Tales From Some Kind Of Madness

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2026.

So much to write, so little time. Let’s get going.

I was just finishing off the blog of the Bournemouth game when I heard that Enzo Maresca was to leave Chelsea Football Club.

It came as no shock to me.

In fact, I summed it all up to a few friends by saying that I was not surprised that I was not surprised.

Over the years, with increasing regularity over the last fifteen years, Chelsea managers do not last too long; even ridiculously successful ones such as Jose Mourinho, Carlo Ancelotti and Antonio Conte.

My thoughts about Maresca?

I had hardly heard of him when it was rumoured that we were heavily linked to him. I was “Maresca neutral” for most of his spell at Chelsea. These pages have hardly been a litany of praise, but there were moments when he seemed to be steering us in the correct position. I do remember one moment quite clearly though; over in New Jersey on that Sunday in July, with us holding a sparking new trophy, and with Maresca bathing in the glory, I did look at the smiles on the manager’s face and think to myself –

“I suppose I am going to have to start liking you now.”

But I was never a massive fan, though nor was I a heavy critic.

My relationship with the man was all rather tepid. I found it odd that – for an Italian – he seemed quite dull.

As the weekend approached, I had to get my head around the fact that there would be no Guardiola and Maresca battle at the Etihad Stadium on the Sunday. To say that I was not relishing the trip would be a fair summation.

But first, Frome Town were to play local rivals Westbury United on the Saturday. This game had certainly caught the imagination of the local populace. The two towns are a mere eight miles apart and the projected gated was between 1,000 and 1,500, a fantastic figure for our level. For me, the real bonus was that my friend Aleksey – from Houston in Texas – would be driving down from London and the dramas of SW6 to stay two nights in Frome to catch the game before then heading north to Manchester.

I met up with Aleksey along with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn – we met in 1977, our first game together came in 1983 – at “The George Hotel” on the Friday night. We then visited “The Sun “ and “The Blue Boar” and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We spoke of Maresca – a little – and of Chelsea – a little more – and Frome Town – a lot more – and planned the details of the weekend. Alas, Glenn was unable to see the Frome game but would be joining us for the northern attraction later that weekend.

Alex and I were to meet at midday on the Saturday, and I awoke to see a sunny day but with cold temperatures. I was slightly concerned that there would be a pitch inspection at 11.15am.

At 11.45am, I was mortified to see that the game had been postponed due to one section of the pitch, under the shadow of a tall stand (and ironically with solar panels on its roof), that was rock hard.

What a horrible shame. I was desolate. And I had to conjure up a “Plan B” for the day. I collected Aleksey, who was very pragmatic about things, and soon decided to take advantage of the stunning winter sun by going on what I called “The No Bloody Frome Town Game Pub Crawl.”

Over five hours we hit five pubs in the surrounding area of the town.

“The George” at Norton St. Phillip, a pub which dates from 1390.

“The Bell” at Buckland Dinham, a village where my maternal grandmother lived.

“The George” in Nunney, a village close to my home.

“The White Hart” in Trudoxhill, a village where I often enjoy a Sunday roast.

“The Woolpack” in Beckington, a village where The Smiths recorded their last album in 1987.

We finished it all off with a spicy curry.

Sunday morning arrived, and I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am, then Parky in Holt? Where was Aleksey? He was already en route to Manchester, keen to drop his hire-car off and book in at his hotel before meeting us at 2pm at a pre-planned pub, his eighth of the weekend.

We stopped at Strensham for a drink and snacks and I decided to post this on “Facebook.”

“I can safely say that of the 1,525 or so Chelsea games I have seen so far, I have never felt less excited than I do today.

I guess it’s some kind of madness that propels me to games like this.”

Was I being over-dramatic?

No.

My reasons were many.

The Etihad is my least favourite away venue. We rarely get anything from our visits. The City fans, who I didn’t use to mind, have become pains, especially those who stand in the area next to the away supporters, and I always seem to be close to them.

City are such a well-oiled team, and after us losing our manager a few days before the game, I was full of nightmarish thoughts about a proper drubbing.

One name; Erling Haaland.

Fackinell.

The kick-off time on this winter’s Sunday was not 4pm, not 4.30pm, not 5pm, but bloody 5.30pm. What a joke. If and when I eventually decide to leave this level of football and take my support elsewhere, I will look back on all of the myriad reasons that combined to make me take the ultimate decision, and “Sunday 5.30pm kick offs up north” will be a major building block towards it.

There was snow forecast during the day. My mate Tommie in North Wales informed me that snow had fallen over night and more was on its way. Additionally, there were rumours of quote-unquote “severe snowstorms” to hit the south-west in the evening.

So, there would be a risk of my projected finish time of 1am being slid – pardon the pun – back a few hours.

I had to get to work the next day for 9am, so I would be sleep-deficient, and my car was in for a service too, so God help us if the snowy roads meant that I would not be able to cover the last few miles along country roads.

And let me re-emphasise; we had just lost our manager.

Ugh.

Is it any wonder I felt so little excitement?

There was snow on the peaks of the Malvern Hills to our west, and as we neared Birmingham, we drove through a little light dusting of snow.

At 2pm, dead on target, I reached “The Kilton Inn”, an old favourite, near Tatton Park, just a few miles from the M6. This pub acted as a base camp for many of our trips to Manchester and the north-west from around 2004 to 2009, and it is, memorably, where Glenn and I, along with Frank – RIP – stopped for a pre-match meal on the way to Bolton in April 2005. On that particular day (one day, I will tell the story in full ) I had popped into Frome to buy a copy of the Comic Relief single “Is This The Way To Amarillo” to take to Bolton.

Why?

Peter Kay was heavily involved, and we were all massive fans of “Phoenix Nights” that was based in Bolton. I surmised that should we win the league that day, it would be the perfect musical accompaniment. Of course we won, what a magical day, and Glenn played it non-stop on the magnificent drive home.

“Claude Makelele waits for me…”

Back to 2026. Glenn and I wolfed down a roast beef special and we stayed until 3.30pm. Just before we left, I asked Aleksey to take a photo of us twenty-one years on, in roughly the same spot.

Ah, the passage of time.

And yes, that’s the CD in my hand.

There were now five in my car, and I drove through Manchester – very close to the location of City’s old stadium in Moss Side – and I dropped PD, Glenn and Parky outside the away end at around 4.15pm. I drove down the Ashton New Road with Aleksey, parking up at my usual place. Outside, the weather was bitter. The cold wind stung my skin. Good God, this could be an horrific day.

I took a few photos of the outside, including a new Sergio Aguero statue, then through the surprisingly easy security checks, and in.

We were all spilt up. Aleksey and Glenn were in the lower level, while Parky came down from his allotted seat in row 30 to join me in row 5 of the upper level, thankfully ten seats away from the locals.

The stadium filled slowly as the night fell.

Thankfully, I was warmer in the stadium than outside it.

A glance at the team that interim coach Calum McFarlane chose revealed no Sanchez, nor Fofana, which worried me.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Chalobah – Badiashile – Gusto

James – Fernandez

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

We eschewed our away kits and chose royal blue. I approved.

The minutes ticked by.

My friend David, a photographer, who I met at Goodison Park a few years back had messaged me to say that he was at the game and was positioned just in front of the away fans. Glenn was in the front row so I wondered if he could get a candid photo of my mate at some stage.

The teams appeared, and I was happy with our support both in terms of number and noise. Despite the nonsensical kick-off time, hardly any seats were left unused.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

Whisper it, but I had made a pact with the footballing Gods on the way up to Manchester that I’d take a 0-3 defeat. PD had predicted “a cricket score” and others, including Nick and Allie behind me had made a pact at 0-3 too. The 0-6 in 2019 still haunts me.

Just before kick-off, the lights dimmed. In a very moving moment, we remembered former players, officials, personalities and fans linked to both clubs who had passed away in 2025.

Well done City.

Marvin Hinton and Joey Jones were among the five Chelsea folk, while Tony Book, Denis Law, Wyn Davies and the boxer Ricky Hatton were among the Manchester City brethren.

I also spotted a Ricky Hatton banner to my right; surely the only banner in a UK stadium that depicts a non-footballing sportsman. He was well loved in Manchester.

The game began.

We started reasonably well and dominated the first five and maybe ten minutes. We nibbled at half-chances inside the City final third but did not create too much. A corner was punched away by Gianluigi Donnarumma.

The game took a while to get going and I was not happy to spot snow falling, but thankfully it did not amount to anything.

On nineteen minutes, the game crackled to life. There was a half-chance for Estevao after a run by Neto, but his shot was blocked by Josko Gvardiol. Just after, an even better chance fell to Phil Foden but he swept his shot wide.

For the rest of the first half, I saw a Chelsea team withdraw further and further back and I made a note on my phone of a litany of City chances.

27 minutes : Haaland leapt, but missed, the ball whipped past the left-hand corner.

31 minutes : Foden headed over.

35 minutes : Malo Gusto kept close to a City player to inhibit his ability to shoot, and it went over.

37 minutes : a superb save from Jorgensen from a deflected shot from Haaland.

38 minutes : we gave the ball away and Haaland smacked a shot against a post.

For us, there was the occasional break but we were finding it hard to support the runners. Enzo impressed me though, making his presence felt, and putting his foot in when needed.

40 minutes : Rayan Cherki blazed wildly over.

Just after, Benoit Badiashile lost possession, and I thought that as the move continued, there was a moment when he could have swiped the ball away, but he paused, allowing Rudolph Reijnders to smack high, and smack home.

Bollocks.

The home fans, quiet in the main, now sang.

“City, Tearing Cockneys Apart, Again.”

I was trying to convince myself throughout the half that we were in it, but the five or six City chances told a different story.

At the break, McFarlane changed things.

Andrey Santos for Estevao.

This enabled Enzo to move forward while Palmer moved wide. The two full-backs switched over.

On forty-seven minutes, with Chelsea attacking us, Neto had a great run but there was a lacklustre finish. Then, just after a very fine move involving Palmer who passed to Enzo. In turn, he adeptly moved the ball to Neto but his shot was slammed over the bar.

This was better.

We enjoyed more of the ball as the half progressed and the support acknowledged it. Regardless of the result, we were playing much better than I had expected. I felt almost embarrassed by my “0-3” deal.

On fifty-seven minutes, we witnessed a “force of nature” run by Haaland into our box but Badiashile – having an up and down game – blocked him superbly.

At a corner down below us, Reece James demanded more support from the travelling three-thousand and we responded.

On sixty-two minutes, two more substitutions.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Jorrel Hato for Acheampong.

We witnessed a couple of suicidal passes across our defence including a horrific mis-kick from the ‘keeper.

A City version of “Amarillo” was aired.

“Show me the way to Istanbul.
Rodri scored in the Champions League Final.
We’re Man City and we’ve won the treble.
The greatest team you’ll ever see.
Shalalala lalalala City!! Shalalala lalalala City!!Shalalala lalalala City!!
The greatest team you’ll ever see.”

Shalalala my arse. We had Bolton.

Delap was an immediate thorn in his former team’s side and after seventy-one minutes there was a fine break, and Delap spun but shot at Donnarumma.

A mention here for the City substitute Abdukodir Khusanov from Uzbekistan. For some reason, I really felt for him on his miserable debut against us last season, so far from home, and was pleased he had recovered emotionally.

City attacked us still, but less often.

The minutes ticked.

A City player broke after Santos erred but Hato robbed the ball with a fantastic sliding tackle.

On seventy-seven minutes, Delap ran alongside a City defender, a good old shoulder-to-shoulder sprint, but the City player just had a little too much speed.

A cross from Gusto on the right narrowly avoided two onrushing players in the box.

The City fans yelled  : “We’re not really here.”

Actually, I was glad I was, for all my pre-match dread.

With ten minutes remaining, as City sang about United to the point of obsession – go figure – I kept thinking…

“If we get one now…fackinell.”

With five minutes to go, I said to John :

“About now, Kevin de Bruyne usually scores a cracker at the other end against us.”

On eighty-eight minutes, a lovely patient move but Palmer side-footed a shot at the City ‘keeper.

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

“COME ON CHELS.”

One minute in, Gusto ran into the box but just fell, his legs weak. I felt for him.

Four minutes in, Gusto broke on the right. The away end lurched forward, as one. I snapped – with my pub camera – just as the cross left his foot. It was a bloody magnificent cross, low and right across the six-yard box. I could hardly believe that Enzo was unmarked at the back stick. I snapped again.

He lunged at the ball, mis-hit it, kicked it again, the ‘keeper blocked, but the rebound was tucked home.

EUPHORIA.

EMOTION.

ECSTASY.

I was giddy with excitement.

We live for these moments.

I snapped, again, everything a blur down below me. I saw Enzo jump into the crowd. I envisaged Glenn being swamped by bodies, maybe David too.

Unreal.

We had done it.

Bloody Fucking Nora.

I know I had seen hundreds of Chelsea draws and the club has drawn many more but on ninety-four minutes at the horrible Etihad, this seemed the most important 1-1 ever.

The game ended and I gave random people hugs, saying to a few “thanks for staying” as I noticed quite a few Chelsea fans left at 0-1.

Why?

The players came over to celebrate. Enzo was joyous. Reece propelled Calum to receive the applause he so deserved. What a turnaround. Both of these players, plus Gusto and Chalobah, had been magnificent.

Top marks!

Outside, we met up and we managed a team photo.

We slowly walked back to the car. We dipped into a “Kebabbie” with PD and Glenn munching a ginormous lamb kebab while Parky and I chomped a piping hot pizza.

Life was good.

We hit some snow on the M6, but I kept going.

In the last hour, I played “Music Complete”, New Order’s last album from 2015.

It seemed the perfect way to end this craziest of days.

With song titles including “Restless”, “Plastic”, “People On The High Line” and “The Game” it seemed even more appropriate.

Football Complete.

I reached home at 1am.

Oh, and David captured Glenn with Enzo and I think you will agree it’s a magnificent photo.

See you at Fulham.

David’s Photographs :

https://www.rexfeatures.com/livefeed/2026/01/04/manchester_city_v_chelsea?filter=S&folder=Premier%20League%202025-26

THE KILTON INN

THE ETIHAD

TEAM CHELSEA

APRIL 2005 AND JANUARY 2026

WE ARE CHELSEA

Tales From The Last Game Of 2025

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 30 December 2025.

subtitled : “chaos theory.”

After the collapse against Aston Villa, we were heading back to Stamford Bridge for the second home league game in four days. This time, the visitors were Bournemouth, or AFC Bournemouth to give them their full, rather pretentious, title.

What version of Chelsea would show up for this game? I am not sure anyone was sure.

Unfortunately, Lord Parsnips – to give him his festive title – was unable to make it, so after picking up PD and Glenn at 11am in Frome, I sped off towards London via our old route which included a short-cut across Salisbury Plain from the A36 to the A303.

Blue skies above, a clear road ahead, a glorious day. We were on the road.

“Jack Kerouac” as I used to say in the first few years of these match reports.

I enjoy coming in on this “southern route” and for those not familiar with this drive to London, it takes me right past Stonehenge – the sun was hitting those stone slabs perfectly as we drove past – and then up towards London’s well-heeled South-Western suburbs and we came in past Twickenham Stadium, a smattering of other rugby stadia, Richmond-upon-Thames, then Barnes – past the Marc Bolan memorial site – and over Putney Bridge.

I know it’s a hackneyed cliché that the days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day form a weird zone of confusion, but I was a victim of this peculiar time of the year as I drove towards London.

“Wait a minute. It’s a Tuesday. Free parking starts from 5pm on weekdays. Bollocks. I’ll have to pay for a few hours of parking.”

Not to worry. I hoped it wouldn’t be too much.

The “southern route” is considerably quicker than the “northern route” and I dropped Ebeneezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim off outside “The Temperance” in deepest Fulham bang on 1.30pm. They then made the brief walk towards “The Eight Bells” to set up a base camp for the afternoon.

Meanwhile, I – Bob Cratchit – set off through Fulham to find a parking space and ended up just off Rylston Road. The parking was £4 per half-hour…

I then wandered down towards Stamford Bridge and took a few photographs of the area. I probably know this part of Fulham just as well as my hometown, and of course there are many memories from these streets of SW6. I seemed rather obsessed with incorporating the moon in as many photos as possible. The time was only around 4pm. Maybe I was surprised to see it so clear, so early in the evening.

There was a bite to eat on The North End Road, then a quick visit to Stamford Bridge again, and a few photos. As I walked towards the West Stand forecourt, I heard a young lad shout out.

“There’s no Cucurella.”

Had the team news been announced already? It was only three o’clock. The quick thought about our esteemed left-back missing the match saddened me.

I then heard “Bob The T-Shirt” reply.

“Get him out!”

And I realised that this brief conversation concerned scarves on Bob’s matchday stall and not the starting eleven.

At 3.30pm, I walked into “The Eight Bells” and walked up to the chaps.

“Right, where were we?”

It seemed only five minutes ago that we had all been crowded around the same table pre-Villa. Just behind me, and undoubtedly on the same tube train, was Aleksey from Houston – but originally Moscow – and he quickly joined in. Dave from Northampton dropped in for a pint too; a mate from 1983/84. It’s fantastic to think we met as twenty-year-olds and now we are in our ‘sixties but still in contact.

Salisbury Steve was with his son Leigh, two other Steves were in attendance, as was Jimmy The Greek.

Ten of us in total. Bob Cratchit even inched into one of the photos.

Aleksey has been bitten hard with the Chelsea bug over the years but is also one of a growing band of mates from the US who have become interested in the non-league scene in the United Kingdom. Suffice to say, in addition to this Bournemouth game, plus aways at Manchester City and across the park at Craven Cottage, Aleksey is heading down to the West Country for two nights so that he can watch the Frome Town vs. Westbury United match at the weekend.

A feisty local derby on a Saturday at three o’clock, with a few drinks before and after, and a gate of more than one thousand. Fantastic.

It’s the future.

Dear reader : I can’t deny it. I have been looking forward to this Frome game more than any other match over the Christmas period. More so than Villa at home, more so than Bournemouth at home, and certainly more so than City away. I am bloody dreading that last one.  

Aleksey was down in the West Country for our game with Winchester City last season. And I know he is relishing Saturday’s game.

Frome’s “Chelsea” visitors from the US to Badgers Hill now stands at five.

Bob – California.

Josh – Minnesota.

Courtney – Illinois.

Phil – Iowa.

Aleksey – Texas.

Only another forty-five states to go. Who is next?

Aleksey seemed to be on a mission to try every draught beer available – from a dark porter to a crisp light cider – but Bob Cratchit was on the Diet Cokes. Tiny Tim chatted to Aleksey about our trip to New York in the summer, while the others got temporarily sidetracked into talking about the current mess at the club. For a few moments, it all got a bit heavy and depressing.

On Saturday, my mate Clive had to leave early against Villa as he got the call that his dog, Norm, had taken a turn for the worst. He wasn’t at this game. In fact, Tiny Tim had his ticket.

I messaged Clive to find out how Norm was doing.

“Definitely on the mend. He’s back shagging my leg. Are you having a good time?”

I replied.

“Not as good as you.”

There’s always a good soundtrack to our drinking and our chit-chat and laughter in “The Eight Bells” and I liked it that “A Town Called Malice” was played not once but twice. I reminded Aleksey that Frome will come out to this song against Westbury.

We bellowed along.

“A whole street’s belief in Sunday’s roast beef.
Gets dashed against the co-op.
To either cut down on beer or the kids’ new gear.
It’s a big decision in a town called Malice.”

We set off for Stamford Bridge, and there was the usual group selfie from Jimmy, then a group photo of us all, taken by a random stranger, and I include it here.

In a quiet moment, Jimmy said he fancied coming down to see a Frome Town match too.

“You might get a game, mate.”

I was in at 7pm.

I spoke to a few people around me.

“Who knows what we’ll do today. You never know, we might turn it round. Today might be the day that we can…be shite in both halves.”

Oh that gallows humour.

The team?

Well, Bob’s helper was indeed right; no Cucurella.

We lined up as below –

Robert Sanchez

Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Liam Delap

Oh, those constant defensive changes.

I didn’t like it that we attacked the Matthew Harding Stand as the game began. I liked it that we clapped Djordje Petrovic, though.

Inside the first minute, a rampaging run by Liam Delap and he forced a corner, but Estevao’s floater amounted to nothing.

Over in the far corner, the folk from Pokesdown, Christchurch, Poole, Mudeford, Boscombe, Southbourne, Hamworthy, Parkstone and Ferndown rustled up a chant.

“AFCB – Red And Black Army.”

To be fair, three thousand of their fans at an away game is a mighty fine figure when you consider they only have 9,000 home fans each game at the Vitality. Their expansion plans are ongoing. I wonder what figure the Poole and Bournemouth conurbation could reliably support. Maybe 25,000? Perhaps 20,000.

We countered with a half-hearted “CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

With five minutes gone, the away team had already created a couple of chances. On six minutes, a long throw-in from in front of the West Stand. The ball was flicked on by a Bournemouth player despite three – yes three – Chelsea defenders jumping with him. David Brooks headed the ball at Sanchez, whose reflex save was impressive, but Brooks then slotted home the rebound from close range.

Here we bloody go again.

Wait.

VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…the goal stood.

From the away end.

“How shit must you be? We’re winning away.”

On ten minutes, the ball was pushed out to Estevao who wriggled past the left-back and came inside. He ran on confidently. Inside the box, after a challenge by Antoine Semenyo, he fell.

VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…zzz…oh boy…I didn’t hear what the referee Sam Barrot said, but of course by then we knew it was a penalty.

I still haven’t remotely cheered a VAR decision that has gone our way, since it has vastly helped to rot football’s soul.

Cole Palmer slotted the ball in at the corner.

No celebrations from him, nor his teammates.

Good – I liked that.

“We have a job to do.”

A quarter of an hour had passed.

Soon after, a mistake by young Josh Acheampong let in the away team who passed around our defenders and played in Brooks. I admired a fantastic “strong wrists” parry from Robert Sanchez. He is becoming a noticeably excellent shot-stopper, especially from close-in.

Then, Delap forced his way past his marker, but his low cross was just not close enough to Alejandro Garnacho’s lunge.

Garnacho, soon after, then took a heavy touch and a good chance went begging.

On twenty-three minutes, I loved the way Young Josh won the ball on our right. Moises Caicedo to Enzo to Garnacho. He played the ball back to Enzo, who feinted a touch to create space, then shot high into the net.

YES!

What a bloody fantastic strike.

A slide from the scorer.

Snap, snap, snap.

I hoped that my pub camera was up to the task.

The Matthew Harding decided to sing.

“How shit must you be? We’re winning at home.”

I am all for gallows humour, but I was not a fan of this. I turned around to see if Lee – we share basic Chelsea fundamentals – was as annoyed as me.

He was.

PD chirped “this game could be 4-4 or 5-5.”

Well, the goals continued. On twenty-seven minutes, a throw-in from Semenyo in front of the East Lower was aimed at the near post. Trevoh Chalobah rose but got the angles and his timing wrong and only helped the Bournemouth cause by heading the ball fortuitously on for Justin Kluivert to stab the ball home.

If only we had deployed a player to stand on the rear post.

Basics.

It was 2-2 with not half-an-hour played; so, was this a fine game played with players on form or a low-quality match with defensive lapses and the inevitable goals to boot?

I think we all know.

On thirty minutes, Malo Gusto booted wildly over. Just after, a good cross from them but Sanchez got something on it at the near post. On thirty-five minutes, a high Garnacho cross to Estevao, of all people, on the far post but the headed effort bounced wide.

Seven minutes of injury / VAR time, but that was that.

What a chaotic half of football.

As for the second-half, God only knew.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Enzo Maresca tweaked things.

Reece James for Acheampong.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

Soon into the half, James headed a pass – for that’s what it was – towards Cole who set up Estevao but his shot was blocked.

We witnessed a finely timed and finely executed tackle by Wesley Fofana. Such is our lack of defensive prowess these days that this simple act now seems like it needs to be heralded.

Gusto headed a cross out for a corner, but…

VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…no handball.

On fifty-four minutes, Delap headed over at the end of a decent break.

The noise in the stadium was – of course – poor, but Stamford Bridge reverberated with boos when Palmer was replaced by Joao Pedro. Cole began a long walk around the pitch to the bench, while on the pitch there was a low shot from Estevao that Petrovic tipped around the post for a corner.

It made me chuckle when the subbed Palmer rescued the match ball and placed it on the corner spot and motioned to look for a player.

For all the substitutions, it wasn’t working and we struggled to create too much. Pedro Neto was frustrating me with his need to take an extra touch, while I would have preferred for Delap to be a central target rather than making runs to the near post.

On seventy minutes, Estevao snaked into the box with an excellent dribble, but his effort only resulted in a corner. Our corners were predictably poor, and I expected more quality from Reece on the left and Neto on the right.

Sigh.

On seventy-six minutes, Enzo lashed over.

On eighty-two minutes, Joao Pedro tried an optimistic (ie: bloody stupid) lob from inside his own half.

Oh boy.

His deflected shot then went off for a corner.

Amazingly, Bournemouth should have won it in the first minute of the four that were added on for injuries / VAR. A cross from the left down below us from Adrien Truffert, a first-time touch at the far post by Armine Adli and the ball was played back to Enes Unal. Thankfully his first-time volley from eighteen yards flew over the bar.

Phew.

Just after, with just two minutes remaining, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao and we all wondered why, oh why?

This was another meek performance from us, and it’s obvious that many of the rank-and-file are losing patience with this current regime.

At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.

THE MOON AND THE MEMORIES

MY TEAM

CHAOS THEORY

Tales From “Bloody Hell, Chelsea”

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Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 27 December 2025.

I wasn’t happy that there was no Chelsea match on Boxing Day 2025. I was also annoyed that there was no Frome Town game on Boxing Day 2025. It seemed that the natural laws of football in the festive period were being flaunted.

At least, I suppose, travel was easier on the Saturday.

I was able to enjoy a little lie-in and picked-up PD at 9am and Lord Parsnips at 9.30am. Outside, it was bitterly cold.

I did admit to PD that a substantial part of me wished that I was off to watch Frome Town play a local derby at Shaftesbury at 3pm rather than drive the three hours up to Fulham yet again for the match against Aston Villa. Frome had won eight league games in a row and, after a fine win at home against Exmouth while I was in Newcastle last weekend, were now five points clear at the top. A visit to a new ground, just forty minutes away, did seem really alluring.

We breakfasted “on the hoof” and made our way to London. Above, no clouds. Ahead, not too much traffic. I dropped the chaps off at 11.50am near “The Eight Bells” and then drove through Fulham to park up at midday. I had a few moments to myself. I had to decide between my warmest coat and my small camera or another coat and my SLR. I didn’t fancy suffering for my art and dropped my Sony “pub camera” in the pocket of my “K-Way” jacket and slowly walked down towards Stamford Bridge. I stopped off at “Café Ole” for a cappuccino. There was another, small, bite to eat too. I then spent a few moments outside the West Stand, taking photos of the pre-match scene. Although the game was still four hours off, the place was getting busier by the minute.

I spent a few minutes talking to a few folks in the bar area of the Copthorne Hotel, then made my way back to Fulham Broadway to catch the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the usual suspects were crowded around our usual table. It was a tight fit; eight of us were crammed in on chairs, stools and a settle. My friend Eliot – last seen in NYC in July – arrived with his son Skinny, and we caught up a little.

We spoke about the difficulty in obtaining tickets these days, and this turned into a memory of playing Barcelona away in 2000 when we both shared stories about how we got in that day. Eliot managed to get in without a physical ticket – it’s a long story based on bravado and luck – while I had managed to obtain a ticket from Chelsea’s official allocation – only 1,500 – using that long-forgotten piece of antiquity called a fax machine.

The group left the pub surprisingly early at around 4.15pm. There was a noisy group of Villa fans on the same train.

The news from Shaftesbury was varied. The home team had a player sent off early on, we went 1-0 up, they equalised, we went 3-1 up with a quarter of an hour to go but the home team scored two in the last ten minutes to share the points.

Balls.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 5pm.

All day long I had been saying how difficult this game would be. We were playing an in-form team here, and I probably would have been happy with a point.

The surprising news was that Benoit Badiashile was given a start.

Fackinell.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Alongside me were Clive and PD, and thankfully the temperatures were not so Baltic as first thing. All the teams in and around us had won, albeit narrowly.

Two classic kits on show, the match began.

The game bristled to life and in the first two minutes, Moises Caicedo looped the ball towards Cole Palmer who gracefully brought the ball down. Alas his shot spun wide of Emiliano Martinez’ far post at the Shed End.

Soon after we were treated to a magnificent sprint from Reece James to win the ball from some poor unfortunate Villa midfielder, and the crowd roared its approval. The break was thwarted, just sensational stuff.

Then in the next minute, Villa’s first foray into our half, but Badiashile was strong in thought and strong in tackle, which is not always the case.

I liked the way that Alejandro Garnacho and Pedro Neto were occupying the far reaches of the width of the pitch.

“Chalk dust on their soles.”

It meant that Villa was stretched. We just needed to hit them early and hit those spaces.

Villa shouted about “empty seats” but nobody rose to the bait. The home crowd was, mainly, docile.

On the quarter of an hour, it really was all us. I could only really remember that Badiashile block.

A shot from Enzo was walloped wide.

On twenty minutes, a rapid succession of shots and stabs at goal from us in the Villa box were unrewarded as defenders lunged at balls to block.

I turned to Clive : “nice game of football this, we are playing well.”

Although the home support was hardly prolific, at least the players were awarded with the old “Amazing Grace” chant.

You know the words.

On thirty-three minutes, Garnacho to Neto and a header back to James, but the blast fizzed just wide.

On thirty-seven minutes, a corner in front of the Villa lot. Reece James curled a slow cross towards the six-yard box.

I snapped; a blur, too blurred to share.

To our amazement the ball bounced on the turf amidst a crowd of players and up into the goal, Martinez totally befuddled.

GET IN.

Had it gone straight in? I wasn’t sure. For that matter, neither were the players. For the first time that I could remember, the celebrations were split.

Joao Pedro and Enzo sped off towards Parkyville and collapsed on each other. Meanwhile, all the remaining eight outfield players rushed over to celebrate with Reece James. The goalscorer was announced in the stadium as Reece James. Or was it? My instinct to take a photo of the two rather than the eight was proved prescient; the Brazilian did indeed get the final touch.

We were in front.

Lovely stuff.

A few “THTCAUN/ COMLD” exchanges were shared.

Beautiful.

An effort from Palmer was saved by Martinez, and then Villa sent over a free kick from John McGinn that Joao Pedro hacked away. Honestly, they had hardly troubled our backline the entire half.

I spoke to a few friends at half-time in the stadium, and via messages in the US, and we had all agreed how enjoyable that had been.

One friend suggested that I had probably made copious notes on my mobile phone throughout the first period.

He was correct.

But, deep down, there was a tangible fear that we couldn’t keep it going and that this match would turn into one of our recent “game of two halves” scenarios.

What Chelsea would prevail?

It felt as though a whispered stadium announcement would not be amiss.

“Please take your seats for the Second Act.”

Within the first minute, a tantalising cross from Garnacho down below us in The Sleepy Hollow caused havoc in the Villa defence. I presumed that former Chelsea player Ian Maatsen had cleanly headed it behind for a corner, but there was a shout for a handball.

No penalty.

But then, almost imperceptibly, the away team improved.

I yelled “don’t let them get a foothold, Chels.”

Their star of the moment Morgan Rodgers shot at goal – their first real chance – but it was deflected wide.

Just after, a hell of a break; initiated by Sanchez. Palmer to Joao Pedro to Palmer, a cross to Garnacho but a sliding clearance from McGinn at the far stick. A minute later, a curling cross from James caused Martinez to twist and claw it away.

On fifty-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella set up Garnacho but the chance was spurned.

I spoke to Clive : “one of these days, Garnacho will hit the target.”

We were weakening a little now and our passing – “triangles of torture” – were tending to get the fans frustrated, and the players were losing confidence with each minute.

On the hour, Unai Emery made three changes.

Ollie Watkins for Buendia.

Jadon Sancho – who? – for Malen.

Amadou Onana for McGinn.

The Villa fans, sensing a revival, stepped up their support. I was hoping for something to match it from the home stands, to roar the boys home, but it was not coming.

A fine break from Villa, but a great block on his knees from Sanchez foiled Boubacar Kamara.

On sixty-three minutes, a poor clearance from Badiashile was easily intercepted and the ball was worked from Rodgers to Watkins. Sanchez raced out, but the ball was edged home.

Bollocks.

I was impressed that there was an immediate and loud response.

“COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.”

But Villa were on top now and we had to rely on two excellent saves from Sanchez. Efforts from Maatsen and then Watkins were blocked by our ‘keeper.

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

Now it was time for Maresca to retaliate.

Three substitutions of our own.

Malo Gusto for Cucurella.

What? Alongside James, our best player. I was dumbfounded.

Estevao Willian for Palmer.

What? Cole had a mixed game but is always a threat. Unless injured, he had to stay on.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Garnacho has tons of tantalising potential, but I do wonder if he is going to be labelled as another Phil Driver, Jesper Gronkjaer or Mykhailo Mudryk.

Then, another one.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Within two minutes, Delap was given a yellow and then ran around a lot without really ever getting involved.

A couple of chances were exchanged. Enzo tumbled in slow motion and a weak free kick was given to us in prime Reece James territory, but his shot thumped against the wall.

Again, I was pissed off that there was no wall of noise to roar us home.

On eighty-two minutes, PD left to walk back to the car. I left my seat and sat on the step above the walkway to allow him space to leave. Just as PD walked by, I saw a corner float in from the left and I shouted “FREE HEADER!”,

Not only a free header, but a free-goal, Watkins again.

Bollocks.

The Villa contingent roared again and I looked around in bewilderment.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

There was a wasteful cross from Gittens, and we all moaned.

Villa had the best of the last few minutes. Caicedo uncharacteristically lost possession and Sanchez came to the rescue again. There was still time for another, superb, low save from Sanchez from a free kick. Honestly, if it was not for our ‘keeper, we quite probably would have lost 1-4 or worse.

Villa had made a lot of noise as their second half improved, and they ended the match with songs about winning the league. However, they reserved their loudest chant for their hated rivals Birmingham City. And by God, it was loud.

Ah, this was horrible. We had played so bloody well in that first period, yet we crumbled after the hour mark. What team are we? A blinkin’ frustrating one for sure.

As I trotted down the steps, I was reminded that on Boxing Day 2024, we were 1-0 up at home to Fulham yet lost 1-2 after a second-half collapse. And here we were again, experiencing the same Chelsea “fade” as twelve months previously.

I caught up with Big John, and I reminded him how we had wondered at the break if our first-half form would continue in the second, and we shrugged that Chelsea shrug.

“See you Tuesday.”

“You will.”

We now find ourselves a massive ten points behind Aston Villa and we are hanging on grimly to a fifth position that looks like being the best we can hope for this season.

At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.

As I started to drive home on the elevated section of the M4, past Brentford’s ground, I was pragmatic and philosophical. Although this defeat had hurt – and there were real feelings of disappointment with the manager and the lack of atmosphere – I had a moment to myself thinking of all of the times that my father had driven on this section, how many times I had driven along here, of all of my mates driving these miles over the years, and how lucky we have been to be able to do all this.

Schmaltzy shite?

Maybe.

But it is Christmas.

Oh – and Martin; I made more notes in the second half.

Tales From The Bigg Market

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3

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

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.