys.”

“Yep. That stadium wasn’t full of any vitality today.”

“Both teams were awful.”

Outside, the night, and I drove on.

At about 6.15pm, I pulled into the car park of the pub in Shaftesbury.

We found a table and I grabbed the large menu.

“Oh great. It’s a main.”

Slow-cooked pork belly, served with creamy champ mash, braised red cabbage, roasted carrots with apple puree and cider gravy.

“Fantastic. Order that for me, Paul, I am off to turn my bike round, I’m bursting.”

When I returned, the waiter was still in conversation with Paul, a bad sign.

“That pork belly isn’t available, mate.”

Typical. Bloody typical. It summed up the day.

BEACH

BAR

0-0

Tales From A Black Night

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Leeds United vs. Chelsea : 3 December 2025.

Subtitled : To ‘ell and back.

I will be totally honest – or in modern parlance, “NGL” – here. I had been dreading this trip ever since I heard of this season’s fixtures.

Even as the game became close.

And that is somewhat surprising, bearing in mind our recent little upturn in the home games against Barcelona and Arsenal.

No, sorry everyone. A midweek trip up to West Yorkshire on a Wednesday evening in December filled me with dread. For starters, I was short on holiday, so was only able to take two half days to accommodate this troublesome journey. However, it got worse; I was still recuperating from the bug that had hit me hard the previous week.

The day began for me at 6.30am with an alarm call to get me up and ready to work an 8am to midday shift.

I eventually got away, with PD and Parky as my trusty passengers, at 12.15pm. Thankfully there were clear skies overhead. I am not quite sure how I would have possibly coped with heavy rainfall and dodgy visibility. So, that was a huge positive.

Not long into the journey, PD shared the news that Marvin Hinton had passed away the day before. This fine servant, who played as a full-back and then a centre-half and was probably our first-ever sweeper on occasion back in the mid- ‘sixties, played an important role in our much-loved teams from that era. “Lou” played 344 times for Chelsea and came on as a substitute against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final and replay. Sadly, I never saw him in a game. He was known for his cool and calm style of play. He was eighty-five.

Rest In Peace Marvin Hinton.

We stopped briefly at Strensham Services. Thankfully I was feeling reasonable and we pressed on.

I spoke about the evening’s match.

“It’s weird. They will be singing ‘Doris Day’, while we will be singing ‘Dambusters’ and long may it continue.

It’s a cracking rivalry, even now.

At around 4pm, we decided to call in at a familiar pub on our travels; The Windmill at the Tabley Interchange on the M6. We were distraught to see that the property was closed and for sale. All three of us had really fancied some of their robust Northern grub. We then decided to aim for The Kilton Inn near Mere, another old favourite used for games in the Manchester area – including on Saturday 30 April 2005 – but they weren’t serving food until 5pm. Thankfully, our luck improved when we stumbled across The Plough at Hollins Green – a good sign for the evening’s game, surely – where we stopped from 4.30pm until 5.15pm.

Food was ordered and devoured.

In-keeping with the day’s travel and the evening’s game, we dined on traditional no-frills fare.

PD : Cheese and onion pie and chips.

Parky : Cottage pie.

Chris : Lancashire Hot Pot.

The pub was decent. It’s very close to the northern banks of the Manchester Ship Canal. The food was hearty and filling. The staff were friendly, if not slightly bemused that we were en route to Leeds.

We edged through some slow-moving traffic but then found ourselves back on the same road that we had used to get to Burnley ten days previously. Once on the M62, the traffic cleared, and I soared up and over The Pennines.

I made good time. We passed over the highest spot on the UK motorway network near the Lancashire / Yorkshire border then descended towards Leeds. As I drove on, the lights of the city and then the lights of Elland Road lured me in.

I was parked up at 6.30pm at a private car park; the price was a reassuringly cheap £6.

We had made it.

The former “away” pub The Dry Salters is now closed, so we had no options before walking to Elland Road, which was a good twenty-five-minute walk away. There’s nothing much around Elland Road. It’s a decent place to reach in a car, but it’s a long way out of the city centre, with hardly any pubs nearby.

Stamford Bridge it ain’t.

The temperature had dropped. Locals rushed by wearing the trademark white, yellow and blue bar scarves.

My K-Way jacket and Yankees cap fought to keep out the chilling temperatures.

I had to meet Lewis, a friend of a friend of a friend, to pass over a spare, and this was eventually accomplished at around 7.30pm.

In I went, and I was soon reminded that the bar area in the away concourse is strangely carpeted, a remnant of when this stand was for home fans only.

Up the steps, down the steps, and I quickly found my place alongside John. I said “this place doesn’t change much, does it?” and he soon mentioned the Don Revie carpet.

Revie loved getting the Leeds squad to play carpet bowls – that’s not a euphemism, I hope – and I wondered if this odd practice even took place in the crowded confines of Elland Road.

We had good seats, near the player’s tunnel. I soon spotted PD in the front row. He was sat a couple of seats away from a guy that Parky was sat next to at Burnley. During the TV coverage, Parky was spotted by many friends in the US and I was sent some screen shots. The chap next to Parky had a bizarre ‘seventies hairstyle…long blonde locks…and a mate said that an image of him was used to initiate a “reddit” thread during the game.

There were comments of this bloke’s resemblance to Jimmy Saville. In Leeds, on this night, he made the very wise choice to wear his hair in a ponytail. However, one poor chap within the Chelsea support nearer the noisy buggers in the South Stand, who must have had a passing resemblance to the infamous Leeds native, was the target for much abuse throughout the game.

John and I chatted about how ridiculous the 8.15pm kick-off was.

The irony was that Arsenal were playing Brentford at 7.30pm. If one game had to kick-off, why not that one, with most of the crowd travelling in from the South-East.

An evening game in West Yorkshire is bad enough, but not 7.30pm, not 7.45pm, not 8pm but 8.15pm?

It’s taking the piss on a monumental scale.

The team was announced.

Enzo Maresca rang the changes, and how. Nobody was happy.

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

With Caicedo on a ban, and James simply not chosen, I wondered if the team had enough guts.

The home team boasted a mysterious bunch of unknowns – Ampadu, the captain, and Calvert-Lewin aside – including Peri-Peri, Bijoux, Boogle, Nacker, Stuck and Stack.

“Marching On Together” boomed, and the noise was impressive.

The two teams appeared in front of us, and it irked me that Chelsea chose to play in the all black “Millwall badge” monstrosity. When Chelsea plays at Leeds, we should always wear blue. Maybe with yellow socks to remind them about 1970.

As for Leeds, what with their hatred for all things Mancunian and Lancastrian, the flash of red of their shirt sponsor looked out of place too.

The noise didn’t let up as the time reached 8.15pm.

I posted on Facebook : “Let’s Win This For Lou.”

Leeds began on fire. A shot from Ao Tanaka was dealt with by Robert Sanchez, but a corner in the sixth minute was swing in and Jaka Bijol leaped clear to head home, unchallenged, from an angle ahead of the near post.

“Here we bloody go.”

After ten minutes or so, we looked so lethargic in possession.

Where was the fire, the intensity, the hunger?

On fifteen minutes, a half-chance for Joao Pedro at the old Gelderd End, now the Don Revie Stand. Funny, back in the day, I always knew it as The Kop, not the Gelderd End. I only heard of this name relatively recently.

There was an almost witty exchange on fifteen minutes.

Chelsea to Leeds : “Champions of Europe, you’ll never sing that.”

Leeds to themselves : “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

This is their stubborn nod to the 1975 European Cup Final in Paris against Bayern Munich when a Peter Lorimer goal was controversially chalked off for offside, only for Bayern to win a tight game 2-0.

Fifty years ago. Fackinell.

The irony is that I wanted Leeds to win that night; these were the days when things were less tribal, and when – as a young kid – I wanted all English teams to be victorious in European finals.

I remember us singing “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe” as we exited the stadium in Munich in 2012, but we haven’t sung it since to my knowledge.

Estevao was only really involved with his trademark shimmy inside and I wondered if he would be found out if this was to be the only trick up his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Leeds were winning tackles and second balls with an admirable, yet gut-wrenching, intensity. Our midfield was missing, perhaps on the Pennines or somewhere.

Shots were aimed at Sanchez from all angles. They were out-fighting us and out-shooting us.

“And go get your father’s gun, shoot the Chelsea scum.”

We improved slightly but our shots on goal were woeful. Jamie Gittens seemed unsure whether to stick or twist; to dribble past his man, or to pass. He looked lost.

Leeds were full of it.

“Even bloody Calvert-Lewin looks a handful tonight.”

Benoit Badiashile seemed to slow down to a crawl when in possession. And it didn’t help that he probably touched the ball more than any other player as the first half progressed. His passes were never positive. It was excruciating to watch.

On thirty-nine minutes, there was some terrible pre-meditated nonsense from Estevao. After losing the ball, he kicked out at a Leeds player from behind and was rightfully booked.

Prick.

In the last couple of minutes, Leeds won a loose ball as Chelsea struggled to clear and the ball ran nicely to Tanaka, who struck a magnificent shot into the corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared again.

Memories of our equally awful performance under Thomas Tuchel in the August of 2022 came racing back. We lost 0-3 that afternoon.

At the break, we were at a real low.

What a lacklustre first half, nobody more than 4/10.

“Sort it out Maresca.”

At half-time, Howard Wilkinson slowly walked onto the pitch to say a few words to the Leeds faithful. How I remember our battles with his Sheffield Wednesday team in the early-to-mid ‘eighties, and of course I remember him leading Leeds to that 1991/92 championship. It was the last Football League title and – get this – Wilkinson is still the last English manager to win the title in England.

That’s pretty damning if you ask me.

As I heard him speak, I remembered that excellent midfield of David Batty, Gary Speed, Gordan Strachan and Gary McAllister. In truth, elsewhere that Leeds team contained mediocre players – maybe Tony Dorigo is the exception – but I was just happy that they pipped Manchester United that season. My college mates Bob and Trev went to many Leeds games that season. I thought of them too; friends since 1984.

I was having a wistful moment and found myself clapping the Leeds manager, no doubt out of respect for some fine memories of a time when football was another ball game in another age. A few other Chelsea fans of my generation clapped too.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile.

Pedro Netro for Estevao.

On forty-seven minutes, a cross from the Leeds right found Lukas Nmecha but Sanchez made an outstanding point blank save.

Three minutes later, we worked the ball out to Gittens who surprised us all by sending over a very good cross that evaded everyone and found Pedro Neto arriving at the far post. He adjusted himself and did ever so well to slot the ball in from a very awkward angle. He raced away, heading for the bench, pointing and gesturing and one can only imagine what he was saying to the management team.

We momentarily played some incisive stuff, and the fans noted the difference in intent.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Liam Delap fired wide from an angle.

“Come on boys.”

On the hour, more changes.

Cole Palmer for Delap.

Alejandro Garnacho for Gittens.

Eight minutes later, the Argentinian raced away down the left, in front of the baying home fans who remembered his Manchester past and set up Cole Palmer who had typically dropped into some space at the front of the goal.

I expected him to score. John expected him to score. The twat behind me who had been calling virtually every Chelsea player a “c**t” expected him to score. My mates in South Philly and in South London expected him to score. Johnny Dozen from Southern California, watching to my right in the paddock, expected him to score.

The shot went wide.

I held my head in disbelief.

On seventy-two minutes, Chelsea suicide. We found ourselves doing our best “after you, Claude” routine, passing the ball around inside our box, but looking increasingly inept with each nervous pass. Leeds put us under pressure. Tosin dillied and dallied, and dallied and dillied, and lost his way, and the ball. Leeds had two aggressive players on the last man. Ilia Gruev stabbed at the loose ball, Sanchez blocked, but Calvert-Lewin pushed the ball home.

Leeds United 3 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

In the last ten or fifteen minutes, many Chelsea fans evacuated both levels of the stand, but I had to stay to the end. I rarely leave early.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Joao Pedro.

No doubt recycling a chant aimed at Manchester United fans, the South Stand sang at us.

“It’s a long way to London when you’re shit.”

It wasn’t to be.

The whistle blew and that was that.

What a terrible performance.

In retrospect, the manager’s selection – and by the looks of it, his motivational pre-match speech – were way off.

To the Chelsea fans inside Elland Road, we appeared to be in completely the wrong frame of mind. Whereas the home team were full of aggression from the off, we seemed to be treating this game like any other.

Simply selecting a sub-par eleven and hoping for the best was never going to work at Elland Road.

Is anyone at modern day Chelsea aware of the dislike they have of us?

Amongst all of it, Sanchez kept us in it with some super saves, and he can’t really be blamed for the goals. Garnacho was a big positive when he came off the bench. And I think he ought to have started. He knows what the atmosphere at Leeds is like. Less so the young and still inexperienced Estevao. Enzo was poor. Santos too. That midfield was devoid of bite.

Elland Road is a very tough venue for us.

Since our first visit in 1927, in all games, our record is this :

Played : 53

Won : 8

Drew :15

Lost : 30

Two seasons ago, the two teams met in a Youth Cup game. The club was concerned that Leeds knew all about the rivalry, but the Chelsea boys didn’t. To remedy this, the 1970 replay was shown to the squad at Cobham, and the staff ensured that the players were suitably motivated. We won the tie easily.

I bet Maresca didn’t even know about the 1970 cup replay.

We slowly walked back to the car, and I got going at around 11pm. On the return home, there were roadworks on the M5 and so I was pushed down the M1 to Leicester and I was forced to come down the Fosseway – hello again – and over The Cotswolds. At Cirencester, there was a road closure, and the diversion signs took me everywhere but the right direction. At 2.45am, I found myself creeping around the streets of Cirencester trying to find an escape route.

I eventually reached home at 4am.

6.30am to 4am.

Bloody hell.

We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…

Tales From European Royalty

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 30 November 2025.

The game at Burnley was going to be the first of three games in a tight five-day spell for me.

Saturday : Burnley vs. Chelsea.

Tuesday : Chelsea vs. Barcelona.

Wednesday : Frome Town vs. Bashley.

I had titled this little series “Burnley, Barca & Bash” and was revelling in the varying experiences that the three matches would bring.

But then the wheels came off. On the Monday evening, I began to feel grim. I slept on the sofa that night – always a bad sign – and by the time I heard the 4.30am alarm on the Tuesday, I knew that I had been hit with a bug. I felt horrid. I ‘phoned in sick for work, and then texted PD and Parky to say that I would not be going to London that evening. I virtually slept the entire day but managed to see Chelsea demolish Barcelona 3-0 on my laptop.

That evening, I was tempted to turn to Facebook and write :

“I’m beginning to like you, Maresca.”

But no, not yet.

Wednesday merged into Thursday then Friday and I hardly moved from that sofa. Saturday brought a marked improvement, but I was still too ill to contemplate a Frome Town away game at Didcot. I bided my time.

Thankfully, on Sunday I was sufficiently better to be able to drive up to London for the home game with Arsenal. I had planned to pick up Paul in Frome at 9am, but such was my lethargy that I found it hard to get going. I had lost almost a stone in just five days. Eventually, I called for him at 9.30am, and then Glenn in Holt at 10am.

We stopped at Melksham for a Greggsfast and I am not sure if that helped or hindered my well-being.

By the time I joined up with everyone in a packed – and way too warm – “Eight Bells”, it was around 2pm, and after a quick “hello” to those inside, I sat at the outdoor tables. In truth I felt as weak as a kitten.

Three very good mates from Virginia soon arrived. Jaro and his son Alex, plus their neighbour Joe – I was with these three fine fellows in Philadelphia in June – had been present at the Barcelona game, and I felt bad not seeing them on the Tuesday. They had loved that game, and I was especially pleased to hear how good the atmosphere had been. Between Tuesday and Sunday, the three of them had met up in a very cold and wet Poland to see Legia Warsaw play Sparta Prague on the back of Jaro’s trip to visit his parents. Now Jaro and Alex were sneezing and coughing with some sort of affliction too.

We sat outside in the refreshing Winter air – I needed the crisp temperatures to keep me awake – and chatted about all things Chelsea and then decamped to “The Kings Arms” and sat inside while a strong contingent of Liverpool fans watched their game at West Ham United.

We backtracked and caught the tube to Fulham Broadway and posed by the “match board” – lovingly old-fashioned – outside the West Stand before we went our separate ways. I couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of smuggling my SLR in, so was forced to make do with my “pub camera.”

I was in early. A few mates filtered through: Gary, then Daryl, then Clive. However, I reserved the biggest smile when I saw Alan sidle up towards us. It would be his first Chelsea game of the season.

“Welcome back, son.”

It was time to start thinking about the game. Arsenal were six points ahead of us, and I am sure I was not alone with my thoughts about beating them and reducing the gap to just three points. Not that I thought that we could win the league.

No, not yet.

Enzo Maresca chose this team to face Arsenal.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Estevao – Fernandez – Neto

Joao Pedro

There was the usual hoopla with flames in front of the West Stand, and crowd-surfing banners at both ends.

The away fans were momentarily loud before the game began with a rather parochial ditty – stolen from Anfield – about winning the league at various locations.

“We won in at The Lane – twice!!!” (oooh, bless you…)

Chelsea retaliated with our “COEYNST” chant, and it was advantage Chelsea.

Joking aside, regarding Arsenal’s commendable domestic haul and our overseas triumphs, I strongly suspect that they wish that they were a bit more like us, and we wish that we were a bit more like them.

Arsenal can boast thirteen League Championships, fourteen FA Cups and two League Cups yet just two international trophies.

Chelsea have won six League Championships, eight FA Cups, five League Cups but a massive eleven international trophies.

As a young Arsenal supporter said to me en route to Baku in 2019, “Chelsea are European royalty.”

As the game kicked off at 4.30pm, it is fair to say that the atmosphere within Stamford Bridge was absolutely bristling.

Chelsea attacked Parky, Jaro, Alex and Joe at The Shed End in the first half.

Rather than petering out, the pre-match noise continued into the first quarter of an hour, and Chelsea were in the ascendency on the pitch with the young Boy from Brazil Estevao lighting up our play.

However, Robert Sanchez needed to spread his legs to block an Arsenal shot from an angle on twelve minutes.

A cross from Neto seemed a perfect chance for Estevao to score but his shot was blasted over the bar.

Next, a curler from Estevao went just wide.

At around the twenty-minute mark, it was all us now, and Arsenal seemed a very poor imitation of the team that had marched to the top of the table this season (even though I call them “the robots”).

On twenty-six minutes, I could hardly believe my eyes as Reece James accelerated at break-neck speed to chase down an Arsenal player and to win back the ball. On several occasions in that first-half, Reece was the Reece of old, and his pace was truly mesmerising. In a nutshell, he was everywhere and set the tone for our highly aggressive play.

On twenty-nine minutes, Joao Pedro won the ball in the Arsenal half but could not get his shot away in time.

We broke well via Estevao but a shot from Enzo, nicely involved at the top end, was easily saved by David Raya.

I found it ironic that Arsenal fans were singing songs against the referee.

“Anthony Taylor, it’s all about you.”

So, it wasn’t just us then.

On thirty-five minutes, there was a loose ball midway into our half. I saw Moises Caicedo – a life-force in this game again – take a swipe at Mikel Merino, whoever he is, and I immediately thought of the infamous Paul Gascoigne tackle in the 1991 FA Cup Final, only because Caicedo fell to the floor on impact too.

Players crowded the referee. After a VAR intervention, a red card was brandished to Caicedo.

Bollocks.

In the closing moments, Gabriel Martinelli forced a decent save from Sanchez.

As half-time began, “Blue Monday” by New Order rang out, and I grasped it as an omen.

At the break, Alejandro Garnacho replaced Estevao.

After just three minutes of play, I snapped a wide angle shot of Reece James taking a corner down below us.

Miraculously – to my mind – the ball met the near post leap of Trevoh Chalobah and the ball looped up and dropped into the goal.

My mind was a mixture of sudden emotions.

Get in you bastard / a roar of joy / fancy Arsenal being beaten by a set play / can I take a decent shot of the celebrations with my sub-par camera?

I did OK.

One nil to The Chelsea, as the song doesn’t go.

Understandably, the game opened-up as Arsenal tried to exploit the extra man and the space.

The home crowd was roaring again.

“We all follow the Chelsea, overland and sea…”

On fifty-four minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.

On fifty-nine minutes, a clean cross from Bukayo Saka and a clean header from Merino, and it was level.

Bollocks.

We countered with a cross from Garnacho but a lame Neto header.

Chances were traded; Delap shot at Raya, Arsenal shot over the bar.

Another Neto chance, curling a shot just wide.

Chelsea tried to prise an opening, but Arsenal managed the occasional chance too. They had been – maybe I am biased – a disappointment in this game. I expected more from them.

The game finished 1-1 and – cliché coming up – there is no doubt that we had the moral victory.

I wearily made my way back to the car – a cheeseburger with onions at Fulham Broadway did not help my cause – and we made a tiresome way home.

Next up, the headache of a tiring midweek visit to Elland Road after my return to work.

All…gulp…aboard!

Tales From A Happy Hunting Ground

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Burnley vs. Chelsea : 22 November 2025.

With the latest, miserable, International Break behind us, we were now into a heavy period of club football.

I was up early on the Saturday for the first of these encounters. My alarm sounded at 4.45am, and at 6am on the dot I collected PD from his house in Frome. It was a milder morning that I had predicted after a couple of very cold days in Somerset, but there was drizzle in the air as I headed north. On the way to collecting Lord Parky in Holt, I called in at Melksham to pick up Jason, who is originally from that town but has been living in the delightful seaside resort of Swanage in Dorset for around twenty-five years. Jason’s normal lift is with a chap from Swindon, but he was not going to the wilds of Lancashire on this occasion. Jason was an honourable Chuckle Brother and sat alongside Parky in the rear seats.

The rain was steady but not too unforgiving. We stopped at Strensham Services for a McDonald’s breakfast at around 8am and the place was swarming with Plymouth Argyle supporters on their way to the delights of Burslem and Port Vale. There was a smattering of Liverpool fans dotted around too, on their way to – hopefully – oblivion.

The journey north was punctuated by the chatter of past Chelsea memories. I loved how Jason – who we have only really known for around five or six years – knew people in the Chelsea circle that we knew too. I really enjoyed hearing how Jason and PD were, apparently, in the same minibus that took a group of local Chelsea supporters to the Full Members Cup Final at Wembley in 1986. PD would have been twenty-three, Jason a mere lad of sixteen or so.

There was talk of Chelsea players from our distant past and our recent past. During the week, I had checked in on a blog of mine from 2022/23 – the away game at Forest – and I was absolutely gobsmacked to read of a player called Denis Zakaria, who started in that game. I was confused because I had absolutely no recollection of him. He played a few games for us and even scored the winner on his debut at home to Dinamo Zagreb, a game I witnessed too. I told this story to my three passengers, and I was somewhat relieved to hear that they had no recollection of him either.

And yet, later in the journey, I was able to answer Jason’s teaser about Nick Crittenden who made only two substitute appearances way back in 1997.

Funny game, football.

There was a quick stop at Knutsford Services and by now the rain had virtually stopped.

There was a brief mention of Scott Parker, the Burnley manager, and how he never really felt like a proper Chelsea player during his brief spell with us from 2004 to 2005.

My Sat Nav took me over the River Mersey and then east towards Manchester on the M62, before cutting off and heading north around the M60 orbital and up past Bury on the M66.

Eventually, we made it to the outskirts of Burnley, the town shrouded in fog, with the Pennines unable to be spotted in the distance. I have waxed lyrical on many occasions before about how a trip to Burnley often seems like travelling back in time. I glanced over at row upon row of terraced houses and was warmed by the fact that the town still seemed untouched, forever in the nineteenth century. I love towns with history. Burnley Football Club was formed in 1882 at a time when towns grew to become industrial centres and football clubs started springing up to represent their local populations.

It is a particularly favourite away game for me.

My mother stayed in Burnley with a friend of hers in the immediate post-war years after meeting in The Women’s Land Army; I always wonder if Mum stayed near Turf Moor.

I attended Ian Britton’s funeral here in 2016, at the local crematorium, with the wake at the football club after; we all loved Ian Britton.

It always resonates when I drive into the town.

All the car parking spaces were full in the two usual spots, so I took advantage of PD’s Blue Badge to park on some double yellow lines in the centre of the town near the War Memorial and the bus station. I was parked on the quintessentially Northern sounding Grimshaw Street.

It seemed wholly appropriate.

It was 11.30am.

The familiar walk to Turf Moor – not so cold, thank heavens – took us under the aqueduct on Yorkshire Street, and then on to Harry Potts Way.

While the other three veered off to gain access to the away end via a new entrance – the away fans are now located in the northern half of the Fishwick Stand – I wanted to take a few photos of the area around the stadium to add a little variation to my spread of photos from the day. There are four pubs on this stretch of the road – all home only – and the locals were popping in and out of them as I walked past the modernised frontage – painted a cool black – of the ancient single-tiered Bob Lord Stand.

I stopped near a pub called the Park View and spotted a long line of people queuing up along Higgin Street to purchase pies, chips and sandwiches from the front window of a house. I could not resist a photo of this match day scene.

With Goodison Park now gone, this might well be one of the last remaining venues in the top division – God, I hate how it has been shortened to “The Prem” over the last five years – where you get this classic juxtaposition of stadium, pubs, chippies, and terraced houses.

I retraced my steps, the clock-ticking, and turned right and right again and accessed the stadium grounds via a tarmacked walkway past the Cricket Club where away fans are ushered before games.

There was an almighty queue to get in, and time was running out. How could I leave my house at 5.50am and still be outside the ground at 12.15pm? Eventually I made it through the turnstiles, but the info on my ticket – Block 6 – bore no relevance to where I needed to aim for. There was a mass of people ahead of me and as I gingerly stepped up some surprisingly steep, but dangerously narrow, steps I saw the LED lights of the pre-game razzamatazz reflected on the stairwell walls.

Eventually, I was in, just as the teams broke from the pre-match line up.

It’s a good job that I work in logistics, eh?

I settled in alongside John in row H, and who should be right behind me but my dear friend Deano from Silverdale, who was lucky with a last-minute ticket.

Unfortunately, my very good friend Gary was unable to join us on this occasion.

His dear father had passed away recently, and so Gary was with his mother, as they both tried to come to terms with the sadness of loss. I met his Dad at a Chelsea game a few years back, and it is a nice memory. I texted Gary to let him know he was missed.

Rest In Peace Ron Phillips.

I took a few quick photos with my pub camera – SLRs are “camera non grata” at Turf Moor – just before the kick-off and steadied myself for my eighth game at Turf Moor.

We have a ridiculously good – no, exemplary – record at this stadium.

Since our last defeat here in 1983 – 0-3, a hideous result, I was convinced it would see us relegated to the old Third Division – we had played nine times, winning eight and drawing once. The draw was that 1-1 game in February 2017 when the weather was as dreadful as I can ever remember at a game in the UK. We had to endure horizontal rain, sleet, snow, bitter temperatures and a tear-inducing blustery wind. I have been colder at a couple of games – Stoke City vs. Chelsea and York City vs. Swindon Town – but this experience was unyielding in its nastiness. On the day, I think we forgave Antonio Conte’s players and were just happy that nothing important had snapped off our poor bodies.

The temperature on this day in 2025 was positively balmy by comparison.

Right, I needed to focus on our team. I tried to piece it all together.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Tosin – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

Burnley lined up with the ex-Chelsea midfielder Lesley Ugochukwu in the starting line-up, a Chuckle Brother that didn’t last long. On the bench was another ex-Blue; Armando Broja.

For a few moments, every spare inch of possible space within the stadium flashed LED lighting, urging support of the home team. The mundane grey interior of this old stadium metamorphosed into Times Square. It was quite an ordeal on the senses.

Phew,

Burnley in claret / white / blue.

Chelsea in white / green / white.

The game began.

It felt a little odd being in the left-hand part of the away stand, although I was central. I had to keep reminding myself that the old changing rooms were once tucked away in the bowels of this stand.

Burnley, attacking our end, began the livelier of the two teams and our former player Ugochukwu was a lively handful as he broke in from their right. On six minutes, Trevoh Chalobah covered some ground to block and effort on goal and he screamed his delight at its success. We all like to see that passion.

At the other end, Liam Delap screwed a shot high and wide.

In front of us, there followed two more resolute blocks of shots from Andrey Santos and Tosin Adaraabioyo.

On nineteen minutes, Sanchez was able to block a shot that was walloped straight at him.

The game continued, waiting to ignite after the home team’s bright opening had faded. On twenty-eight minutes, a frustrated “CAM ON CHELSEA” rang out from the away end.

Just after, a roller from Trevoh Chalobah didn’t test the Burnley ‘keeper.

It was all so slow and so mundane.

I muttered to the blokes behind me “fans from thirty years ago would be booing this.”

Then, on thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match. A break from the always effervescent Marc Cucuralla on the left who pushed the ball on to Jamie Gittens. From out wide, a deep cross towards the far post and a Chelsea player rose to head it back across the goal and into the net. We saw Pedro Neto reel away to celebrate.

GET IN.

The highlight of the rest of the half was the lovely reaction by Estevao Willian to our chanting of his name. His smile lit up the dull Lancashire afternoon.

At half-time, I turned to talk to Deano, and I was reminded that he is off to Sri Lanka with his wife in December. On their last visit, Deano encountered great discomfort caused by a dislodged retina in one eye. During that trip, he had to wear a patch on his eye. We spent a few moments debating whether he should cover the other eye on the next trip, to maximise his experience, and to make sure that if they had toured the island in a clockwise direction the last time, he would have to ensure he did the same in December, or he would just end up seeing the same things twice.

Overhead, the sun threatened to appear.

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced Reece James with Benoit Badiashile, with Chalobah moving to right-back.

It’s always a worry when Badiashile enters the fray. I always think it might take him forty-five minutes to warm up.

However, we enjoyed a good first ten minutes of the second period.

A wild shot from the frustrated, and frustrating, Joao Pedro went wide.

Gittens continued to annoy fans too, finding it difficult to link up.

“Still, it’s his first season. Give him time.”

On sixty-seven minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Delap, and Joao Pedro took a step forward.

On sixty-eight minutes, the Burnley striker Zian Flemming adeptly chested the ball down but volleyed over.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A rasper from Neto hit the base of the post after Martin Dubravka got the slightest of touches.

A shot from Gusto was scooped over by Dubravka.

It became slightly nervy.

Would one goal suffice?

Marc Guiui then replaced Joao Pedro.

Was this Maresca being too meddlesome? I suspected it.

Two abject pieces of Robert “Spin The Wheel” Sanchez had us all swearing in unison, but the danger thankfully passed.

However, I was surely not the only one who expected a late Burnley equaliser.

With the clock ticking, we had one more move left.

On eighty-eight minutes, we moved the ball through the length of the pitch and Neto advanced with speed to my left. He expertly played the ball into space for Guiu, who continued the movement towards the goal-line. He had the presence of mind to spot Enzo, in prime Frank Lampard space, who then smashed the ball in.

GET IN.

The game was won.

Phew.

The players loitered in front of us for a while and it was lovely to see so many smiles.

We met up outside and walked back towards the main road via the new walkway.

I had a little giggle to myself as I realised that I had been excited about pacing around a new part of Turf Moor. What, I wondered, would I be bloody like at Bramley Moore Dock in March?

On the way back to civilisation, the three of us stopped off for an all you-can-eat Chinese buffet at Stafford, an old favourite, and it completed a decent day out.

The record at Turf Moor since 1983 now stood as follows.

Played 10

Won 9

Drew 1

Lost 0

For 29

Against 7

I hope they stay up so we can visit Turf Moor again.

Tales From A Day Of Total Football

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Chelsea vs. Woverhampton Wanderers : 8 November 2025.

Rarely would a day be as totally devoted to football as this one.

When I went to bed on the Friday, I knew that as soon as I woke up, I would be on a conveyor belt of football-related activities that would last the whole day.

There would be a breakfast with my good friend Courtney from Chicago, visiting for a Frome Town game, then a blog to finish off, then a Frome Town game at 3pm, then a drive to London for a Chelsea game in the evening. And heaven knows what time I would be home from that.

During the week there had been, of course, the game in Baku and it was bittersweet to see so many friends travelling over for the match with Qarabag while I remained in England.

To coin a phrase from the Falklands War, “I counted them all out, and I counted them all back.”

Everyone enjoyed the trip by the look of it.

I was awake at 6.45am, and I drove into Frome to collect Courtney for a breakfast at one of the Farm Shops that have evolved over recent years in the local area. We chatted over a breakfast that included black pudding and Bubble & Squeak, and Frome Town was the dominant topic rather than Chelsea. It wasn’t surprising. He is, after all, the Frome Town chairman. Courtney had hoped that our game with Wolverhampton Wanderers would be shunted to the Sunday so he could attend two matches during his very short stay, but it wasn’t to be.

On the way back to Frome, I drove through a few local villages to give Courtney a taste of the local scenery. We drove past the majesty of the George pub at Norton St. Philip – built in the fifteenth century – and saw the stocks on the village green at Faulkland, then on into Frome via Hardington and Buckland Dinham, with the autumn colours giving a vibrant backdrop to our journey, and with a pure blue sky above.

Once I was home, I finished off the “match section” of the Tottenham blog after editing the photos and typing out the “pre-match” a few days before. As ever, it took me between three and four hours to complete the entire thing.

I eventually posted it at just after midday.

It was at this time that my usual match-going colleagues – PD and LP – were arriving in London at Paddington. They had made their own way up and were going on a mini pub crawl with “Greek” and “Salisbury” before the match and were then coming home with me.

I arrived earlier than usual at Badgers Hill, at around 1.45pm. It was still a beautiful day, no clouds above, and I was able to stop and chat to a nice selection of friends – a couple I met back in 1978 – and match-going acquaintances before the game with Hartpury. The visitors represent Hartpury College in Gloucestershire, and this was our first-ever meeting.

I was hoping for a gate of around 500 for this game. The two games before drew 525 and 514.

Before the match, the crowd quietened and the players of both teams stood in the centre circle. A bugler played “The Last Post” and this was followed by two minutes of pristine silence. I stood, head bowed, near the corner flag.

I was pleased that Courtney was able to witness this moment.

Of course, there is a special link with Chelsea Football Club and the recognition of remembering those lost in conflict, and I hoped that I would arrive at Stamford Bridge later that evening to witness the pre-match ceremony. If not, at least I had this.

Unfortunately, the first half of the game was a very scrappy affair and not many chances were created for either side. I thought the visitors shaded the first half-an-hour, but Frome slowly improved. I photographed a header from Albie Hopkins that brought a fine save from former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. We watched the first half from the Clubhouse End but switched to see the second half in The Cowshed along the side. Courtney chose to watch from the Clink End alongside the Ultras’ flag that bears his name.

I love the many little parts that make up Badgers Hill, all with their own little quirks and charms.  

My Chelsea mate Glenn appeared to watch the second half with my gaggle of Frome mates, and we were rewarded with a much-improved second half showing. We turned the screw as the game continued and played the last half-an-hour with three strikers. Although we went close, that all-important goal wouldn’t materialise.

It stayed at 0-0 and the gate was just shy of my target; 495.

It meant that Frome Town were in third place in the league but were top of the attendances by some margin.

Frome Town 473

Melksham Town 379

Westbury United 327

Malvern Town 311

Portishead Town 306

I met up with Courtney, with Glenn by my side, at the end of the game, just before I left the stadium.

“Well, I just wish both of you could hop into my car and we could go to Chelsea tonight, but…”

My voice trailed off.

I pulled away from the Selwood School overflow carpark dead on 5pm.

I was on my way east.

My GPS signalled that I would roll in at about 7.20pm.

“Perfect.”

On the drive to London, I half-listened to the Sunderland vs. Arsenal game. There were intermittent reports from Twickenham and the England vs. Fiji rugby union game, and after each one I belted out “no one cares.”

At around 6.30pm, I found myself driving right past Twickenham, and I certainly didn’t care.

When Arsenal went 2-1 up, I turned the radio off.

Traffic slowed a little, and I wasted a few minutes finding somewhere to park, but at 7.30pm I was parked on Barons Court Road opposite West Kensington tube station.

Despite my best efforts – and with speed limits always honoured – I reached the Matthew Harding Stand at 8pm. When I reached the turnstile, there were only four people behind me. However, I didn’t reach my seat until 8.07pm, thus missing the minute of silence, and the kick-off.

PD was happy to see me as I sidled past.

I would soon learn that we had got off to a very decent start.

I would also find out that a very late Sunderland equaliser had spoiled Arsenal’s day out in the North-East.

Right. I needed to acclimatize.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Garnacho

Delap

This was our second game against the Wanderers from Wolverhampton in ten days, but since the last match they had dispensed with their manager, and were now being coached by committee, one of whom could well have been their coach driver.

With just two points on the board this season, it felt like they were down already. Their team was largely unfamiliar to me; here was an ensemble of whoevers, whatevers, and even a Hoever on their subs bench.

Well dear reader, despite the apparently decent start, as soon as I plonked my ‘arris on Seat 369, the game went to pieces. It was if it was my punishment for arriving unfashionably late.

So, for this, I am truly sorry.

The game meandered along at a very leisurely pace.

One incident on twenty minutes summed up my frustration and the frustrations of those around me. The ball was just outside our box after a tepid Wolves foray into our half, and Enzo was on the ball, centrally. I looked up to see Pedro Neto, right on the halfway line, holding his position, but ready to bust into acres of space, his marker tucked inside.

I yelled out “hit him Enz’, it’s in your locker.”

He ignored me – maybe I should learn Spanish – but chose to play trigonometry in the “D”, knocking the ball to a spare defender, who then played it to Sanchez; we favoured tiny triangles in the penalty box rather than a long chip into space.

How irritating.

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, we then saw a flurry of activity at The Shed End.

Enzo crashed a bouncing bomb of an effort at the Wolves goal, but their ‘keeper Sam Johnstone tipped it over. From the resulting corner, Enzo’s inswinger was hacked off the line by a defender. We then hit the side netting with a shot from close in.

On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding suddenly realised that it is their job to support the team and a rather lacklustre and lethargic “Come On Chelsea” was heard.  

The play down below me was equally lacklustre and lethargic.

I mumbled to myself “the new Chelsea ethos – why take one touch when you can take five?”

There was a slightly more spirited show of support when an “Amazing Grace” rumbled around The Bridge but this was a poor game, both on and off the pitch.

In the closing moments of the half, Joao Pedro screwed a shot wide of the far post after an effort from Enzo was blocked. Alejandro Garnacho was the instigator of this chance, and he looked like the only one who was being a little more direct. Marc Cucurella was full of fight, but only these two seemed to be playing with much integrity.

Just before half-time, my Frome mate Steve messaged me: “another 0-0 would be cruel.”

At the break, I heard from PD about their four-stop pub crawl from Paddington to Fulham; seven hours of it. Gulp.

The second half began with Steve’s words ringing in my ears.

Two goalless draws would indeed be cruel.

In the first minute, a bursting run from Pedro Neto and a cross to the otherwise quiet Liam Delap, but his delicate touch went well wide.

Five minutes later, Garnacho and Cucurella teased an opening down below me. The former sent over a cross with his right foot, and I watched with pleasure as Malo Gusto arrived at the back post to head down and in.

Chelsea 1 Wolves 0.

Phew.

My rise to my feet for this goal was slow, and it honestly shocked me. Maybe I was just fed up I didn’t have my camera out to snap the goal. I made sure I took some of the celebrations. It was Gusto’s first-ever goal for us.

A strike from outside the box from Delap was hardly worthy of the name.

On the hour, the first shot of the game from the visitors.

On sixty-four minutes, a change.

Estevao Willian for Delap, and Joao Pedro was shunted forward. This warmed the crowd, especially in the absence of Cole Palmer; someone to excite us.

His impact was sudden. He accelerated past two markers and aimed a low cross towards Neto in the box – on film, but too poor to share – but the ball was deflected towards Joao Pedro. He slammed it in.

Goal.

Chelsea 2 Wolves 0.

Lovely stuff.

Wolves were faced with the choice of “stick or twist” and chose the latter. They opened up a little. On seventy-three minutes, an aimless punt was headed away by Trevoh Chalobah, and Enzo adeptly pushed it up towards Garnacho. This time, my camera was ready. He put the burners on and raced past his marker. As he neared the box, he spotted Neto inside. My photo is a little blurred, but I think it captures the moment. Neto slammed it in.

Chelsea 3 Wolves 0.

That goal could have been Pedro and Diego Costa in the autumn of 2016.

We were home and dry now, and the manager changed things again.

Marc Guiu for Pedro Neto.

The substitute came close, soon after, when Moises Caicedo won the ball back, and set up a move involving Estevao and Joao Pedro, whose shot was parried, and Guiu could only stoop and head against the post on the follow up.

If only Marc Guiu could be a little more like Mark Hughes.

Garnacho was on fire, and set up Guiu, but a shot went wide.

Two late substitutions.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Jamie Gittens for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-five minutes, a Cucurella error and a rare Wolves shot on goal.

Meanwhile, in the closing moments, The Shed occupied itself with some old-school chanting…

“We’re the middle, we’re the middle…”

“We’re the west side, we’re the west side…”

It would have been pretty funny if Wolves joined in.

“We’re the white wall…”

The game was won – well won – in the end, but oh that first-half, as at Frome, was so poor.

I met up with Parky for the first time of the day as I picked them both up on Lillee Road.

Sadly, traffic delays on the M4 and a diversion via the A4 meant that I did not reach home until 2.30am. I couldn’t even be bothered to check the photos from both games and shot straight to bed soon after.

6.45am to 2.45am.

Sixteen hours of football.

It’s a good job I am on time-and-a-half on Saturdays.

See you all at Burnley.

FROME TOWN VS. HARTPURY

CHELSEA VS. WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS

Tales From Passyunk Avenue To Worcester Avenue

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 1 November 2025.

When I left the office on Friday afternoon, ahead of the game at Tottenham Hotspur on Saturday evening, a co-worker asked me about the match.

My answer was short and sweet.

“…dreading it.”

Our last two results had hardly been inspiring; an insipid display at home to Sunderland, and a very odd game at Wolves that resulted in a win but it didn’t leave many of us too enthralled. Then there is the nervousness that comes with these mighty games against traditional foes. I suspect that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter heading to N17 that was slightly queasy about that evening’s game. As I said to a few people, “it depends on which Chelsea shows up.”

Despite the evening kick-off, I was still up early. To save time, PD had picked up Parky in Holt at 7.30am and I collected them both at PD’s house in Frome at 8am. I then drove down to Salisbury to collect Steve.

It was a decent drive up to London and I was parked up at Barons Court at 11am. We then caught the Picadilly Line north. The others were off to meet up with Jimmy the Greek and Ian in a pub at Arnos Grove at around midday. I had other plans.

I have wanted to visit a Philadelphia-themed bar/diner for ages, and so as I had some time to kill on this particular match day in London, I alighted at Tottenham Court Road and set off through Fitzrovia, a part of London I had never visited previously. From there, it took me around twenty minutes to reach “Passyunk Avenue”, the original Philly bar in London, now part of a chain of four. It’s not far from the British Telecom Tower.

I stayed an hour, and I really liked it. As soon as you walk in, you are immediately transported to a dive bar in the US. The walls are adorned with all things-Philly, and the draught ales are – as far as I could see – all US imports. Unfortunately, the Philly cheesesteak that I ordered was average, but I loved the place. In lieu of the time that I have spent in Philadelphia, not least in the closing weeks of last season, I thought it worth including in this match report.

I want to go back, and when I do, maybe I should take a photograph of Peter Osgood in his Philadelphia Fury days and ask the bar staff to find a place for it next to memorabilia of the Phillies, the Eagles, the ‘Sixers and the Flyers.

After my visit, I walked to Great Portland Street and took a train to Kings Cross. I bumped into Philippa, Brian and Martin on the tube, and they didn’t seem particularly confident of our chances either.

At 1.30pm I joined up with the rest of the lads in the pub. We used it before the Arsenal away game last season, and the less said about that the better.

We stayed until 4.15pm. It’s a big old pub, in the Arts & Craft style of the early twentieth century, and we perched ourselves at a central table. The only negative was the fact that a children’s birthday party, complete with shrill shouting, was taking place in one of the wings.

We covered a large and rambling list of topics, too many to list here, but at no stage in the afternoon – despite the others quaffing a fair few bevvies – did we become even slightly confident about the outcome of the game. I must admit that we had a bundle of laughs between the five of us, including a top trivia question that was posed by Ian.

“Who was the only person to appear on two different songs on the same edition of ‘Top of the Pops’ in the 1980s?”

We caught an uber and chugged slowly towards White Hart Lane. And no, that’s not an error, we ended up at White Hart Lane, the actual road, where we hopped out and then walked the ten minutes to the away entrance on Worcester Avenue.

Incidentally, you must wonder why the White Hart Lane moniker never made it to the new stadium. In fact, Tottenham’s new stadium is nearer White Hart Lane than the old place. I know it’s rather wordy, but “The Tottenham Stadium at White Hart Lane” covers all the bases and links the old with the new. As a comparison, I can think of “Orioles Stadium at Camden Yards” in Baltimore and that gets shortened to Camden Yards, and I think it would be the same at Tottenham.

Christ, that’s enough time talking about them.

What about us?

Here was the team that Enzo Maresca had picked for this crucial fixture in the Chelsea calendar.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

The pre-match drinkers in the pub were all split up in various sections of the away quadrant. I found myself in the usual place at this stadium, low down along the side, alongside Gary and John. However, there was the added spice of being right next to the three-seat-no-man’s-land that separated us from the home fans in the East Stand.

There was the usual pre-match bluster from the announcer who peddles the usual Tottenham “to dare is to do” guff as he stood on the pitch wearing a shirt and a tie that look too tight, and also a vision of Thomas Frank on the huge TV screens urging the supporters to get behind the team.

Modern football, eh?

I had read reports of the home fans making a special effort for this match and wondered if there was a special tifo earmarked for us. As the teams entered the pitch, there was the 2025 staple of dimmed lights and flames, but nothing much else.

“Oh when the Spurs” boomed out, and this was their “YNWA” moment; noisy at the start but then – I hoped – quiet thereafter.

The game began, and as always, we attacked their monstrous South Bank in the first half.

Tottenham in white / blue / white, Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

With me standing, and everyone in the home section to my left sitting, I had a completely unhindered view of the game to my left. It was a brilliant position.

A Tottenham substitution came after just seven minutes.

“Great, that has upset their plan.”

By the end of the first quarter of an hour, I realised that it was us that had easily dominated possession, and I mentioned to Gary and John that we had “quietened them down”, which is always a priority, but sometimes easier said than done.

If I had tentatively approached this game with my fingers crossed – and possibly my eyes, my arms and my legs, like a human pretzel – now I had the warming sensation that we had a decent selection of players out on the pitch and that, minute by minute, we were the more dominant force.

Despite not creating much in the way of clearcut chances, I liked our ball possession, the way we utilised the wide men, and the combative nature of our midfielders.

After twenty minutes, there had been just two efforts on the Tottenham goal, from James and Garnacho, but I was content with our start.

We continued to control the tempo and control possession.

Marc Cucurella was his usual energised self, just in front of us, throwing himself into tackles, encouraging others.

“He’s so reliable on a day like this,” said John.

“He gets it how much we hate this lot” I replied.

Tombsy, in the row in front, said “I was just about to say the same thing.”

It was odd that the atmosphere in most of the stadium was quiet, such is the way these days, but the away support was trying to get some songs going.

I took one photo of such a moment, with the Chelsea support teasing Tottenham; it was a shot of the East Lower, docile and seated, save for one lone supporter, standing by herself and giving us the finger.

On the thirty-minute mark, a shot from Joao Pedro, one on one with their ‘keeper, but Guglielmo Vicario managed to block.

A rare Tottenham attack followed, but Mohammed Kudus blasted over the bar.

On thirty-four minutes, with Moises Caicedo doing what he does best, the sense of anticipation within the massed ranks of the three thousand away fans rose, as he won back-to-back duels high up the pitch. There was one last drag back towards Joao Pedro, and the anticipation levels were magnified further.

Joao Pedro was free, in space, with the goal at his mercy. I inhaled in expectation. One touch, and then a shot.

Bosh.

His effort flew high into the net.

Yes!

I turned and raised both my arms and screamed at the Tottenham support to my left.

You can imagine how much I enjoyed that.

While the scorer celebrated with his teammates in the corner, I gathered myself, turned back towards my right and roared among friends.

Two things to comment upon here.

One, we absolutely go to football for moments like this. There is no similar sensation in our humdrum lives.

I have said it before; I am a goal addict.

Two, there was no comeuppance for my guttural roar of joy coupled with my stare and triumphal stance from the nearby home fans. There was no scowling, no gestures, no irate body language, no pointing, no verbal abuse, nor real signs of annoyance. In some ways it annoyed me.

Aren’t you upset, Tottenham?

To be honest, and I had suspected it for a while, but I think I was positioned next to “Tottenham Tourist Central” if the appearance and demeanour of the spectators to my left were anything to go by.

The Chelsea fans bounced and bellowed for the remainder of the half.

On forty-three minutes, a cross from Gusto on the right, and a shot close in from Joao Pedro. However, Vicario’s reflex save was excellent.

But it again annoyed me that there was no applause, not even the slightest ripple of appreciation, from the thousands in the home areas to my left.

Bloody hell, what has the game come to?

Just after, a super ball from Chalobah inside the full back, but Garnacho’s touch was heavy. Our often-derided young defender had enjoyed a fine half, but Wesley Fofana was even better, a real plus thus far.

The tackle on James by Betancur seemed late, and a melee ensued. Incoming texts suggested the yellow should have been a red.

“We’ve rattled them,” said John.

In stoppage time, Kudus curled a very rare Tottenham shot at goal – their first of the match thus far – but Robert Sanchez was equal to it and pushed the ball away adeptly.

In the concourse, at half-time, smiles aplenty with a few friends.

Ian and Jimmy the Greek, supping pints, happy.

I breezed past Philippa, Brian and Martin.

“Don’t know why we were so worried. Playing well, aren’t we?”

And then a quick chat with Nina and David – last seen in Philadelphia in June – and the rare luxury of a pint, probably my first this season.

Happy days.

The second half began, and we continued the dominance.

We created more chances than the first half, and the Chelsea crowd were louder too.

Reece put pressure on Tottenham and won the ball, and a great move developed in front of us. Caicedo, enjoying a monster game, then set up Enzo, but Vicario was his equal.

Next, a James cross from in front of us but Enzo headed over.

Then a shot from Neto in front of goal, a miss-hit, but it was saved by Vicario.

Then a low cross from Garnacho on the left that somehow evaded a final touch.

In a nutshell, we were all over Tottenham like a rash.

On sixty-six minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

How we laughed on seventy-three minutes when Xavi Simons, the substitute, was substituted.

Despite our domination, I was of course worried about us only winning 1-0 and was a little reticent about joining in with the load chanting of “it’s happened again.”

With a quarter of an hour to go, a shot from Neto from an acute angle, then Reece curled an effort over.

James was enjoying a hugely dominant game and let’s hope those worrisome days of injury tweaks are in the past.

On seventy-six minutes, Romeo Lavia replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, Estevao Willian replaced Neto.

On eighty-nine minutes, Tosin Adarabioyo replaced Fofana.

Throughout the second period, there were boos aplenty from the home support and this warmed my heart.

However, it still stayed at 1-0.

After winning 4-1 and 4-3 at this place the past two seasons, this was too tight for my liking.

We had two outrageous chances to score in injury-time. First up, a quick breakaway down our right, and Estevao played the ball in to Joao Pedro, who moved it on towards Gittens. Surely this would settle our nerves.

The ball bobbled, Gittens swiped, and the ball flew crazily high over the bar.

Fackinell.

Then, Estevao to Enzo, to Joao Pedro, but another fine save from Vicario when it looked easier to score.

Thankfully, the final whistle soon blew.

We had done it.

Another one.

Another victory at the New Three Point Lane.

The domination continues.

The Chelsea players came over to celebrate with us, while I took a rather self-indulgent selfie in front of the meek and demoralised Tottenham supporters.

And now I could whole-heartedly join in.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Some numbers :

In the last eighteen games against Tottenham Hotspur in all competitions and all venues, Chelsea have won fourteen.

In the last seven visits to Tottenham Hotspur in the Premier League, Chelsea have won six.

In all our visits to their new stadium, we have won seven out of nine times.

Of my twenty-seven visits to “Tottenham Away (Love It)” my individual record is –

Played : 27

Won : 12

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

Gertcha.

We loitered around, as per usual, grabbing some chicken and chips at “Chickin Warriors” on the High Road so the crowds could dissipate.

We caught the 9pm train south at White Hart Lane to take us to Liverpool Street.

I spoke to a Dutch guy who had just arrived in London with his wife and son, and who had watched from the expensive seats above us. His son had been gifted a few items from the Tottenham club shop. I didn’t waste much time informing him which team I supported, and with a few Tottenham fans within earshot, I couldn’t resist dropping in a few mentions of us beating PSG in New Jersey in July. I also joked that there was still time for his son to eschew Tottenham and choose Chelsea instead.

I was getting some seriously dark glances from the locals, and I loved it.

We were back at my car by 10pm.

I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at midnight.

Back to Holt, back to Frome…I eventually made it home at 1.30am.

Oh – the trivia answer?

Alan Brazil.

“Tottenham, Tottenham” – the Tottenham Hotspur F.A. Cup Final Squad.

“We Have A Dream” – the Scotland National Football Team.

Tales From A Black Country Comedy

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Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2025.

On an increasingly cold night in Wolverhampton, we watched Chelsea produce a fine first-half performance but to then self-implode in an increasingly bizarre, and at times comedic, second half. We ended up edging the game in a seven-goal thriller, although it was hardly a bona fide thriller. If anything, it was a black comedy.

A Black Country comedy.

After a decent but lengthy trip up to Lincolnshire for our first battle in this season’s League Cup, we could hardly resist a nice little jaunt into the West Midlands for a tie with Wolves.

I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, and the three usual protagonists were joined by my work colleague Simon. For a while, Simon was a bit of a Jonah on these Chelsea trips; he went winless in around seven trips a while ago. If we lost this one, I wondered if I should leave him up in in the wilds of the Black Country.

Heading north and over the M4, the trusty Sat Nav sent us on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the Southern Cotswolds, apparently avoiding roadworks and delays on the usual M4/M5 route. There was a little drama as Parky had difficulty in locating the email containing the elusive ticket for the evening’s game. Eventually, Simon sorted him out.

My ETA at Broad Street Car Park was around 6.15pm. The journey time of just over three hours would be longer than usual. Oh well, rush hour traffic south of Birmingham can’t be – er – rushed,

At least I was rewarded with some cracking views as I descended from The Cotswolds and into the Severn Vale at Coaley Peak. Then, for a while on the M5, while the others slept, clear blue skies to my west contrasted with wild and towering clouds over the hills to my east, the whole of that section of sky coloured with a lavender wash, but with dark grey brooding clouds in the distance, but then the tops of clouds were searing white, given life by the fading sun.

I wished that I could have stopped on the hard shoulder to take a few photographs.

I quick stop at Frankley Services, and then the slow approach into Wolverhampton through Dudley and Coseley.

The Sat Nav was bang on; I was parked up at 6.15pm. Simon sorted out the relevant parking App, and we then walked the ten minutes to Molineux.

All along I doubted that this game would sell out, despite the cheap ticket prices. We paid just £15 in the away section. I presumed that home areas were similarly priced. We stayed a while in the concourse, chatting to a few loyalists. Simon devoured a Balti Pie; PD supped a hot chocolate. After the Sunderland defeat, nobody was clear what performance was coming from Team Maresca.

I headed into the seats at 7.15pm. I was in row K, the tenth of fourteen in that elongated away tier, towards the Wolves’ South Bank.

The squad were running through their stretches, sprints and drills.

The substitutes were stretching with those elasticated resistance bands on their calves. From a distance, it looked like a load of blokes, hungover after a night on the ale, trying to put their underpants on.

The stadium at this stage was barely a third full. Our section took a while to fill too.

It was getting colder, but my new fleece-lined K-Way jacket was doing me proud.

With ten minutes to kick-off, there was a very half-hearted “Hi Ho Wolverhampton” and I wondered if the crowd would grow any further.

Next, “Firestarter” was played as the flames were set loose in front of us, and it temporally warmed us.

Then an homage to their life president Robert Plant, “Whole Lotta Love” and Kashmir” as kick-off approached. There were gaps everywhere, in the top corners of the main stand opposite, the odd “temporary” seats in the far corner to my left were devoid of people, as was the right-hand side of the ugly two-tier stand to my right.

As the teams appeared, a very odd choice of songs.

“Those Were The Days” by Mary Hopkin.

Ah, Mary Hopkin, my first-ever girlfriend, stop laughing at the back. I remember being exited when I heard that she was from Wales and that we were going to Tenby in South Wales for a family holiday in around 1968 and I wondered if I would meet her. I was only three.

I’m still waiting, Mary.

Now, I’m not sure if this song was meant to reference Wolves’ glory years. If it was, it was a decade out. A song by the Beverley Sisters would have been more apt.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Acheampong – Tosin – Hato

Lavia – Santos

Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens

George

It did not come as much of a surprise that Josh was the only player to retain his place from the Sunderland debacle, squad rotation et al.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked off.

Chelsea, in a crisp all-white kit, attacked the South Bank.

Very soon into the game, the locals teased us.

“We can’t say it, you know what you are.”

Oh boy.

“World Champions, you mean?”

We began well, and after just five minutes, Jamie Gittens picked up a loose ball inside the Wolves half and the ball ran on and into the path of Andrey Santos, who calmly slotted the ball home past Jose Sa.

Santos raced over to celebrate to my left.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.

The home team came at us on the occasional break, and their wide men floated in a couple of testing crosses. It was a lively start.

One of the blokes to my left had already claimed that “Tyrique George ain’t a striker” – I knew what he meant, he’s a wide player, and doesn’t have the physicality to lead the line in a traditional way – so imagine the looks he received when a really fine move flowed through our team, and Gittens set up George to push the ball in from close range.

Only a quarter of an hour had elapsed.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.

Just after, we went close again. A Gittens shot was blocked by Sa, but George was just unable to control the rebound, and the ball went wide.

Gittens was enjoying tons of space on the left, close to us, and a clipped cross caused havoc again.

It was lovely to be so close to Gittens as he continually exploited space on our left. I lost count of the times that he advanced with confidence, teasing their right back.

The lad hadn’t really enjoyed a great start at Chelsea.

Kev sagely commented that the adage of giving everyone one season to settle in at a new club still rings true, and we both hoped that Gittens will go on to find his true form. This first-half performance from him lit up the cold Wolverhampton night.

“Their right back will be having nightmares later on…”

On forty-one minutes, Wolves attempted to play the ball out, but Chelsea were having none of it. Santos stole the ball, and it ran towards Estevao. One touch to control, one touch to cheekily lob the ball over Sa.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.

At half-time, the temperature worsened.

As our team took to the pitch at the start of the second period, I experienced a very odd feeling. I quickly glimpsed at them all, in an unfamiliar all white kit, and the players, taken as a whole, suddenly seemed oddly unfamiliar.

This jolted me.

I quickly attributed this to our large squad of mainly young, and relatively new players, and the fact that our team changes so bloody often.

It honestly felt that I hardly knew these players.

A few friends and acquaintances often say they feel no connection to the players in the current squad and here was a similar feeling for me. For a few fleeting moments, it felt that the players were ghosts in my consciousness…

Little did I know then, but for the next forty-five minutes, they played like they were bloody ghosts too.

The home team, with two half-time substitutions, suddenly upped their game, and went close with a cracking volley from Arokodare, who had headed just wide from a Wolves free kick in the closing minutes of the first half.

On forty-seven minutes, Buonanotte gave the ball away cheaply and the ball was worked out to Arokodare – a suspicion of offside? – who swept the ball in from their left.

Wolves 1 Chelsea 3.

Get out.

A succession of petty fouls from us gave Wolves some sort of motivation and they seemed emboldened. We, however, lacked desire and application.

On the hour, Maresca made three substitutions.

Marc Cucurella for Malo Gusto.

Enzo Fernandez for Romeo Lavia.

Liam Delap for Estevao.

As Delap strode onto the pitch, I thought to myself “yeah, we have missed you mate.”

I wondered if we had created a single effort on goal in this half. I thought not.

On seventy-two minutes, George gave away a damn silly foul on a Wolves defender. The defender was about twenty yards away from his own goal line, going nowhere. My message at times like this is always the same.

“Pen him in.”

Those around me were fuming at George too.

One lad said, “if we let in a second, nightmare.”

From the resulting free kick, the ball was knocked forward, and Wolves won a throw on the far side.

Oh great, a long throw.

The ball came in, the ball bobbled off heads and finally dropped for David Moller Wolfe who slammed it low past Joregensen from an angle.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 3.

Get out.

On seventy-six minutes, Pedro Neto replaced George.

Delap received a yellow card for bringing his hands up to push away a marker, and I lambasted him for being so silly.

On eighty-five minutes, Moises Caicedo replaced Buonanotte.

It seemed that the manager had taken too bloody long to realise the paucity of quality in this half and that he chose to bring on our strongest – in every sense of the word – player with just five minutes to go speaks volumes.

A minute later, I watched closely as Delap jumped with his marker, untidily, then elbowed the defender.

A second yellow.

No words.

Ugh.

Down to ten men, again, we were now hanging on in a game that looked done and dusted at the break.

The minutes ticked by.

I admitted to others that “we don’t deserve to win this.”

There was a comment about Halloween coming up soon, and this being a premature horror show.

At that exact moment, Gittens was put through and without a single touch to steady the ball, he lobbed the Wolves ‘keeper with an amazing first-time effort.

Get in, Gittens.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 4.

I looked at Kev and said “that’s just funny” without the merest hint of a celebratory cheer.

As six minutes of extra time was announced on the PA, I was checking my ‘phone and I looked up to see both the ball and Cucurella end up in the net.

They must have scored straight from the kick-off, how I do not know.

Wolves 3 Chelsea 4.

Get out.

What a ramshackle, preposterously bad, comedy-show of a football match.

Fackinell.

As we assembled outside before walking back to the car, it honestly felt like we had lost. I took little pride in this match. It had been, ultimately, a mess of a football game.

It could, of course, have been worse. Also playing during the evening were Frome Town, at home to local rivals Larkhall Athletic. Frome went 1-0 up but eventually lost 1-3. Two losses would have been hard to take.

There were diversions on the way home, too, and it meant that I didn’t reach my house until 1.20am. On that drive back to civilisation, we learned that we had been drawn away again in this competition, at Cardiff City.

There’s nice.

Postscript : when I woke on Thursday morning, it still felt like a loss.

Tales From Walham Green

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Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 25 October 2025.

This would be Sunderland’s first visit to SW6 since the very last game of the 2016/17 season, a resounding 5-1 Chelsea triumph.

And with disruption on the London Underground taking place over the weekend, we decided to keep close to Stamford Bridge before our game against the Black Cats.

I had quickly visited the new “Walham Green” pub on the first day of the season, but it was too busy – and too hot, under the glass roof – and I didn’t enjoy it. However, on this occasion it was a much more enjoyable visit. I like what the Wetherspoon Company has done with the former ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway underground station. For a while it hosted a market hall, with small shops, but the space has not been used for a few years. Thankfully many of the fittings have remained to this day, and just being in the building brings back so many lovely memories of attending games at Stamford Bridge in my younger days.

Walking up the slight slope, my parents alongside me, the colour of match day, the London accents, cigarette smoke, the chatter, the noise.

The ticketing booths have become the serving areas, underneath a glorious “To The Trains” sign, and even the brass coin wells are still intact.

The building was erected in 1888, and the station was named Walham Green until a change to Fulham Broadway in 1952, just in time for our first League Championship three years later. I have strong memories of watching the 1997 FA Cup parade outside the station and looking up at the many Chelsea supporters who had climbed onto the building to gain a good vantage point.

The old station was used in the opening minutes of the 1998 film “Sliding Doors.”

I joined Parky, PD, Jimmy The Greek and the two Steves for a drink or two from around 10.30am, and we were sat alongside an overflowing table of visiting Sunderland supporters. Another lone Mackem – with a full Sunderland tracksuit top on show – was denied service, and I guess there is a “no away supporters” ruling in operation, although there are no signs. The lads next to us were not wearing Sunderland colours or favours, save for one lad who had his home shirt covered up under a zipped pullover.

They were friendly lads and invited us to their local when we get to visit their hometown on the last day of this current season. I mentioned one fantastic pub we visited in 2016/17, and it turns out that their local is just a few yards away.

Before the season had started, surely the Wearsiders would have been among the favourites to be relegated but their early season form has been surprisingly good. With us not knowing which Chelsea team would show up against them, I – for one – was not being blasé about the outcome of this match.

Sunderland were one of the traditional giants of the English game, though they have not won a single major honour for over fifty years. For those of a certain age, who can ever forget their 1-0 FA Cup win against Leeds United at Wembley in 1973?

Their haul of six league titles equals our total, though the last of these was in 1935/36.

People talk of the powerhouses of the modern era, and the names of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester City and Chelsea are usually cited.

Yet in the first decades of the professional game in England and Wales, it was a little different. From 1888/89 to 1938/39, the most successful teams were Aston Villa and Sunderland with six titles each, then Arsenal and Everton with five, then Liverpool, Newcastle United and Sheffield Wednesday with four.

I always think that these old established clubs inherently carry a lot of gravitas, and it suits my traditionalist outlook on football when a sleeping giant emerges from years of heartache. In 2019/20, Sunderland sank to their lowest ever league position, eighth in League One. But now they were back.

The previous evening, I had briefly scanned the teams that are currently in the prime positions in the Championship, and I was pleased by the quality of teams – I mean stadia, really – that will be vying for promotion come May. Rather than the same old tired old teams, there is a refreshing blend of names that thrilled me.

The first nine are all crackers.

Coventry City : Frank Lampard’s current team were last in the topflight in 2000/2001, when they played at Highfield Road, a stadium I visited on three occasions. I once visited their current stadium in the FA Cup in 2009. Coventry is a good away trip for me, “up the Fosseway” and I am long overdue a visit.

Middlesbrough : much-maligned but we like our visits to Teesside. Their last top-flight season was 2016/17, but before that it was 2008/9. It’s certainly a cheap night out.

Millwall : I never went to the Den, and I haven’t visited the New Den. It’s about time I went. It will be an experience, for sure, and I have to tick it off at some stage surely? Their last year in the topflight was 1989/90 when I was in North America; a pretty good excuse for not going to the Den if you ask me.

Bristol City : only twenty-three miles away, but my last visit with Chelsea was over thirty years ago. Their last season in the top flight was 1979/80. I have only visited Ashton Gate three times with Chelsea; 1975/76, 1984/85 and 1995/96. I know a few locals who follow City. This would be a very enticing away fixture.

Stoke City : I love going back to my old college town, and this would be a pretty decent away day for me. There must be a few remaining pubs from those years that I can winkle out and revisit. Plus, I need to polish up my Stoke accent too.

Charlton Athletic : a ground that I last visited in 2002, and another trip that is long overdue. I have only visited The Valley twice and I haven’t seen any of it apart from the walk from the train station to the away end. To go there again would be lovely.

Preston North End : their last season in the topflight was 1960/61, and the last time that they were in the same division as Chelsea was 1980/81. I loved the remodelled Deepdale when we played them in the FA Cup in 2010, and a return trip would be excellent.

Hull City : another maligned city, but some great pubs near the marina, I am sure we could find some other pubs too. It’s not a bad stadium as it goes.

Queens Park Rangers : no issue returning here, maybe just for a one-off visit before they get relegated again no doubt. It’s a tight and cramped stadium, but quite unique these days. Whisper it, but it does have its charms.

If I had to chose three it would be Coventry City, Millwall and Bristol City.

After a nice and relaxing time in the first pub, we quickly moved over to “The Tommy Tucker” for more drinks. Here, I met up with Nick, Kimberley and Josh – last seen in Wroclaw – plus Angela, Andrew and Matt. Five out of six are from Fresno, Josh from LA. It was lovely to see them again. As I had mentioned in the Ajax report, a few went to see Dagenham & Redbridge play during the week, and Nick told me that a local chap was intrigued by their accents and a conversation ensued. It turned out that this chap was the manager of Depeche Mode, and of course I had to mention that Dave Gahan and Andy Fletcher – RIP – were Chelsea supporters.

With storm clouds gathering – looking out at the light steel of the Stamford Bridge roof, the dark clouds above were so dramatic – I made a move at about 2.15pm.

Thankfully, the rain soon passed but would return with gusto soon into the match.

We had seen the team on our mobile phones in the pub; I generally approved.

Robert

Reece – Josh – Trevoh – Marc

Enzo – Moises

Pedro – Joao – Alejandro

Marc

It was a ropey start to begin with, and Robert Sanchez made two wayward passes to teammates in the first few minutes. This encouraged the away team to attack, and I wondered what sort of afternoon was lying in wait for us.

Thankfully, a Sunderland move was quashed by an Enzo Fernandez tackle, and then Pedro Neto passed the ball out to Alejandro Garnacho.

As the young Argentinian raced down the left wing, and entered the penalty box, I muttered : “Go on Garnacho, be selfish.”

He must have heard me because he slammed the ball past the Sunderland ‘keeper to give us a 1-0 lead.

Phew.

The clouds had dispersed by now and the sun was out; Chelsea were 1-0 up and all was well with the world.

Garnacho looked the liveliest player in blue during the opening moments, but I was impressed, too, with Enzo’s intelligent promptings from his more central position.

We were the brighter of the two teams, and we caused a few problems at the Shed End. A thumper from Moises Caicedo was deflected wide.

The first fifteen minutes were ours, the first twenty minutes were ours.

However, on twenty-two minutes, a long throw-in on the far side was captured by my camera – “look away now” – and my camera also captured the confusion in our six-yard box as the ball bobbled against heads, though not shared here. The resultant loose ball was bashed home by Wilson Isidor. They celebrated in front of us. As I saw their red and white shirted players assemble, I momentarily wondered if I should take a photo. A tough one. I thought of the fans taking photos of opposing players celebrating with their mobile phones, and I didn’t want to be like them. But my conscience was clear. I wasn’t right next to the players. I would never take a photo of opposing players celebrating up close. I wouldn’t be part of the scene. I was fifteen yards away, out of shot. A quick snap.

It was a moment when my twin passions became embattled; me as a supporter, me as a photographer.

Oh well.

Not long after, a delightful ball in between our defenders by an unknown Sunderland player had me gasping – “the best ball of the game so far” – but the recipient, another unknown Sunderland player, could not finish.

PD : “we’re losing it here.”

Upfront, we were getting weaker.

The chap next to me – Josh from Dartford, formerly Margate and a Margate fan – made a very succinct point that it seemed that we had forgotten that we now had a physical presence up front and we didn’t want to play him in.

Poor Marc Guiu didn’t have much service at all.

We didn’t hit him early, we didn’t give him something to run on to, we didn’t cross towards him. I felt so sorry for him. Instead, he found himself coming short and impinging on Joao Pedro’s space.

On the half hour a frustrated “Come on Chelsea” rumbled from the Matthew Harding.

On forty-three minutes a riser from Trevoh Chalobah was tipped over.

There were grumbles at half-time and Gary, a few seats along, made the point of how slow it all was, and one of the main culprits was Reece James.

“A great player Gal, yeah, but his first touch is often at walking pace.”

[in the back of my mind : “but I guess he is told by Maresca to slow it down.]

Ugh.

But some bright news elsewhere; Frome Town were 3-0 up at Malvern Town.

GET IN.

And Josh was happy that Margate were 4-0 up (at the same level as my lot, but further east.)

The second half began, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding.

A James free kick from the right caused havoc but a defender thumped the ball away.

There was a rapid break from Neto on fifty minutes, but with Garnacho alongside him and in a promising position, the ball was played behind him.

The Argentinian then curled a lazy shot over.

On 58 minutes, Estevao replaced Alejandro.

There was a lovely buzz that met his first few touches of the ball, and a chance quickly fell for him, but his shot was deflected for a corner.

Sunderland’s role in all of this was easy to fathom.

Defend deep – “low block” as per the nerds – and catch us on the break.

On the hour, noise at last.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

There was a fantastic sliding tackle from Young Josh, who was enjoying a solid game.

On seventy-six minutes, two more changes.

Jamie for Marc, not his day.

Tosin for Josh, a surprising one.

We dominated so much of the ball, but Sunderland defended like their lives depended on it.

A cross came in, the Sunderland ‘keeper punched it clear, Cucurella went down like he had hit by a heavyweight boxer’s glove.

Oh boy.

More changes on eighty-five minutes.

Tyrique for Pedro, surprisingly poor.

Andrey for Joao, disappointing.

And as the final twelve minutes came and went, and as we ate into the added six minutes of injury time, everyone was thinking the same thing.

“We’ll concede, here.”

I even said this to Josh :

“We’re attacking, they break, ball gets played across the box, they sweep it in.”

On ninety-three minutes, the ball was walloped high up towards Brian Brobbey. He had his back to goal, and was shadowed by Tosin, with Chalobah nearby, in the slips. I decided to snap – “look away now” – as he guarded the ball with his life.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed…the ball was zipped inside, square.

Chemsdine Talbi arrived to slide the ball painfully past Sanchez.

Oh fuck.

The Sunderland fans roared.

I texted some mates : “why did nobody have the hunger to track the runner?”

Chemsdine Talbi joined the ranks of Clive Walker, John Byrne and Gordon Armstrong as Sunderland anti-heroes.

Sigh.

A few days before this game, I had asked some mates if it was good or bad luck – I could not remember – for a black cat to cross your path.

The consensus was, definitely, bad luck.

On this day, I had to agree.