Tales From A Golden Anniversary

Posted on March 14, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 11 March 2024.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. It stemmed from the interactions between myself and the other children at my village school in Somerset in the immediate aftermath of that iconic game. Perhaps I had heard that Chelsea were a good team or maybe I just liked the sound of the name. Whatever the reason, it soon became clear to my parents that I was a keen supporter of the “Pensioners” or the “Blues” in those early years.

Chelsea were my team. I suspect that my early devotion shocked my parents, who were not really into football at all. I can remember the horror when my paternal grandfather brought me back a Liverpool duffle bag from a coach trip to North Wales in the summer of 1971, not long before he passed away, and how he received the ire of both my parents and myself.

“But I like Chelsea.”

“Well, your mother told me to buy you something to do with football.”

I am sure that I didn’t reply with the expression “fackinell” at the age of six years old but I probably thought something along those lines.

I have no memory of the loss to Stoke City at Wembley in the League Cup Final at Wembley in 1972, but I remember the season-opener against Leeds United in the August of that year and I well remember the FA Cup tie with Arsenal in March 1973. My fanaticism grew with each year, each month, each game. I was given a Chelsea kit in around 1973. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling over fifty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on 16 March against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother had written to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest, to this day. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived, priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still being built on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team?

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins.
Micky Droy.
David Webb.
Chris Garland ( sub – Ken Swain.)
Peter Houseman.
Steve Kember.
Ian Hutchinson.
Charlie Cooke.

The gate was 24,207.

What do I remember of that afternoon? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minute; a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there were to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. A second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed. I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a second-half substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped that I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West Stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final, in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final, and also at the 2015 League Cup Final just a few days after my mother’s passing.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) on Fulham Broadway. Even to this day, I always look over at the site of it as I walk to Stamford Bridge. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

And here we all are, almost fifty years later and another match against the black and whites from Tyneside. I have explained before how annoyed I was that the exact fiftieth anniversary of my first ever game against Newcastle United narrowly missed an exact hit. There was, then, a hope that we would get them at home in the FA Cup on Saturday 16 March. But that missed too.

On the exact fiftieth anniversary, I will hopefully be watching a game at Frome Town against Yate Town. That’s not a bad place to be. I saw my first-ever “proper” game at Frome Town in the early part of the 1970/71 season.

1970 was evidently a big year in my life.

Talking of Frome Town, on the Saturday before this year’s game with Newcastle United, I drove down to Bideford on the North Devon coast. It was a long old drive – almost two and a half hours – but very enjoyable. Just me and my thoughts, a little music, the Saturday all to myself. I paid a quick visit to “The Appledore Inn” just a few hundred yards away from the ground. In October 2020, I drove to Bideford for a Wednesday evening game but later that night in a nearby B&B I had a mild heart attack, to be followed by another a few days later. By the Saturday, I was in hospital in Bath awaiting surgery. On the Monday, two stents were fitted. So this trip to Bideford was always going to be an emotional one for me. I had visited the same pub in 2020 and I made a point of sitting in the same seat in the pub as in that previous visit. A few Frome friends arrived – Mark, Sumo, Steve, Stuey – and I told them this story. They asked why I was sat in the same seat. I suspect they thought it was tempting fate.

It was my way of saying “I am still here” and I lightly tapped the table.

The game was a scrappy affair, but a headed goal from James Ollis after Jon Davies dug out a deep cross from the goal-line gave Frome a huge three points. I watched the game from the impressive main stand, high above the action, with my old school mate Steve – our friendship really fired up in the Lower Sixth when we both realised that our football knowledge put us in a class of our own – and we chatted about all aspects of the sport.

The second-half had its share of hairy moments and I even invoked a heated exchange with two locals as their ‘keeper re-enacted a Schumacher / Battiston assault – from the 1982 World Cup – on substitute Sam Meakes. The ‘keeper was duly sent off and Frome held on. It was a hugely enjoyable afternoon in the North Devon drizzle. Around sixty Frome fans travelled. I loved it.

Back to Chelsea.

On match day, I collected my fellow passengers at 2pm in the pub car park opposite work and by 4.30pm all three had been deposited in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. I met up with PD and Parky in “The Elephant & Barrel”, formerly “The Rylston”, alongside Salisbury Steve and two lads from Boston in Massachusetts. I have known Ben, the Chapter Head of the Boston Blues, since around 2011, but this was my first meeting with Danny, who was at Stamford Bridge for a game for the very first time. It seemed right that on this occasion there was a Chelsea debutant in the party.

There was a nice mix of old and new; old pub, new pub, old friends, a new friend, old memories and new ones.

We raised pints.

Chris : “Friendship and football.”

Ben : “Mates not millionaires.”

Chris : “Bates not billionaires.”

Danny wanted to hear a few stories, so I shared a few. I have several to choose from, cough, cough. We spoke about Newcastle’s awful record at Stamford Bridge in the league.

“Apart from the Papiss Cisse masterclass in 2012, they have not won here in the league since 1986.”

I was at that game in 1986, a 1-3 loss, and Ben was at that 0-2 game in 2012. I shuffled in my seat a little.

I devoured a chicken and gooseberry curry with coconut rice and the others supped some ales. It was a lovely pre-match. At around 7.15pm, we made our way down to the ground.

It is one of my biggest regrets that there is no photographic evidence of my first-ever Chelsea game. This is particularly surprising since my parents took hundreds of snaps of my childhood, yet somehow the camera was forgotten on that most momentous of occasions. I made sure that Ben took one of me outside the main gates to mark the – almost – anniversary of that match fifty years ago. The obligatory one of Danny at his first game soon followed.

As in 1974, I walked towards the West Stand.

I was inside, in The Sleepy Hollow, at 7.45pm.

The Chelsea team?

28. Djordje Petrovic.

27. Malo Gusto.

3. Marc Cucarella.

2. Axel Disasi.

14. Trevoh Chalobah.

8. Enzo Fernandez.

25. Moises Cacedo.

20. Cole Palmer.

23. Conor Gallagher.

7. Raheem Sterling.

15. Nicolas Jackson.

A simple 1 to 11 is much better, isn’t it?

Yet again, the usual pre-match routine : The Clash, Blur, The Harry J. Allstars, the dimming of the lights, electronic pulses, flashes, flames, all culminating in “what the fookin’ ‘ell was that?” from the Geordies.

It wasn’t like this in 1974.

There was a quick chant of “We are the Geordie, the Geordie boot boys” and the game began. I quickly spotted a post by Ben on my ‘phone featuring his view of the game and it was clear that they were just below me in the MHL. There was a miss-hit from Djordje Petrovic in the first fleeting moments and the ball sliced away for a throw-in. We all grimaced.

In 1974, I had to wait ten minutes for my first-ever Chelsea goal. In 2024, Danny did not have to wait as long. After just six minutes, Cole Palmer flicked his brush towards the right wing, painting a lovely ball out to Malo Gusto, who advanced. His low cross was kicked away but it could only reach Palmer. I felt that he didn’t really fancy a shot at goal with his right foot, but he smacked the ball goal wards. Nicolas Jackson was in the line of fire, but a nimble adjustment meant that his slight flick of a leg allowed the ball to slip past Martin Dubravka in The Shed goal.

As in 1974, Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

It is not known how Danny celebrated the goal.

The first-half summed up much of our season. It was good in parts, yet frustrating too.

Our blind determination to play it out from the back wound most fans up, and there was a cheer when Petrovic went long on one occasion. Much has been written about this “playing out from the goal line” this season, but we have not remotely perfected it. It annoys me, as it did in this game, to see Jackson with just one man close to him, in yards of space, yet a quick punt up field is hardly ever chosen as an alternative way to attack. On the occasions when Petrovic decided to go long, he annoyingly waited until the Newcastle defence was set. The art of a quick break seems to be lost in 2024.

We enjoyed most of the chances, however fleeting. A shot from Jackson was claimed by Dubravka. A run from Palmer picked out Enzo in a decent central position but his effort curled over the bar.

The visitors’ efforts were rare. However, on forty-three minutes, the Chelsea defence went into circus mode. The otherwise impressive Gusto attempted keepie-uppy and lost control. Trevoh Chalobah then lost the ball too and it was not cleared. The ball was flicked to Alexander Isak, who danced inside and smacked a fine shot past Petrovic at the far post. They celebrated down below us.

1-1.

Just after, an early ball – at last – to Jackson who did ever so well to dribble past Dubravka and slot home. Alas, he had not beaten the offside trap. No goal.

In the last move of the half, nice interplay between Palmer and Gusto resulted in a deep cross to the far post. A fine header back from Conor Gallagher set up Raheem Sterling and as he took a touch and closed in on goal I could only think of one thing –

“Hit one of the corners.”

He didn’t. His shot was right at Dubravka.

I was relatively happy with the performance at half-time. I had seen a lot worse this season. There had been, as always “glimpses” of decent play. In the programme – some really decent articles at the moment – there were lovely pieces on Hughie Gallacher and Colin Lee.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding. However, it was the visitors attacking The Shed who engineered the first chance. Chalobah cheaply surrendered the ball, and it was moved out to the left. Miguel Almiron raced away but his angled riser was pushed over by Petrovic.

Phew.

A teasing run from the fleet-footed Palmer took him deep into the Newcastle box but his low cross evaded everyone. Sterling was on the end of a swift break but he seemed to lack conviction and was forced wide. His weak shot missed the goal frame.

On sixty-three minutes, an incisive ball from Enzo found Palmer. Before we knew it, he had touched the ball on and then swept a low shot effortlessly towards goal. The ‘keeper was beaten. It was a lovely finish and the place erupted. To my joy, the scorer raced over to our corner to say hello.

Snap, snap, snap, snap.

Nice one.

2-1.

Palmer has certainly made this season a lot more palatable. Imagine 2023/24 without him. Shudder.

A long ball out of defence by the redoubtable Gusto was superbly headed on by Jackson. Sterling raced through and was clear, one on one with Dubravka. My camera was poised. Alas, he dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, and lost his way. Eventually, his shot was cleared off the line.

Dan Burn had a rare chance for the visitors. The towering defender headed wide.

On sixty-nine minutes, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling. There was an odd mixture of applause and mild booing. Answers on a postcard.

On seventy-six minutes, Jackson broke with a flash of speed out on the left. My camera tracked his fine run. The ball was played square towards Gallagher, but Mudryk arrived on the scene like a runaway train and took the ball on. His momentum carried him forward. A slight shimmy and Dubravka was sent sprawling. He rounded the ‘keeper and slotted in from an angle, with a defender unable to hack away.

What a goal.

3-1.

I screamed and screeched as I held my camera close and snapped. Who says geezers can’t multitask?

Mudryk was on fire, full of confidence, and mesmerized us all with another burst of speed but was unable to finish. We all want him to succeed so much.

Two late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for the magnificent Palmer.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Jackson.

Sadly, the otherwise solid Marc Cucarella lunged in and allowed a blast from distance from Jacob Murphy. It arrowed into the Shed End goal. It was some strike.

3-2.

Blimey.

Thankfully, the six minutes of extra-time soon passed and we held on.

At the end of the game, just before “Blue Is The Colour” segued into “Freed From Desire”, I spotted Ben and Danny down below. Their smiles were wide.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

I enjoyed the evening. It wasn’t perfect, but we showed enough to warrant the win. I wasn’t that impressed with the visitors. It had been 4-1 to them in November and it was 3-2 to us in March. We edged the League Cup tie in December. There might even be another game yet, in the FA Cup, later this season.

Talking of which, the FA Cup follows on Sunday with a game against Leicester City at Stamford Bridge. See you there.

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

Posted on January 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 23 January 2024.

My seat for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough was in row Q – the rear row all but one – of the Matthew Harding Upper and I was inside with about fifteen minutes to go. There had been a greater queue than normal outside. It was a very mild night in SW6. I was beginning to regret to regret wearing a bulky puffer jacket. Up the other end, in The Shed, were the brightly-coloured visitors from Teesside, around 5,000 of the buggers, their biggest turnout at Stamford Bridge since “that” game in 1988.

While we attempted to overturn a narrow 0-1 deficit from the first leg on this Tuesday night in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, just twenty-four hours later, Fulham would be attempting to overcome a similar result in their semi-final against Liverpool. All of a sudden, our home borough was the centre of attention.

While latecomers took their seats, I remained quietly confident of us advancing to yet another Wembley Cup Final. And – of course – we hoped that Fulham would join us.

On the pitch, the ground staff in matching dark grey puffer jackets of their own prodded away at the wet grass using forks. Then the lights dimmed, and the 1-2 punch occurred.

Firstly, the pulsing electronic beat boomed out of the stadium’s speakers, the strobe lighting began and then the flames flashed into the sky.

Secondly, the “what the fookin’ hell was that?” from the away support.

It was a very colourful away support, with many of the ‘Boro bedecked in red and white scarves and with replica shirts on show under unbuttoned jackets. I remember a similar number of Tottenham fans at our semi-final in 2019, occupying those same two tiers, and with everyone dressed in dark jackets, a large unsavoury mob, almost looking like a European team. This lot were far more brightly attired. There were a few flags dotted around too.

“We Built the World.”

“You Make Me Happy When Skies Are Grey.”

“We Are Boro.”

My Middlesbrough mate Chris texted me :

“You’ll probably win the match, but I’ll be happy if we out-sing you.”

With the players of both teams on the pitch, they then moved to the centre circle and the PA asked us to remember one of our own.

I only ever saw Tommy Baldwin play once for Chelsea. On Saturday 10 October 1974, my second-ever visit to Stamford Bridge, Tommy played against Tottenham in a game that we won 1-0, the goal coming from an early John Hollins penalty.

The Chelsea team that day was :

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins
Micky Droy.
John Dempsey.
Steve Kember
Tommy Baldwin.
Charlie Cooke
Ian Hutchinson
Peter Houseman.

It was also the only time that I saw John Dempsey play. Later that season, Tommy joined Manchester United on loan before drifting away from Stamford Bridge and finishing his career with a few games at Brentford. He had been a stalwart at Chelsea for eight years, playing almost two-hundred games as a bustling midfielder or inside-forward.

I often used to see Tommy Baldwin meeting up with other former players as they congregated together before darting off to engage in hospitality activities on match days. Unfortunately, Tommy had been unwell for quite a while and on Monday we heard that he had sadly passed away. He was seventy-eight. Tommy Baldwin was nicknamed “The Sponge” for reasons that were sometimes debated. There are those that said that it was because of his ability to soak up pressure, attack after attack, in his midfield role. But I suspect that those that knew him better, knew that this was a name derived from his ability to drink. I had read through the detailed obituary that appeared on the Chelsea website on Monday evening; it was a fine summation of his time as a footballer in Chelsea colours and illustrated his often-under-appreciated role in that most revered of Chelsea teams.

Although his name was not widely known outside SW6 circles – unlike Bonetti, Osgood, Cooke, Harris, Hollins, Hudson et al – his role in the functioning of the team was acknowledged by us all. He was as no footballing Corporal Sponge.

While his image appeared in black and white on the two TV screens, both sets of supporters applauded in his memory.

Rest In Peace Tommy Baldwin, The Leader Of The Team.

I scanned our team.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Chilwell

Palmer – Caicedo – Fernandez

Sterling – Broja – Mudryk

We attacked the Middlesbrough fans in the first-half. They were, unsurprisingly, noisy.

“That’s why we sing this song for the ‘Boro all night long.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it seemed like a seamless continuation from the game on Teesside a fortnight ago. They were sat back and we took forever to move the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, while the movement upfront was almost non-existent. A few pumps up field from deep did not hit targets.

There were a couple of worrying signs early on. Raheem Sterling was ball-watching during a ‘Boro attack, leaving his wide man ridiculously free but thankfully the ball stayed on the opposite side. Then, after getting sucked inside, Ben Chilwell had to race back – and across – like an express train as we were embarrassingly cut open down our left.

But we enjoyed a couple of efforts in this period; one from Mykhailo Mudrk, one from Chilwell.

Djordje Petrovic got down well to save to his right.

On fifteen minutes, a swish move down our right involving Cole Palmer and Raheem Sterling set up Armando Broja. From my seat, I could not see the fine detail, but only the ball ending up in the net. We would soon find out that Johnny Howson had stuck out a leg and had scored the goal for us. But, I did not celebrate. Such is the spectre of VAR these days – even when it is not being used – that my celebrations were dulled. Of course, there was no flag, no nothing. The goal stood. It came at just the right time because the supporters in the Matthew Harding were starting to get a little agitated and nervous.

Phew.

The tie was tied.

The rest of the first-half, unlike in Middlesbrough, certainly went to plan.

On twenty-eight minutes, some solid play between Sterling and Axel Disasi down the right set up a chance for Broja. His shot was blocked by a defender but Enzo Fernandez was on hand to slam the ball in. A slide into the corner from Enzo. I could celebrate that one.

Eight minutes later, Disasi broke up an attack with a superb tackle and passed to Sterling. As Sterling, who had enjoyed a mixed opening period, raced on, so did Disasi. Sterling played the ball back to our rampaging defender and his low finish put us 3-0 up. There was another slide into the corner.

“That makes up for the chances we missed in the first-half two weeks ago.”

It was all Chelsea now.

Some were singing “We’re Going To Wembley” but I resisted. It was a little too soon for me.

Middlesbrough tried to keep their shape but they suddenly looked tired.

Despite the away fans dominating the night for most of the first-half – the twin staples of “your support is fooking shit” and “shall we sing a song for you?” were often heard – they were silent now.

On forty-two minutes, Palmer pick-pocketed a Middlesbrough defender and casually, and coolly, swept the ball in to the net.

Chelsea 4 Middlesbrough.

Now I could join in…

“Que Sera Sera.”

It had been an excellent half. After that slow start, we had grown as the game progressed. Petrovic had made the one save when he was needed. It was a joy to see Chilwell patrolling the left flank, and just inside him Levi Colwill looked a steady centre-back. We had been treated to two trademark sliding tackles from Silva. Disasi had enjoyed his best half for ages. In midfield, Enzo and Palmer created a few chances with their intelligent play and Moises Caicedo – not the easiest player to appreciate – was very solid. Broja was steady if not spectacular. Sterling was back on his game. The only negative was Mudryk, as perplexing as ever, a mixture of breath-taking speed mixed with jaw-dropping slowness of thought.

But we were happy at the break.

Fackinell.

At half-time, Nonu Madueke replaced Mudryk.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The second-half began and I wasn’t quite sure how to behave. Did I want us to rampage away and score four more or conserve ourselves for the FA Cup game on Friday? In truth, we controlled the game without causing too much further damage to the scoresheet nor the away team’s morale.

On the hour, for the first real time, the whole crowd sang as one.

“CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

Some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chilwell.

Conor Gallagher for Broja.

On seventy-seven minutes, Gallagher played in Palmer down below me, who did not bother with the burden of an additional touch and – as cool as you like – side-footed the ball in. Soon after, a blue flare was thrown onto the pitch from the MHL. It made for a great photo opportunity if nothing else.

On eighty-one minutes, Gallagher passed to Madueke, who shimmied and danced past a marker before slamming the ball at goal. The shot took a large deflection.

Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 0.

I was impressed that the away fans had been singing in the build up to the sixth goal and continued doing so when the goal came and for a while after too. Fair play to them. The biggest compliment that I can give them is that they reminded me of us when we were in our hey-day.

There was even time for a late debut.

Leo Casteldine – “player number 54 where are you?” – replaced Sterling.

I am unsure if we were being intentionally ironic, but we sang :

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Middlesbrough had two late goals; one annulled for offside but one stood, a fine low effort by Morgan Rogers.

At the whistle, Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 1.

I quickly gathered my stuff and headed out.

“Blue Day” from 1997 blasted out on the PA. As I headed down the multiple flights of stairs at the rear of the stand, I heard the sweet voice of Doris Day. It did not compute. The opening bars just made me think of “that” Leeds song.

I then got it.

“Que sera sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

We’re going to Wem-ber-lee.

Que sera, sera.”

On the Fulham Road, there was some boisterous behaviour, some name-calling, some gesturing, some punches, some arrests.

Outside the town hall, I spotted a female ‘Boro fan, arm in arm with her man – to possibly stop herself from falling over – who pointed at two Chelsea women and shouted “Chelsea Rent Girls!”

Well, I had never heard that one before.

We got back to the car and set off for home at 10.30pm. I would be home by 1am. We hoped that the little brothers from Craven Cottage would do the business in the other semi-final, but our business in our borough was over for a few days.

Next up, Aston Villa in the other cup on Friday.

See you there.

Postscript 1 :

There was a regret that I didn’t hear Tommy Baldwin’s song during the game. Admitedly it is best suited for pre-match beers in the pub or concourse, but we always used to sing it at games.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’re the Fulham Road supporters and we’re louder than The Kop.”

Postscript 2 :

Nice to see my two friends Annette and Mark featured in the evening’s programme. They sometimes act as my unpaid spell-checkers.

Tales From Christmas Eve

Posted on December 26, 2023 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 24 December 2023.

There was much negative press surrounding the Premier League’s decision to allow Sky TV to move our match at Molineux to Christmas Eve. I felt sorry for those normal match-goers from both sides who had made solid arrangements for other activities on that day and were now forced to either change plans or miss the game completely. The problem stemmed from the fact there had been very little precedent for such a game. The last Premier League game to take place on Christmas Eve took place in 1995 at Elland Road with a game between the two Uniteds of Leeds and Manchester. Chelsea’s last game on 24 December was way back in 1966, a 1-2 defeat by Liverpool at Stamford Bridge. So, as plans for Christmas were discussed in Chelsea households in the autumn, there was minimal thought that Chelsea would be playing away to Wolverhampton Wanderers on any other date other than Saturday 23 December.

Then Sky TV gate-crashed the party and a change to the date of the game was made. Match-going fans went through a range of reactions; from being dumbfounded, to being irate, to being sad. Existing travel plans would need to be re-hashed and there is no doubt that many a relationship endured a few tense moments. I suspect that train and coach timetables were studiously scanned anew.

As it happens, the change did not really affect me too much. In fact, I came out of it for the better. With us playing on the Sunday, our Boxing Day game at home to the Stripey Nigels was to be shunted back twenty-four hours, taking place on the evening of Wednesday 27 December. This, ironically, would allow me to attend the Frome Town vs. Melksham Town Derby on Boxing day.

On the Friday evening, away in some distant part of Bristol, I attended the Frome Town away game at Cribbs. A draw would take us top. Unfortunately, despite dominating possession Frome had no cutting edge – sound familiar? – and the home team won the encounter 1-0. It was the home team that would go top of the division.

I almost forgot that games were being played on the Saturday as I wrote up my match report from the eventful Newcastle United cup tie.

Sunday – Christmas Eve – soon arrived. I set the alarm for 6am and at just after 7am I stepped outside into the dark to wait for Glenn to arrive to drive up to the Black Country. I soon clambered into the back of his black VW van. PD was riding shotgun alongside Glenn. Unfortunately, Parky was unable to join us on this trip.

We stopped off for a brief McBreakfast en route at Strensham – the place was deathly quiet – and Glenn rolled up outside “The Bluebrick” pub just to the east of the Wolverhampton city centre at 10am.

On the drive up, Glenn had earmarked our next three games as all being “winnable” but I wasn’t so confident and neither was PD.

The pub, an adjunct to a new hotel, soon became swarmed with away fans. This was a dedicated “Chelsea fans only” boozer. We visited it back in April ahead of the return of Frank Lampard as manager for his second stint as manager. I remembered, all too easily, the sense of optimism in that early April sun. How soon that feeling dissipated. Our last two visits to Molineux have been dreadfully unattractive games of football.

We spotted a few usual faces at the pub. There was a little talk about the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough. I have already booked up cheap digs in Stockton-on-Tees for the away leg. There is still a healthy appetite to see us – especially away – despite this poor season. Over the two games, we would have to fancy our chances against ‘Boro. Our away take should be over the usual league allowance of 3,000. Hopefully we will have 3,500 or more up there. It will certainly be different from the 650 who were “allowed” in for that odd FA Cup tie back in 2022.

This was only the fourth game out of twenty-two this season where I was able to have a drink. The three pints of lager were a nice change. We stood inside as the weather deteriorated a little.

We set off for Molineux at about 11.50am. I had a spare ticket that I was able to hand over to Gemma who lives in nearby Birmingham outside the away turnstiles. There was a little chat with a few mates. There was scant optimism. I was inside at about 12.30pm. I immediately spotted Bank from Bangkok – he was at the corresponding match last season – and it was good to see him again. Blue and white Santa hats, printed with the date of the game, were being handed out to the away contingent.

I picked up one but promised myself that I would only wear it if it began raining.

“Please don’t rain.”

Glenn and PD took their position to be alongside Alan, Gary and John away to the right, while I stood next to Gemma equidistant between the half-way line and the South Stand which used to be the site of a huge bank of terracing in Wolves’ heyday. There is always a lot of conjecture on various football forums about which end had the highest capacity when terraces existed. The three front-runners always seem to be Liverpool’s Kop, Aston Villa’s Holte End and Molineux’ South Bank. I think it is widely agreed that The Kop was the widest, the South Bank went back the furthest, but the Holte End was the largest. There are currently plans to continue the large double-tiered Stan Cullis stand around the other three sides. Until then, the once neat Molineux looks a little lopsided. The Stan Cullis Stand doesn’t sit well on the eye.

The away following is positioned along the length of the pitch in the lower tier of the Steve Bull Stand, the oldest part of the modernised stadium, constructed way back in 1979. Getting a song together at Molineux is always a tough ask. This particular day would be no different.

A friend – Daryl – had quoted the words to a Slade song earlier in the day on Facebook and I had this song – “Far Far Away” – reverberating in my brain all morning. Slade were from the Black Country, though, so at least I suppose that it was apt. Before the game, the Molineux DJ played a Midlands-themed section of songs.

There was Slade again and the festive classic “Merry Xmas Everbody” which was released in December 1973. It brought back some sweet memories of that particular Christmas. It is undoubtedly my favourite festive time. I had managed to avoid making an arse of myself in my only appearance at a school nativity play, held in the village hall, and this magnificent song from Slade at “Number One” quickly evokes my warm feelings from that particular year. I can vividly remember being at school and announcing that Slade’s classic had gone to the top of the pile, taking over from “I Love You Love Me Love” by another glam-rock singer who will remain nameless. But the main reason why Christmas 1973 is so fondly remembered is that my parents announced that they would take me to Stamford Bridge for the first-ever time in the New Year.

Yes, Christmas 1973 was lovely.

Fifty years ago.

Oh to be eight again.

The Slade hit from all those decades ago was quickly followed by “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” by Wizard, another Midlands band, and this reached number two behind Slade in 1973.

Next up, “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin, a nod towards Robert Plant – born locally – and an honorary vice-president of Wolves to this day. I spotted Plant chatting to a villager outside the local pub in my village that he was staying in for the Glastonbury Festival in 2022.

Next up, a crooner from Tupelo Mississippi, not the Black Country, and “The Wonder Of You.”

I was wondering if it should be-remixed as “The Wonder Of Yow.”

I whispered to the bloke next to me –

“Just play ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ and be bloody done with it.”

After the golden flames appeared in front of the Steve Bull Stand, “Hi Ho” appeared on the playlist and how the locals loved it.

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton!”

I reminded Gemma that “this lot were fined last year for the homophobic stuff, weren’t they?”

Over in the stand to the right, there were banners honouring Derek Dougan and Billy Wright, along with Steve Bull, Wolves’ most favourite sons.

It was a mild and overcast day. The grey skies closed in on Molineux.

Chelsea appeared in the deep blue away kit for the first time.

“Looks too Tottenham to me” I thought.

Up close there are the geometric lines that would not have looked out of place on a sci-fi poster from the mid-‘eighties.

“One for the nerds” I thought to myself.

Our team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Jackson

Broja

Or something like that. At times Broja ran the wide channels. At times Jackson did. Who knows?

We attacked the old South Bank that used to hold almost 30,000 in the first-half. Renamed the Sir Jack Hayward Stand it now holds a lot less. In a far corner there is an open-air segment that holds around a thousand hardy souls.

In the first ten minutes, there were a couple of half-chances for Nicolas Jackson – “pull the trigger!” – and Armando Broja that left the Chelsea faithful mumbling words of distress.

Some of those wearing the Santa hats – of which there were many, I fear for humanity – began swirling them above their heads, which brought back an image of scarf-twirling from my first game in 1974 – and this was met by ridicule from the South Bank.

“What the fookin’ hell was that?”

And then, I was just able to decipher this –

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

After a quarter of an hour I turned to Gemma and said “I hate to say it but we have so much of the ball but carry no threat at all.”

However, Wolves breaks were cut out pretty easily by the Chelsea defence. Levi Colwill doesn’t convince me as a left-back though. He hasn’t impressed me greatly this season. Raheem Sterling enjoyed a few pacey bursts down in front of us, but his end product was shocking.

On twenty minutes, Jackson completely miss controlled a ball into him, with nobody close. The frustration rose. The home fans began booing Sterling after he fell too easily in the box. The abuse was loud. I looked at Sterling for a reaction. There was nothing.

The Chelsea fans backed him :

“Raheem Sterling, he’s won more than you.”

I liked it that we were sticking up for him – not the easiest player to warm to – but then realised that all of the trophies that were being referenced had been won with Manchester City.

Er.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free-kick from the man Sterling. It flew over the wall. It was the sort of free-kick that needed to be clipped, not struck through.

A silly foul on a Wolves player just outside our box resulted in a free-kick that thankfully came to zilch.

On thirty-one minutes, the defining moment of the half, if not the whole game. From a goal-kick, Joao Gomes was pick-pocketed by Sterling and we watched as he raced away in a central position. To his right, supporting him, were Palmer and Jackson. Surely a goal would follow here. Unbelievably, Sterling chose not to pass but to shoot. Agonisingly, the Wolves’ ‘keeper Jose Sa got down to block. I don’t really want to include the photo in my match gallery but feel I have to.

Sorry.

To make matters worse, a weak shot from Gallagher from the follow up was easily saved by Sa.

The Chelsea support bellowed their anger towards Sterling.

I muttered my two penn’orth : “I can’t even begin to work out how many years I need to work to earn what he earns in a week.”

I hate modern football.

There were a few half-chances at the end of the first-half. Petrovic hesitated but was then let off. Palmer shot over. At least he is not afraid to shoot.

It had been a pretty dire half.

My pre-match prediction of a 0-0 draw seemed to be spot on.

Just as the second-half began, the two Bobs resumed watching from two rows in front of me. I took a photo. They smiled. I suggested to them that I will never see them happy ever again.

There were a few Wolves chances. After Thiago Silva gave up possession cheaply, a shot from Gomes touched a post as it was deflected off Ugochukwu. Then a strong header directed with pace at our ‘keeper at the near post from Toti but Petrovic blocked well. They had enjoyed the brighter start to the half.

On fifty-one minutes, a corner – one of a few – from the Wolves right. The ball fell centrally, but there was no Chelsea presence, no Chelsea leap, no Chelsea anything. Mario Lemina rose unchallenged to glance the ball in.

Bollocks.

Approaching the hour, Mauricio Pochettino shuffled the pack.

Christopher Nkunku came on for Ugochukwu and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced the poor Broja. I wondered, as did many, how Jackson was still on the pitch. Mudryk took up residency on the left and we tried our hardest to will him past players. On sixty-five minutes, Nkunku stabbed a half-chance at goal but it was deflected and then cleared off the line. Just after, receiving the ball centrally, Nkunku chose not to shoot but to pass to Palmer who chose not to shoot but to pass to Sterling who chose not to shoot but…you get the message…he took a touch, an extra touch that flattened the angle, and the Wolves defender Craig Dawson blocked the low shot. The ball spun high and over the bar.

Expletive. Expletive. Expletive.

It seemed to be all Chelsea by now, but we were not creating much. For Frome Town on Friday read Chelsea on Sunday. A Malo Gusto error let in a Wolves strike, but it was saved.

More substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Colwill.

Benoit Badiashile for Gusto.

Noni Madueke for Jackson.

I didn’t join in the applause that greeted Jackson’s substitution, but many did. Each to their own, eh?

With the influx of new players, it seemed like a new team out there, certainly in the attacking third. I wondered if it was asking too much to expect them to gel, to fit together, to create chances. The Chelsea support, hardly making much of a contribution all game, were roused a little and tried to inspire the players.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A crazy extra eleven minutes were signalled.

“Fackinell, we’ve got homes to go to.”

Madueke was full or running and looked a threat. He launched a curler that sadly swept past the Wolves goal.

On ninety-three minutes, Wolves carved us open way too easily down to my left. As the move developed, I had this sudden fear of them scoring and the Chelsea crowd leaving en masse. I must have a sixth-sense. A cross was played in. It hit the heel of Badiashile – what a calamity – and sat up nicely for Matt Doherty to slide the ball home.

Goal.

People left.

Fackinell.

The South Bank seized the moment.

“Take your hats and fuck off home.”

I inwardly smiled.

Gits.

As is so often the case, the team chasing an equaliser soon scored after conceding another goal. The substitute Nkunku adeptly headed home a fine cross from Sterling, who had also managed to stay on the pitch despite almost half-a-team-full of substitutions.

Virtually the last action of the whole horrid game was a thumped free-kick by Gallagher that was easily claimed by Sa, all dressed in pink like a stick of Blackpool rock.

It would seem that we are only seeing glimpses, occasional glimpses, of this team playing half-decent football at the moment. It is a huge worry. As we approach the half-way mark in this totally underwhelming season, I see us finishing no higher than our current position of tenth. The half-way mark will be reached at home to Crystal Palace on Wednesday.

See you there.

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

Posted on November 30, 2023 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 25 November 2023.

Where does the back story begin for this game? How about October 1973? Let me explain.

No matter what this season brings, no matter how successful, how disappointing, or even how uneventful this campaign turns out to be, it will always be an important one for me. For this particular Chelsea devotee, all eyes are on March 2024 as it will mark the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game.

My first one was a home game with Newcastle United on Saturday 16 March 1974, and if the current fixture list remains unchanged, I will be celebrating this major milestone with an away trip to Arsenal on Saturday 16 March 2024. It could have been so much better though. In this season’s fixtures, Chelsea host the Geordies just a week before this date on Saturday 9 March. Damn the FA and damn their fixture lists.

So – to set the scene perhaps, here’s a little mention of 1973/74 and the reverse fixture of my first game. On Saturday 20 October 1973, Chelsea travelled to Tyneside in a Football League Division One encounter but unfortunately lost 2-0. The feared striker Malcolm Macdonald scored a brace in front of 32,154.

The Chelsea team that day was as follows.

John Phillips, John Hollins, Eddie McCreadie, Steve Kember, David Webb, Ron Harris, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Osgood, Peter Houseman, Chris Garland.

It pains me to see the names Hudson and Osgood listed as I sadly never saw them play for Chelsea. I never saw Eddie McCreadie either.

Fifty years later, another trip to St. James’ Park had been planned for a while. This was another game involving an overnight stay – or rather three of them – although Parky was forced to miss out due to a hospital appointment. On the Friday, I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 8am and began the long drive north. Luckily, it was a fine and sunny day and the drive was a joy. We had booked some digs in Felling, Gateshead, and I was parked outside the house at 2.15pm.

Over the past few years, the area has become familiar to me. On a trip to see Chelsea play at Newcastle in January 2020, I met a local lass, and I have been visiting her a little since then. This trip to the Newcastle area would be my fifth visit of the year. I celebrated my last two birthdays with Julie in the city of Durham and there have been a few nights out in The Toon and the surrounding area.

However, back in July, I wanted to visit a location – alone – that I think about every time that I see a game in Newcastle.

On 11 June 1957, Hughie Gallacher, the former Newcastle United and Chelsea striker, walked in front of an express train at Low Fell, in Gateshead, and was instantly killed. He was just fifty-four years of age. After a phenomenal career, in which he scored 24 goals in just 20 games for Scotland, he returned to the North-East – his last games were for Gateshead – but found life outside of football to be very difficult. I have always been fascinated by Gallacher and I bought “The Hughie Gallacher Story” by local journalist Paul Joannou a few years back. What lead to his suicide? In a fit of rage, he had thrown an ashtray at his son Mattie, drawing blood, and had been denied access to him. This haunted Gallacher and for many weeks he could be seen pacing the streets of Low Fell in a daze.

I felt that I needed to visit Low Fell.

It took me a while to find the location of where the incident took place on the main London to Edinburgh line. I drove in and around Low Fell for a while, imagining Gallacher walking those same streets almost seventy years earlier. I stopped near the railway and parked close to a bridge. I took a few photographs. On my very first visit to Newcastle in March 1984 – ah, another anniversary of sorts – I would have travelled on this very same piece of railway on a Chelsea Special, without knowing the sad story enacted here.

What I found amazing was that St. James’ Park, at the top of the hill in Newcastle, was clearly visible from Low Fell. And, if I let my imagination work away, I wondered if the St. James’ Park floodlights would have been visible as Hughie Gallacher climbed up on to the railway track on that fateful day in June 1957.

Hughie Gallacher was idolised at Newcastle United. The club’s record gate of 68,386 marked the return of the diminutive striker to St. James’ Park after his transfer to Chelsea. On Wednesday 3 September 1930, that huge crowd saw the local team defeat Chelsea 1-0.

In July this year, I had a quiet moment of remembrance in honour of the one Chelsea player from our distant past that I wish I had seen play.

On the Friday night in Newcastle, after a little session at a warm and welcoming pub in Felling – waiting for our mate Rich to arrive by train from Edinburgh – we dotted around the crazy city centre, meeting up with a few usual suspects, before finally getting back to our digs at around 2.30am.

We awoke late, and tired rather than hungover, before catching a cab into town. Our digs were just a few hundred yards from the Gateshead Stadium, home to the current Gateshead team. We breakfasted at The Quayside pub, where we met up with Steve and the Two Bobs, plus a few pals from Minneapolis, over for a week of Chelsea games.

This was to be, of course, our first game since the hated international break. I spent my “free” weekend watching Frome Town play Worthing in the FA Trophy. In another stupendous match at Badgers’ Hill, Frome drew 2-2, and won 4-3 on penalties to advance. Later that evening, PD, Glenn, Parky and I watched From The Jam in the town centre. It was a very special day. On the Monday, we drew Torquay United in the next round, easily Frome’s most prestigious game in my living memory. I can’t wait to attend that match, luckily taking place on the Saturday before our visit to Everton on the Sunday.

Although modern football continues to bewilder and sadden me in equal measure, I still find the act of attending games with good friends so addictive.

You might have noticed.

There was just time for a solitary drink in the Crown Posada, deep under the bridges on the quayside at the bottom of the hill. This lovely old pub gets a visit from me every time I return. As we were supping our lagers, Led Zeppelin IV was being aired on the old-fashioned turntable on the bar.

“Stairway To Heaven” was played and it felt really incongruous. Not a football song. Not a football moment.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold.

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.”

It made me wonder if her name was Amanda Staveley.

We caught a cab to the stadium at about 2.15pm. The cabbie, from Morocco, claimed he was a Chelsea fan, but was able to reel off a few of the former players that he had met in London in the Gullit and Vialli years. And there was me thinking that it was just a ploy to get a big tip.

The stadium is so close to the city centre. I love it.

Never mind stairways to heaven, we just wanted to get our arses in the lift to the top tier. Once there, there was the usual meet and greet with a few familiar faces in the bar areas. As we walked into the top tier with ten minutes to go the kick-off – perfect timing – the pounding “Blitzkrieg Bop” by The Ramones provided a fine accompaniment.

If this was heaven, I was happy.

Next up, “Blaydon Races” boomed out.

This took me back to 1974. I can well remember my father teaching me the words to this well-known Geordie song, no doubt during the time leading up to that very first game. It would have been further engrained in my memory bank by the time Newcastle United played in the 1974 FA Cup Final two months later.

“Gannin alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

I shook hands with Alan and Gal. No John on this occasion. We were in the third row, just wide of the goal.

The familiar view, more familiar for me now. This was my fifteenth visit to this stadium and I looked south to the high land of Gateshead, Felling to the left, with Low Fell just about visible between the towering roofs of the Gallowgate and the Milburn Stand – no, not the railway line – and a church spire right at the top of the hill. I have had some good times here. Julie and I are sadly not an item anymore, but a thought about her too. With that, the PA boomed with “Going Home : Theme Of The Local Hero” – and I turned to Paul and said –

“Some city this.”

I will admit, I was a bit emotional.

Fackinell.

A massive flag crowd-surfed in the lower tier below me as the two teams appeared.

Back in March 1974, the visitors to Stamford Bridge memorably wore hooped socks. They have chosen white ones this season, so we were forced into wearing blue ones.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Fernandez – Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

Time to think about the game. I had previously mentioned that after four goals against Tottenham and City, were we in line for four more against the Geordies? I was of course joking. This would be a tough one. We agreed that a draw would be fine. But – a big but – a win would be seismic.

The game began.

They attacked us, the old Leazes End. We attacked the Gallowgate.

It was a busy, lively first five minutes. I was keen to find positive signs to assuage any fears of a poor performance. I continue to live in hope. There was a shot from Conor Gallagher – wide, no Hughie incarnate – and we traded a few punches with the home team. Every time the recalled Benoit Badiashile touched the ball, his song cascaded down the terraces from behind me.

“In a Lamborghini…”

It was a decent start, but on thirteen minutes a ball was threaded through for a Newcastle United player to tap home. In my mind, the scorer was offside. I expected the lino’s flag to be raised. I waited in vain. There was no flag, no VAR decision. We were 1-0 down. The goal scorer was Alexander Isak. It was, I believe, their first effort of the game. The home crowd had been pretty quiet but now they found their voices.

We tried to find spaces and Raheem Sterling was particularly busy. After one advance down the left, he was fouled just outside the “D” by Kieran Trippier. I settled my nerves to time a photograph as he shot. The ball dipped over the wall and the Toon ‘keeper Nick Pope did not move. The ball nestled into the goal.

A guttural “YES” from me and a clench of both fists. The scorer ran away to a corner, and team mates joined in. He was booed for the rest of the first-half.

It developed into a decent half. I disliked the way that Cucarella was often exposed with a wide man often in space. But Cucarella seemed to be trying his best, full of endeavour, I could not fault that. The man from Brighton, though, never ever seems to make a regular bog-standard block tackle. The bloke is forever scurrying after people.

I thought Cole Palmer was having a quiet game.

I caught a terrible miss from Joelinton at the far post on film. The goal was gaping. He really should have done better.

The best move of the match followed, the ball pushed one way and then the other, with Reece James eventually setting up Enzo who sadly shot too close to goal and Pope tipped it over. Later, a terribly weak effort from Gallagher with his left foot was scuffed past the post. I could see Hughie Gallacher pointing at the goal and shouting in rage.

Just before the break, a Trippier free-kick touched the top of the bar.

It had been a decent enough half.

The night began to fall during the break. And as the second-half began, the temperature fell too. There are safe-standing barriers throughout the away section in the Leazes now, but the trick on an afternoon like this was to avoid touching the exposed metal. Hands were stuffed deep inside pockets. My camera was used sparingly.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. It sadly dawned on me that we were not in this now. The second-half was being punctuated by free-kicks and there was little flow. What football that there was came from the home team despite very little backing from the home support.

On the hour, a cross from James Gordon – a very fine cross, it has to be said – was met by a free-header from Jamaal Lascelles, who firmly planted the ball wide of Robert Sanchez.

Now the bloody Geordies sung.

“E I E I E I O – Up the Premier League we go.”

Not a minute later, Thiago Silva slipped, Joelinton pick-pocketed him, and easily struck the ball past Sanchez.

Silence in my head. Silence in our end.

St. James’ Park was in heaven now.

The noise was deafening. I wondered what the visitors from Minneapolis thought of the noise, the city, the whole buzz.

Sadly, many Chelsea left.

“Thanks then.”

A triple substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher

Armando Broja for Jackson

Moises Caicedo for Ugochukwu

While I found myself looking back at the faces of a few familiar supporters in the rows alongside me and behind me, I missed the foul by James that resulted in a second yellow.

Silence in my head again.

Numb.

Levi Colwill for Palmer.

Mudryk had a couple of runs from deep but typically ran out of gas and ideas.

On eighty-three minutes, with the spritely Gordon running at full pelt, I uttered the immortal line.

“Don’t let him come inside.”

At that exact moment, he came inside. His low shot was perfectly placed beyond the despairing dive of Sanchez. There’s that fourth goal.

Fackinell.

Newcastle United 4 Chelsea 1.

Noni Madueke replaced Sterling.

The game ended. It was cold now. A few handshakes. A few nods. Not good Chelsea. Not good at all.

“Terrible second-half.”

This was the worst Chelsea defeat that I had ever seen at St. James Park. The worst in our history was a 5-0 reverse in October 1974. Ah, back to 1974 again. Perhaps I had best stop talking about it. We made our way down to street level. There had been no stairway to heaven on this visit to Tyneside. Not for us anyway. We walked down Barrack Road outside the glass and steel of the Milburn Stand, then stopped by for a cheeseburger with onions at a stand outside the Gallowgate.

We walked all of the way down, through the Bigg Market – a few locals wished us well, “have a good night lads” – finally stopping at a familiar chip shop right at the bottom of the hill.

While The Toon was in full flow, we caught a cab back to Felling.

But there will be another time in Newcastle. Another visit. It’s a favourite city.

Next up, a home game against Brighton next Sunday.

See you there.

Tales From The Hollins Suite

Posted on August 18, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 13 August 2023.

Within the final match report of last season, there were a few references to my first ever Chelsea game. Sadly, during the summer, the Chelsea family lost two players from the team that played Newcastle United on that day back in 1974. The then captain John Hollins passed away on 14 June and Chris Garland passed away on 13 July.

I often used to see John Hollins in the Millennium Hotel on match days at Chelsea as he joined up with some his former team mates before commencing their hospitality roles. He was always very pleasant, always smiling, and I easily imagined his enthusiasm in the dressing room of that fabled Chelsea team in the early ‘seventies, and then when he took over the captaincy from Ron Harris a little later. In that Chelsea team of yore, Hollins was an integral part, alongside perhaps more vaunted names such as Osgood, Hudson, Cooke and Bonetti. I remembered him as a busy midfielder who weighed in with a fair share of goals. In the second ever game that I saw, at home to Tottenham later in 1974, it was his penalty that gave us a narrow 1-0 win.

After relegation in 1975, Holly joined QPR and then Arsenal. It was a big surprise when he returned, aged thirty-seven, in 1983 to add experience to a re-vamped Chelsea team seeking improvement after a dicey flirtation with relegation in 1982/83. His professionalism and personality surely helped that team gain promotion. The 1983/84 is still my favourite ever season and it needs no further explanation nor qualification.

If you were there, like me, you’ll know.

Taking over from John Neal as manager in 1985, Hollins was in charge for the next two-and-a-half seasons, but his skills as manager, rather than as a coach to Neal, were exposed. He was unceremoniously sacked in March 1988.

His one solitary England cap seems unfair and ridiculous. He was an engine in our 1970 and 1971 cup-winning teams and he was a bloody nice man to boot. John Hollins had been in poor health for a few years but still occasionally made trips to Chelsea on match days. He is fifth on the all-time list of appearances and he will always be a legend in my eyes.

Chris Garland joined Chelsea in 1971 just after the Real Madrid cup win and he was an integral part of the first Chelsea team that I can remember watching on TV, alongside a few of the newer signings such as Steve Kember and Bill Garner. It would be easy to say that these were lesser players compared to the golden era, but that would be doing them all a disservice. Garland in particular was an honest and hard-working player, mainly deployed as a wide attacker. As a young boy falling in love with my team, they were all heroes to me. He was transferred on to Leicester City in late 1974 so his part of my Chelsea story was relatively fleeting. He would return, latterly, to Bristol City – a local team to me, my closest league team in fact – and he would go down in City folklore as one of the “Ashton Gate Eight” who tore up their contracts to save the club in 1982. He had been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease for such a long time.

Of that team from 16 March 1974, five players have now sadly passed away; John Phillips, John Hollins, Chris Garland, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson.

May God bless them all.

That gap between the last game of 2022/23 against Newcastle United and the first game of 2023/24 against Liverpool was just eleven weeks. It was almost a “football-free” time for me. There was no trip abroad to watch Chelsea in the US this year. I used to enjoy those expeditions a while ago, but they’re not for me anymore. I only really saw a few bits from the first game – the ludicrous match against Wrexham – and that just about turned my stomach; everybody sat, no singing, a flat atmosphere, and what seemed to be thousands of American couples out on some sort of bizarre “date night.”

Strangely, on a birthday flit up to the North-East in early July, I had been out drinking with my Everton mate Chris – a lovely long session of us putting the footballing world to rights – when we were joined at the last minute by Skoot, the singer from Declan Swans, a Wrexham-based band who regularly appeared in the Wrexham TV Show.

The “Wrexham TV Show”? Yeah, I know. It would never have happened in 1983.

For days after I had “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” invading my brain.

“Less than a mile from the centre of town a famous old stadium crumbling down.”

There were two Frome Town friendlies – live football is my drug – to pass the time; a keenly-contested 1-1 draw at Dorchester Town, a narrow 0-1 loss at home to Weston-Super-Mare.

My Frome Town mate Fordy, who now works opposite me in the same transport office, reported back on an evening match involving his team Arsenal against AS Monaco at The Emirates. The whole shooting match left him bitterly disappointed and underwhelmed with the whole modern-day football experience.

As the game began, the youth next to him uttered the immortal words : “it’s just like watching FIFA, innit?”

God only knows what I would have said if I had been there.

Fordy was just repulsed by everyone slagging off the Arsenal players and offering virtually no encouragement.

“I know mate. Everyone is a fucking critic these days.”

As the opening game of the new season approached, I found it difficult to keep up with the ins and outs at our beloved club. The “Supermarket Sweep” of the winter transfer window had continued, but with the added fascination of waving goodbye to a host of players who had been – mainly – underperforming for months.

Mason Mount – off you go, you little twerp.

Kai Havertz – thanks for Porto, yeah I know you’re not a false nine, but I grew tired of your lack of effort and your bleak and unsmiling high-cheek boned expression.

N’Golo Kante – I loved you then, I loved you now, safe travels you absolute treasure.

Kalidou Koulibaly – off you go.

Christian Pulisic – Captain America, my arse.

Mateo Kovacic – I liked you until I didn’t, good luck on the City bench.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – ah, so much potential, but it never worked out after that injury, good luck.

Edouard Mendy – you were like a curate’s egg, my friend, but thanks for Porto and Abu Dhabi. On you go.

Piere-Emerick Aubameyang – who?

Cesar Azpilicueta – Dave, we loved you, and you will always be one of us.

As for the incoming players, time will tell. I have never heard of most of them. But I’ll get to know them over time. I wish them all well.

The overhaul, in fact, reminded me so much of the summer of 1983. I am not so sure that the spending spree of 2023 will be remembered so fondly, but we live in hope.

During the last week of the close-season, my plans for the opener against Liverpool dramatically changed.

Garrett’s Story.

A friend from Tennessee – Garrett – was coming over for his first-ever game at HQ. He had asked me during the summer if I could get him a ticket, but – as it was going to be his first match – I didn’t want to take the risk. I would have felt awful if I couldn’t conjure up a ticket from somewhere. Unfortunately, the US supporter groups’ deadline had come and gone so Garrett was forced to go down the hospitality route.

“Oh bloody hell. Please don’t tell me how much you paid for a ticket.”

We made plans on meeting up. I have never met Garrett in person but he was a fan of the blog and was looking forward immensely to meeting up with the lads that he reads about each week.

Then, a horrible twist. Garrett was hit with a nasty medical condition and couldn’t travel. He immediately cancelled his flight and hotel, but decided to give me his ticket. I was dumbfounded. My mate Glenn – previously unable to find himself a ticket – would have mine and I would watch the game from the middle tier of the West Stand.

On the Saturday, I watched the first Frome Town league game of the season, a dour 0-0 with newly promoted side Cribbs from Bristol; it was red versus blue, the Frome Bloods versus the Bristol Cribbs, boom boom.

Later that day, Garrett was re-admitted to hospital and I wished him well.

The new season was now breathtakingly close.

On the day of the game, I picked-up Parky at PD’s house and then Glenn; all three had been to see a ska band at a local venue the night before. The last of the passengers – he played in that first-ever game in 1974 – was collected at 8am and we were on our way. During the close season, there had been an internet campaign to get a flag for Chopper in The Shed, and the game against Liverpool would mark its debut. T-shirts were produced using the same design and Glenn was sporting it.

It was a perfect trip to London.

The pre-match was typical; a few photos of a waiting Stamford Bridge, then a short hop to Putney Bridge tube and a couple of hours with the usual suspects; The Chuckle Brothers, Salisbury Steve, the Kent Lot, and a guest appearance from the Three Amigos.

All was good with the world.

Almost.

Stephen’s Story.

“Stephen had not enjoyed most of his school year. He had struggled in the autumn and then spring term. He did not know why, but he had been the target for a few of the school bullies. His school work suffered. His parents, Dale and Jane, were so worried about him. Stephen was fourteen, and was on the often troublesome journey through the early teenage years. He was a quiet kid, well-behaved at home, but a little bit of a loner at school. Mac was his best friend, and a fellow Chelsea supporter too. They were like brothers.

At Easter, Stephen’s parents sought some independent counselling for their son, and during the summer term, everyone was elated to see Stephen’s schoolwork improve. In the exams in June, Stephen did well, better than expected.

Dale, decided to reward Stephen with something that he knew that his son would appreciate. One evening when Mac was visiting, Dale sat them both down and talked of a nice surprise. Dale knew how much the two boys loved Chelsea Football Club. By an odd twist, both of the boys’ birthdays were in the same week. Dale explained how proud he was of Stephen’s progress over the past few months, and thanked Mac for his support and friendship too. He had looked ahead to check what Chelsea game was being played around the time of the lads’ fifteenth birthdays in October. Dale was going to buy the lads a ticket apiece for the Chelsea vs. Brentford game.

It would be their first games at Stamford Bridge. Dale had quietly observed the two of them over the past few months and had been impressed with their behaviour. They seemed, to his eyes, more grown up than their peers. Living in Croydon, Dale was sure that they could make their own way in to London by train. He remembered how he used to love going in to London to see bands at around the same age in his youth.

Stephen was overjoyed and gave his father a hug. Mac was lost for words.”

Unfortunately, there will be no Chelsea game for Stephen and Mac. The club took the ludicrous decision over the summer to limit those under sixteen to only be allowed inside Stamford Bridge if they are accompanied by adults over the age of eighteen. We chatted about this in the pub. It’s a horrible, cynical decision.

“When you are in your early teens, you are so keen to dip your toe in the adult world, to test yourself, to grow as a person, be independent. Or at least we did. When I was in my early teens, it was all about football, all about trying to get to a game, either with parents or by yourself, or with mates. It’s one of our rights of passage in Britain. That visceral thrill of doing something a little outside your comfort zone. To join in with something. To be part of it all. To feel like you belong.”

Have I ever mentioned before how I hate modern football?

Glenn spoke of his first game that he saw by himself. It was early September 1981. Chelsea versus Watford. He was just fourteen. I think he travelled up by train from Frome. I remember where I was that afternoon; at an aunt’s wedding, and I remember darting out to my Dad’s car at 4.40pm to hear we had lost 1-3.

The first game I attended alone? August 1981, aged sixteen, a 2-0 win versus Bolton Wanderers.

You remember these things.

You – and Chelsea – against the world.

Priceless memories.

At 2pm, I set off from the pub and took the tube back to Fulham Broadway. By 2.30pm, I was sat at table 44 in the Hollins Suite in the West Stand at Stamford Bridge. How utterly appropriate that I should be in the Hollins Suite. It felt just right.

On the same table as me was Jeff, an Australian from Melbourne, with his two young sons, both wearing half-and-half scarves. They were all Liverpool fans. Alongside me were three quietly spoken people who were clearly of far-Eastern descent. I smiled and I tentatively leaned in.

“Hi, I’m Chris. Where are you from?”

“Colchester.”

They were Chelsea fans.

Completing the table was Dave from King’s Langley, a Watford season ticket holder, who had won the match ticket in a raffle at a London train station. I kept them entertained with a few Chelsea stories. Bizarrely, Dave mentioned that John Barnes’ full debut for Watford was at the game Glenn saw in 1981.

The food was proper poncy stuff. It tasted lovely but didn’t fill me up. I include the photos almost ironically.

There were a few nice “never-seen-before” photos of John Hollins, and a section remembering his stewardship of our 1986 Full Members’ Cup win against Manchester City.

[…new fans Googling “Full Members’ Cup…NOW]

It was, I have to admit, all very pleasant, but absolutely not worth the price.

[…everyone Googling “Chelsea Corporate Hospitality”…NOW]

I checked the programme; up from £3.50 to £4 but down from 84 pages to 52.

Righty-oh.

At least my copy was free.

At about 2.10pm, I made my way into the – padded – seats. I was at the very back row, around eight seats from the wall abutting the Matthew Harding. As the crow flies, Glenn, Clive, Alan and PD were around twenty yards away but I could not see them, nor them me.

My view was a little odd, with the overhang of the next tier cutting out the sky. I couldn’t even see the new signage atop the East Stand nor ol’ Gatling Gun himself.

But this was fine. This was a decent experience. I spotted my lunchtime companions a few rows in front. I had been sharing photos with Garrett throughout the day. I wanted to keep him involved.

I needed to focus now. The view was superb. I ran through the team that Mauricio Pochettino – I am not comfortable with “Poch” just yet, in the same way I was never happy with “Mou” – had selected for his first game :

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

James – Gallagher – Enzo – Chilwell

Chukwuemeka

Sterling – Jackson

…or something like that.

I was probably the only person in the ground, or the entire fucking world, who spotted three members of the Scottish “Wembley Wizards” team who defeated England 5-1 in 1928.

Hughie Gallacher / Conor Gallagher

Alex Jackson / Nicolas Jackson

Alex James / Reece James

[…everyone Googling “Wembley Wizards”…nah, maybe not]

At the Derby game in 1983, we had four debutants; Kerry Dixon, Joe McLaughlin, Eddie Niedzwiecki, Nigel Spackman.

On opening day forty years later, we also had four; Robert Sanchez, Axel Disasi, Levi Colwill, Nicolas Jackson.

As the build-up was turned up a notch, a few bars of “A Town Called Malice” were heard. This is the pre-match song at Frome Town. I liked the synchronicity.

“…better stop dreaming of the quiet life.”

Indeed. When were things last quiet at Chelsea? Around 1992 I reckon.

The teams entered the pitch.

Flames on the pitch. OK, stop that now. It’s getting tedious.

The floodlights were on. In August. Why?

There has been a change in the positioning of the Chelsea bench since the back end of the last season, and one that I absolutely endorse.

Way back in January 2021 – the Luton Town cup tie, Frank Lampard’s last game – I posted this on Facebook :

“Often thought it odd that the away bench has the best view of the pitch at Stamford Bridge…nearer the half-way line, better sightlines. Also with the home dressing room being on the north side of the tunnel. And what with the northern end being the home end now. Makes no sense to me.”

I was pleased to hear that the new manager spotted this flaw too and switched things over. Top marks.

However, I am not quite so sure about the twenty or so ultra-expensive seats – from £480 – in the new “dugout club” that allows some fans – presumably those with more money than sense – to watch the game from just behind both dugouts. It reeks of baseball and the need for spectators in the US to boast about “great seats” ad nauseam. Twats.

I remember watching one game – only one – from behind a dugout. Back in 1994, our first European game since 1971…I left getting tickets to the last minute, I know not why. Glenn and I watched right behind the Chelsea bench…it was a shocking view. I always remember that the God-fearing Glenn Hoddle saw a Chelsea near-miss, swung around towards the bench and said “Jesus wept.”

Tut tut.

At the centre circle, a minute of applause for John Hollins MBE.

Bless him. And bless Chris Garland too.

Game 1 – 1974.

Game 1,401 – 2023.

Let’s go to work.

Liverpool undoubtedly had the best of the opening spell, of the first twenty and then thirty minutes perhaps. Shots from Jota and Szoboszlai – who? – were pinged towards Robert Sanchez, newly obtained from Brighton, who must now be truly trained in the Chelsea negotiation process, and an effort from Salah smashed against the bar. These were worrying times and I thought Levi Colwill struggled in the first part of the match.

The atmosphere wasn’t great.

“Fields Of Anfield Road” could be heard from the away section opposite me.

The new kit looked decent. I was initially worried when I saw the release on social media; the blue looked too light, too washed out, anaemic. But this looked fine. I really wished that the white stripe under the arms was replicated on the shorts though. That would have completed the look in my mind. I don’t like the bizarre panel on the rear beneath the collar though.

One last gripe. If this shirt was meant to celebrate the silver anniversary of the ECWC triumph of 1997/98, it’s surely a season too late.

Should we not have worn this kit in 2022/23?

I think so.

On eighteen minutes, Salah pushed a ball through our back line and Luis Diaz finished from close in.

Bollocks.

A female Liverpool in front of me shrieked and stood up. Her bloke soon told her to sit down. To be honest, I was pleasantly surprised how involved the “corporate lot” were in our section. There was plenty of clapping and cheering throughout.

Chelsea began to grow into the game. Nicolas Jackson started to get involved, often emerging with the ball from deep, and after good work by Levi Colwill, he fired a “sighter” wide.

Not sure how he wears his shorts, though; like a “Reeves & Mortimer” character maybe.

A “Carefree” sounded in our section.

Things looked over for us when Terence Trent-Alexander-Arnold-D’arby slipped a ball in to that man Salah.

Pre-match, with so many new signings, I secretly thought we might lose heavily.

I texted some mates in the US : “knew we’d get humped.”

Thankfully, VAR came to our rescue; no goal.

I still don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour though. Why would I? I loathe it.

On thirty-two minutes, applause in memory of Josh Hillier, a very distant Chelsea acquaintance, but who was well-loved at Chelsea. He sadly lost his lengthy and hugely brave fight with leukaemia over the summer.

RIP Josh.

Raheem Sterling was – sadly – involved a lot, but usually unable to add to the game. He shot from close in but the effort was thumped away.

After a corner, the ball was eventually crossed in by Colwill and new boy Axel Disasi prodded it in past Alisson Becker.

We were level.

Get in.

The West Stand celebrated wildly.

Axel – great name, great first two letters especially – ran and jumped right in front of Parky and Ludo and Steve in the Shed Lower.

A mere few seconds later, a ball was pushed through to Ben Chilwell who steered himself and the ball around the ‘keeper to score…throughout the move though, I wondered if the scorer was offside. Sadly, after the usual ridiculous wait, the goal as cancelled. A photo that I took of the premature celebrations contained the words “goal and no” – oh the irony.

In the closing minutes, shots were traded. A fine move that slid effortlessly through the red ranks ended with a shot from Nicolas Jackson that just cleared the bar.

I had enjoyed it. Back inside for the smallest meat pie ever. Jeff commented that the momentum had changed in the last part of the first period.

We were, of course, attacking our end in the second-half.

The second period surprised me. Liverpool seemed content to sit back as Chelsea grew and grew. It became a deeply pleasurable experience, watching this new team – the latest in a long line of new teams at Chelsea – push the ball around and work for each other. I was especially pleased to see Enzo Fernandez, in the totemic number eight shirt, skipping past challenges, clipping balls to runners, controlling our forward momentum.

It was a joy.

The Argentinian tandem of Pochettino and Enzo will hopefully evolve further.

Chilwell was having a super game, and the visitors were gifting him so much space down below me. A superb ball from Enzo set Chilwell up but Alisson blocked well at the near stick.

A shot from the strong and surging Jackson. Another save from Alisson.

Some substitutions.

75 minutes : Malo Gusto for James.

Malo Gusto.

My mind deviated. I could not stop thinking of the Morrissey song “Maladjusted” – and as per the introduction to this blog, I can’t resist this…

“I want to start from
Before the beginning
Loot wine, “Be mine, and
Then let’s stay out for the night”
Ride via Parkside
Semi-perilous lives
Jeer the lights in the windows
Of all safe and stable homes
(But wondering then, well what
Could peace of mind be like?)
Anyway do you want to hear
Our story, or not?
As the Fulham Road lights
Stretch and invite into the night.”

80 minutes : Ian Maatsen for Chukwuemeka.

80 minutes : Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling.

Mudryk wearing number ten, but a winger. Memories of Clive Walker dancing away. I liked the look of Mudryk when he came on. Personally I would play him over Sterling. Mind you, I’d play Parky over Sterling, stick and all.

89 minutes : Ugo Ugochukwu for Chilwell.

I long for the day when Carney and Ugo are on the pitch at the same time.

The Chukle Brothers?

Oh yes. I wonder if Morrissey has a song for them.

I feared the absolute worst when Darwin Nunez shot from distance and a wicked deflection saw the ball spinning towards the goal, scene of many a late winner over the years. Thankfully it dropped just wide of the far post. No Iniesta moment this time.

A chance for Mudryk but he dallied. A last chance for Maatsen but no real contact.

It ended 1-1.

I think everyone was really warmed by this rounded performance by Chelsea against a formidable opponent. This was our seventh draw in a row against Liverpool.

Before the season began, I conservatively predicted a top eight finish.

Maybe we can aim a little higher.

Next up, three away games.

Bemerton Heath Harlequins in Salisbury on Tuesday, Falmouth in the FA Cup on Saturday and West Ham on Sunday.

Oh – and Johnny Fucking Marr in Frome on Wednesday.

2023/24 – let’s have you.

Tales From The First And The Last

Posted on June 3, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 28 May 2023.

A month or so ago I mentioned that Ron Hockings, one of our greatest ever supporters, celebrated his 1,400^th first team Chelsea game with our away match at Craven Cottage in April 1983. At the time, as a seventeen-year-old from Somerset, I could only dream of such ridiculous numbers of attendance. While Ron was clocking up game number 1,400, I was yet to break thirty matches. In those days, I would go to around four games each season.

But years pass, right?

Lo and behold, our last game of the 2022/23 season would be my 1,400^th Chelsea game too. As I reviewed the letter from Ron in the programme from forty years ago, I was reassured that he counted first-team friendlies in his total. As do I.

It gave my total a certain cachet of authenticity.

“Bloody hell, I am not travelling to Kuala Lumpur with Chelsea without including it in my total.”

I like it that Ron celebrated 1,400 in 1982/83, a season that I have been detailing during this campaign. And here I am celebrating 1,400 forty years later. I am not sure that I ever spoke to Ron. I may have “nodded” a hello on a few occasions, but you used to see Ron everywhere. Like Peter Kemp and Alan Bruce, they would appear wherever Chelsea were playing. I have dipped into his book “100 Years Of The Blues” to help me add to my own memories of that season and I owe him a huge pile of gratitude. From 1947 to 2006, Ron went to a grand total of 2,703 Chelsea games, a ludicrous amount. He passed away around fifteen years ago, but his books will live forever.

With a lovely touch of symmetry, game number 1,400 would be against Newcastle United, as was my very first game in 1974.

16 March 1974 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

29 May 2023 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

Perfect.

And while we are on the subject of numbers and milestones, my attendance at the game on 29 May would allow me to complete my third – and only my third – ever-present league campaign of Chelsea matches.

2008/09 : 38/38

2015/16 : 38/38

2022/23 : 38/38

As my friend Ian would point out, a pattern has emerged here. Is my need to attend all the league games a seven-year itch? Is my next ever-present season due in 2029/30 when I will be – gulp – sixty-four? No, it’s just a product of being able, or not, to get to as many as I can. There is no plan.

I can’t really explain all this. But ever since that first game almost fifty years ago, I just love going to Chelsea matches. At the start, it was all about the players. Seeing my heroes play. Then, over time, I fell in love with the routine of attending games, the camaraderie, the laughs. Now, that is more important than the football.

“Which is just as bloody well after this season” I hear you all joking.

Well, I’ve seen worse, as my chronicles of 1982/83 prove.

This season hasn’t been the worst in our history, but at times it has felt the most disjointed, disappointing, under-achieving and – crucially – the least enjoyable.

It’s a shame that this accolade is bestowed by myself on 2023/24, my fiftieth consecutive season of match-going support for the club.

We can’t really class that as an honour can we?

The pre-match routine for the final game of this tortuous season followed the usual lines. Once I had walked down to Stamford Bridge with Ron – he played in Game #1 of course – it was lovely that my friend Kathryn and I managed to sort out a photo that would include four players from the 1982/83 season; Colin Pates, Paul Canoville, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers, plus Rodders thrown in for good measure. Kathryn and I then decamped to “The Eight Bells” via a stop at “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and we spent a decent hour or so with the two Glenns, Salisbury Steve and the Kent Lot.

The pub was bouncing with laughs and giggles; an outsider would find it hard to believe that we had all been following such a poor team over the past ten long months.

Inside “The Eight Bells”, there was a poignant moment for a few of us too. The Chelsea match-going family had recently been saddened by the death of a friend, Ian Oliver, who we had last seen in “The Eight Bells” before a game at Chelsea around six weeks ago. Ian was one of those chaps that you always bumped into at Chelsea, usually in “The Goose” but other pubs too. His was a face that I recognised from decades ago. And Ian was one of those rare Chelsea fans that lived locally, in Fulham, along with just a handful of other fans in my circle. I am pretty sure that his sister worked at “Chubby’s Grill” on match days, a hot dog van that was part of the furniture for years. Ian had recently gone to the gym and I commented to him during that last time in the pub that he had lost some weight and was looking good, bless him.

Ian – “Elvis” – will undoubtedly be missed by all of his Chelsea friends.

Rest In Peace.

As we left the pub, two female away fans sauntered past and one of them noisily remarked :

“Oh, youse have had a shite season, eh?”

“No need for that, is there?” I replied.

Indeed, there was a noisy bunch of Newcastle United fans, who had been drinking in Putney and close to our pub in Fulham, alongside us on the tube journey up to Fulham Broadway. A few were in fancy dress. There had been a few boats containing away fans alighting at Putney and I got the feeling that this was the happiest that the Geordies had been at a game at Chelsea since the days of Kevin Keegan as their manager.

To be fair, Eddie Howe has had a fine season up on Tyneside and all of us look forward to visiting the area again next season, as always a favourite away destination.

Elsewhere, three teams were fighting off relegation; two of Everton, Leeds United and Leicester City would join Southampton in a final relegation place by the end of the afternoon. I know that many wanted Everton to go, but not me. From a purely selfish reason, I wanted to be able to plan, visit and appreciate one last away day at Goodison Park at some stage in 2023/24 before they decamp to their new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock in 2024. It has been my favourite away ground for ages. I hoped for a win for them at home to Bournemouth.

On the Saturday, we had learned that Luton Town would be joining Burnley and Sheffield United in the top flight, though I wanted Coventry City to prevail. With Luton Town, Sheffield United and Burnley in the top flight, 2023/24 was beginning to resemble 1974/75, and this sent a shiver down my spine.

I was inside Stamford Bridge with plenty of time to spare. There was a small eulogy, with a photo, of Ian Oliver in the match programme.

Before the game, trophies were handed out to Lewis Hall – Academy Player Of The Year – Conor Gallagher – Goal Of The Season, Crystal Palace away – and Thiago Silva – Player Of The Year.

Frank presented Silva with his award. Surely this was a unanimous decision. The man ought to have won it last season too.

There had been Chelsea chat on the way up to London in the car. A lot of it centered upon Frank Lampard. I remember how happy he was on his return to the club, smiling at Cobham, full of delight. Looking back, it is clear that the club that he was forced to leave in early 2021 is not the same beast that it is now. Everything seems to have changed for the worst. There is no continuity now, that “Chelsea DNA” seems to have evaporated, we are a club in disarray. With hindsight, Frank’s gamble hasn’t paid off. I wonder how difficult it will now be for him, should he really feel the need, to get back into football management after this second spell with his beloved Chelsea.

That said, it has really disappointed me that so many in the Chelsea fan base, and – alas – even in my band of match day acquaintances have almost gleefully mocked Frank Lampard in recent weeks using language that I really found hard to stomach.

No respect.

Before the game, we were reminded that the day would probably mark another “farewell” to a Chelsea great. Since signing in 2012, Cesar Azpilicueta has played over 450 games for Chelsea and I always say he is “Mister 7/10”. His legs have gone recently but nobody can doubt his spirit. Before the players appeared on the pitch, a banner with mosaics honoured Dave – I still call him Dave, you might have noticed – in The Shed.

Franks final starting eleven?

Kepa

Dave – Silva – Chalobah – Hall

Enzo – Loftus-Cheek – Gallagher

Madueke – Havertz – Sterling

Newcastle were in white shorts, and I remembered that they wore these in a 6-0 Chelsea win in 1980, but I doubted a repeat.

“Grabbing at straws, there, Chris.”

The Sleepy Hollow was ready; the Buchmann Brothers Alan and Gary – sons of lovely Joe – Glenn, Clive, Alan and little old me. Clive had treated us to hot chocolates once again before the game.

This has often felt like the longest ever season, what with the horrible World Cup break in November and December, though the COVID hit season three years ago went on even longer. It seemed like this one was never going to end, and there was a slightly surreal to the game with both teams having not a great deal to play for.

Here we go then, Chelsea…game one thousand, four hundred.

No pressure.

The travelling Toon Army were in good voice as their team edged the opening exchanges. A white flare was set off in front of their fans; that fog from the Tyne was drifting long distances. Kepa did well to save at his near post after Aleksander Isak found space in the penalty area.

In an open first few minutes, it was the away team who looked the likelier to score. Indeed, we looked stretched after ten minutes when Allan Saint-Maximin was released on their left, amid acres of space, with Dave sadly nowhere near the wide man. It was if Dave had forgotten that he was the wide defender in the back four. The ball was played outside to Elliot Anderson who drilled a low cross into that infamous “corridor of uncertainty” for Anthony Gordon, hopelessly unmarked, to pounce.

Back in 1974, Ian Hutchinson gave us a 1-0 lead on ten minutes. In 2023, the start was sadly reversed.

On fourteen minutes, a Thiago Silva effort seemed to be creeping in at the far post but Martin Dubravka clumsily pushed it out for a corner. We were clawing our way back into the game. We enjoyed some pressure with Noni Madueke looking lively at times. A deflected shot from his volley soared just over. The corners mounted up.

On twenty-seven minutes, a free-kick was awarded in a deep but central position. Everyone was expecting a cross towards the far stick, but Enzo was switched on and drilled a ball into the path of Raheem Sterling in the inside-right channel who cut in past his marker and unleashed a goal-bound shot that was deflected in by Kieran Trippier.

Phew.

Just after, Stamford Bridge was united with a stadium-wide chant for the first time.

I looked around and, despite our rotten – by our standards – season, there were not many empty seats in the stadium. This has to be a good sign. This augurs well for the future.

Madueke, a teasing threat down the right, then went close but a defender blocked his shot.

Just before the half-time whistle, the two ‘keepers made two fine saves. The first came from an awful, unchallenged break from Saint-Maximin who set up fan favourite Miguel Almiron, with Lewis Hall out of position, but Kepa stood up and palmed a weak effort away. Then, Dubravka clawed away an effort from Sterling, after a pin-point cross from Hall, and the follow-up was hacked away too.

As first-halves went it was “fair to middling.”

I mentioned to Ian, who sits a few rows in front, that supporting Chelsea this season has been like watching a tribute act, a poor one at that, to a once great band.

The intermission came to an end and one last forty-five minutes remained.

Wesley Fofana replaced Trevoh Chalobah.

The game continued and the first part of the second-half was neither dull nor entertaining. With Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, I was hoping for some action down below us. Elsewhere, it was advantage Leicester City, winning at home to West Ham United but I fully expected Everton to nab a winner. Leeds were losing at home to Tottenham and were dead and buried.

We were having the majority of the ball now, but were unable to do much with it. The game was in danger of fizzling out.

A Madueke effort, after a shimmy inside, curled high over the framework of the goal.

We heard that Everton had scored.

On the hour, some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Loftus-Cheek.

There was a slow walk to the touch-line from Ruben, and he applauded the fans who were applauding him. Undoubtedly, this was his final game in Chelsea blue. I first saw Ruben, aged just seventeen, at a friendly in New York against Manchester City in May 2013 and he has been on the periphery of our first team ever since. We have waited in vain for his early promise to blossom – his injury in a superfluous friendly in Boston in 2019 was cruel in the extreme – and it is hard to believe that he has played ten times for England. His play confused me and often irritated me. I longed for him to show more urgency in his play and in himself. He will move on, but I don’t think he will improve in the next five years; a shame.

Joao Felix for Kai Havertz.

Havertz’ play irritates me too, but that’s another story.

On sixty-four minutes, an over hit cross luckily found Hall, but he in turn over hit the shot.

Good work from Carney and Hall set up a chance, close in, for Sterling but he blasted wildly over.

I was convinced that we’d win this.

“COME ON CHELS.”

An old favourite was aired, which I adapted to my own styling.

“Fabregas is magic.

He wears a magic hat.

He could’ve signed for Arsenal.

But he said ‘no, fuck that’.

He passes with his left foot.

He passes with his right.

And when we win the league again.

I’ll be ninety-seven.”

On seventy minutes, Mateo Kovacic replaced Conor Gallagher.

We still dominated possession.

There were Shots from Felix and Enzo but these did not really threaten Dubravka.

One excellent move lit up the final part of the game. A high ball by Enzo out to Hall was delightfully flicked on to Madueke, who hunted down a defender and passed back to Carney, who in turn set up Sterling. His shot was destined to be going in, I thought, but was deflected wide. I stood up and scowled at everyone behind me.

There was a VAR review for a possible handball but nothing was given.

A cross from Maduele and a slide from Felix; just wide. A shimmying run from Madueke – he has had a good few games – but a weak shot signalled his last participation. He was replaced by the forgotten man Christian Pulisic, who struck poorly at Dubravka. Our chances were coming thick and fast now, as if the painful season-long constipation in front of goal had been suddenly relieved by a powerful laxative. A Felix free-kick flew wide.

A beautiful move then saw a perfect cross from Hall pick out the jump from Felix. His body contorted wonderfully to allow a fine header, but the effort flew just over.

It was a surprising end to our season; and yet, not.

Tons of chances; no goal scorer.

Right at the death, a loud and resounding chant of “Super Frank” enveloped the whole stadium. We couldn’t say goodbye to him properly in 2014 nor 2021 with a proper “Franksgiving” send-off, so this was better, though far from ideal in lieu of the unconvincing end to his second spell as manager.

The game ended 1-1.

Elsewhere, Everton stayed up.

I suspected that Frank would be happy about that.

We had spoken about the risk of a “lap of honour” on the way up in the car. Usually, at the end of far more successful seasons, players disappear and then come back on to the pitch. My view was that it would be better for the players to stay on the pitch at the final whistle, because if they went off for even five minutes, not many Chelsea fans would be left.

They played it right, just like I had hoped for.

The Newcastle team went over to thank their fans, then the Chelsea squad walked slowly in front of The Shed End and Parkyville specifically – where Kathryn was spotted ten seats away from Parky – before slowly marching towards us in the Matthew Harding.

“Azpilicueta. We’ll just call you Dave.”

Bizarrely, I only focused on Frank – in a navy tracksuit – quite late on. My eyes must have been on others, and his final farewell was relatively subdued. There were no smiles on Frank’s face, nor did I expect any. This had been a tough two months at the end of a tough season and a tough fifteen months for Chelsea Football Club.

N’Golo Kante and Mason Mount were reduced to throwing small footballs into the crowd; I wondered if we would see these two players next season. N’Golo has been wonderful for us since 2016, but we are all concerned about his recent injuries. But oh what a player, what a person, and what a smile. Mason has endured a frustrating time since Porto. I will not be surprised if he decides to move on. Let’s see what happens.

The season has ended, and it has been such a tough watch. Looking back, the highlights were undoubtedly the three Champions League trips to Milan, via Turin, to Salzburg, via Nurnburg, and to Dortmund, via Brussels. I really enjoyed them. Outside of those, there has been little, and not even a win against Tottenham. Yes, it has been that bad. The football itself, from day one at Goodison, has been dire and I have found it difficult to get emotionally close to any of our players.

I admire Thiago Silva though. I like Enzo. I am thankful for Dave’s service. I worry about Reece. Let’s get a striker and we’ll see what develops.

I took my time leaving the Matthew Harding. Outside, I took one final photo of other fans walking down the last flight of steps, now adorned with “CFC”, and I am using it now as a closing photo, and end point, for this season.

I will pair it up with the very first photo that I took this season, previously unshared anywhere, and I repeat here the story that I told way back in August

“I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.

Snap.

On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.

Splat.

The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.

The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.

One photo taken and carnage.”

I should have known, then, that this was going to be a tough old season.

From Goodison Park, and Bramley Moore Dock, to Stamford Bridge – from first to last.

One final word. I have enjoyed recapturing the feelings that I had for Chelsea in 1982/83 throughout this campaign. It has been a ten-month dip into my youth. I have re-read diaries, checked old programmes, researched on-line and devoured Ron Hockings’ books. To be honest, it’s almost as if I knew that this current season was going to be – er – “troublesome” and that I needed a historical counterbalance to the turmoil of 2022/23.

“Was 2022/23 bad? Oh yes. But you should have lived through 1982/83.”

One thing made me smart though. I noticed that in my diaries, I usually referred to Chelsea as “they” which really surprised me. I am always chastising Chelsea fans for referring to Chelsea as “they” and “them” rather than “we” and “us” for reasons that I hope are clear.

We are one of the same.

Yet, forty years ago, I too was referring to Chelsea as a separate entity. Fear not, I am sure that this was soon to change. After all, 1983/84 was just around the corner, and that was my team.

And we will be Chelsea forever.

See you in August.

Before Game 1,400

Game 1,400

After Game 1,400

1982/83 & 2022/23

The First And The Last

The First And The Last

The First

The Last

The 1,400 Games

1973/74 : 1

1974/75 : 2

1975/76 : 4

1976/77 : 3

1977/78 : 2

1978/79 : 2

1979/80 : 3

1980/81 : 2

1981/82 : 4

1982/83 : 4

1983/84 : 11

1984/85 : 22

1985/86 : 22

1986/87 : 20

1987/88 : 15

1988/89 : 15

1989/90 : 2

1990/91 : 10

1991/92 : 14

1992/93 : 10

1993/94 : 15

1994/95 : 29

1995/96 : 31

1996/97 : 33

1997/98 : 35

1998/99 : 30

1999/00 : 38

2000/01 : 27

2001/02 : 29

2002/03 : 31

2003/04 : 31

2004/05 : 44

2005/06 : 40

2006/07 : 51

2007/08 : 55

2008/09 : 54

2009/10 : 51

2010/11 : 44

2011/12 : 58

2012/13 : 57

2013/14 : 47

2014/15 : 42

2015/16 : 55

2016/17 : 47

2017/18 : 56

2018/19 : 56

2019/20 : 41

2020/21 : 2

2022/23 : 55

2023/24 : 47

Tales From The Last One Of Seventy-Three

Posted on May 29, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Watford : 22 May 2022.

It’s pretty difficult to sum up what I wanted from this last game of the season. Such events can often be inherently strange affairs; often there is nothing to play for, nothing to fight for, and these games are invariably played out in sunshine, thus giving the matches the feel of summer friendlies, or training games.

Against Leicester City on the preceding Thursday, I had said “if I don’t see you on Sunday, have a good summer” to a few friends.

And, I suppose, this was the main raison d’etre for turning up for the visit of relegated Watford. It was important to wish friends and faces, brothers and sisters, fellow fans and fellow obsessives, the best of summers until the start of the next season. Of course, to support the team one last time is a given, right?

Maybe not.

A couple of weeks back, I spotted a few “can’t wait for this season to end” posts from near and far. There was an online altercation with a fan a few thousand miles away who even stated this before the FA Cup Final had taken place. I wasn’t having that. Talk about entitled new fans. That just about summed up our current predicament with some of our brood.

Sigh.

We are supporters. That is our name and that is who we are. Sometimes this is lost amongst the hubbub of social media chit-chat. Sometimes we take on the air of tactical geniuses, of football gurus, of experts on this and that. I am not so sure this is different now than before.

It’s just louder.

Against a backdrop of possible indifference to this last game of the season, the day certainly gave me a timely reminder of how lucky us regular match-goers are. We are incredibly lucky. We get to see our team play each week, maybe twice a week, whereas the vast majority of our global support base – pick a number, one hundred million? – will never see the team in the flesh. It’s easy to scoff at our foreign fans, too easy, but I know for a fact that many of my most cherished Chelsea friends live overseas, and their knowledge of the club and their understanding of what makes Chelsea tick is to be admired.

Some, admittedly, don’t get it.

Their loss.

This was a 4pm kick-off, but I was up early. The alarm sounded at 5.45am. I collected PD at 6.45am, then Chopper, then Parky. We stopped for a couple of breakfast rolls at “Greggs”on the A303 – thankfully the regular server, Sweet Caroline, a bloody Liverpool fan, was not in – and I was soon depositing PD and Parky outside “The Temperance” on the Fulham High Street at 9.30am. They would pop into a nearby café for a coffee before “The Eight Bells” opened up at 10am. I parked up and walked to Stamford Bridge with Chopper. We were there that early that not even Marco’s “CFCUK” stall was set up. There was a chat with Steve at his programme stall. Marco appeared and I took a photo of Marco and Chopper, knowing full well that Marco often likes to post photos of former players on match days on his various social media feeds.

Chopper and I turned left to walk into Stamford Bridge via the entrance to the West Stand. My mind back-tracked. On that exact piece of terra firma, in 1974, I had turned into Stamford Bridge with my parents for the very first time. It was another sunny day. My first game. My first walk up those terraced steps into the West Stand.

“Home.”

I have said it before, but that moment in time – over forty-eight years ago – is etched in my mind forever and ever and ever. That I was repeating it alongside Ron Harris, who played on that day – I mentioned it to him – was particularly poignant. I took a photo of a smiling Chopper with the statue of Ossie in the background.

It will probably turn out to be one of my favourite ever Chelsea photographs.

I back-tracked and caught the tube away from Stamford Bridge – always an odd sensation – and was soon in “The Eight Bells.” We were joined by friends from all over. With the help of a few accomplices, I had been able to sort out spares for a few fans from the US. I enjoyed a good, very good, “state of the nation” chat with Cal who I have known for a good few years now. I always remember seeing him on that long walk to the stadium in Munich before the game – I wasn’t sure that I shared his gung-ho enthusiasm – but also in the concourse immediately after we had all been ushered out of the Nord Kurv, the last to leave, smiles and handshakes, the best of times. We spoke, briefly, about the stresses and the madness of the Porto game too.

Memories to last a very long time.

PD and Parky were in the middle of an extended drinking sesh and the laughter was booming. Dave from Northampton called in for a drink, a couple of the US visitors called in to collect tickets, Josh from Minnesota – still here from the FA Cup Final, stranded with COVID but now able to squeeze in one extra game – was with us. Johnny Twelve and his wife Jenny called in. Andy and Sophie from Nuneaton. The Kent boys, at the bar, roaring with laughter in the background.

All the world in one place.

I loved it.

At around 3pm, we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway for the last time of the season. We encountered some Watford fans. What an odd bunch. I will leave it there. Outside the steps to the Matthew Harding, we sorted one last ticket and I made my way in.

After Leicester City not filling their 3,000 spaces on Thursday, Watford showed them up. A full three-thousand and the highest percentage of replica shirts from any team all season. Bless’em.

Over in The Shed, I spotted wires that would be used to hoist a huge banner over the heads of supporters. I was primed for that exact moment.

Jenny settled in next to me in The Sleepy Hollow. Johnny Twelve was a few seats behind. We waited for the final few moments before the game would begin. Of course, elsewhere there were a few games that would be getting our attention too.

Manchester City at home to Aston Villa. A win please, City.

Liverpool at home to Wolves. Anything you can do, Wolves, would be greatly appreciated.

Norwich City vs. Tottenham. Could they do the ultimate “Spursy” and lose, thus finishing fifth?

Down in The Shed, things were stirring.

The huge mural of current and former players, managers, catchphrases and moments was stunning. And huge. What an effort.

A critique?

Not so sure Jody Morris really deserves a place despite his iconic celebration against United in 1999 and his work with the academy.

Lovely to see Micky Greenaway featured.

Not sure why Frank Lampard and John Terry are featured twice.

Personally, I would have loved to see that famous photo of Hughie Gallacher, pointing.

Hopefully, everyone reading this can name all of the faces featured. If not, sort yourself out.

The teams entered the pitch.

Our starting eleven?

Edouard

Dave – Long John Silva – Rudi

Reece – Saul – N’Golo – Kenedy

Hakim – Kai – Mase

Kenedy was a surprise start. I noted Saul this time; it gave me a warm feeling that Al admitted that he hadn’t noticed him playing the second-half against Wolves too. We were pleased to hear that Ben might be getting a few minutes off the bench.

The game began with us attacking The Shed End. We began relatively brightly with a couple of efforts from Havertz and Saul.

Very soon into the game, we heard that Wolves were 1-0 up at Anfield.

Oh the joy.

I looked over to see Roy Hodgson, his last ever game as a manager, and alongside him the former Chelsea midfielder Ray Lewington. Seeing them on the bench reminded me of a chat that I initiated on “Facebook” during a particularly desolate spell last season.

I find it odd, with the half-way line being off-centre in relation to the tunnel and dug-outs at Stamford Bridge, that Chelsea don’t sit in the northern one since it clearly offers a better all-round view of the pitch. The current away dug out, in fact, currently sits right on the half-way line, whereas the Chelsea one is way off-centre.

This is especially strange since Chelsea have the northern changing rooms. It would make sense for them to have the northern bench too. Back in the ‘seventies, Chelsea originally had the northern dug-outs. I am not sure why it changed.

The current location of the Chelsea dugout being so off-centre has never made sense to me.

In next seasons tales, I aim to provide a thorough review of the location of soap dispensers in the Matthew Harding bogs. Stay tuned.

In the eleventh minute, a fine ball from Kenedy on the left was nicely aimed towards Kai Havertz who could not miss, unmarked and with the goal at his mercy.

I thought, perhaps, he might have been offside, the Watford defence having seemingly stopped.

We enjoyed a few more chances, but the high spot of the middle section of the first-half was a perfectly executed sliding tackle from behind by Saul, hooking the ball away nicely from a Watford player. The same player then shot from outside the box. There was a Mount header. But then Watford enjoyed a little of the play as the first-half continued. There was a save from Mendy after a rare attack on our goal.

It was far from a great game, this. Watford wilted a little and we looked tired. A few more chances came our way, the best falling to Havertz, raiding from the left but his rising shot clipped the top of the bar.

Elsewhere, Manchester City were losing 1-0 at home to Villa and Liverpool were drawing 1-1 at home to Wolves. It was still advantage City.

Although we were winning, this was mundane stuff. I wondered if we were to get our real thrills from games taking place away from SW6.

The second-half began. Soon into the game, on the forty-ninth minute, we joined in applause in remembrance of Scott Conlon, a season-ticket-holder, who had recently passed away. I had spotted a small blue and white wreath at Peter Osgood’s feet in front of the West Stand before the game. A banner was hoisted in his memory in The Shed Upper.

RIP.

Watford created a few chances in the opening part of the second forty-five and Mandy needed to be at his best to save a low shot from Joao Pedro.

We shuffled about without causing much harm. Mount was guilty of trying to dribble through a forest of legs once too often. We were a mess of miss-hit passes.

It was pretty dull stuff. I stifled some yawns.

Thomas Tuchel made some changes.

Malang Sarr for Kenedy.

Ross Barkley for Rudiger.

Rudiger was warmly applauded as he left the pitch. He has been undoubtedly outstanding for us the past eighteen months or so. And even though I was utterly impressed with his letter of goodbye – a great deal of emotion, humour and intelligence – I am not going to get overly emotional about him leaving. We made him. I wish him well. And let’s hope for a fine replacement in the summer.

Barkley injected a good burst of urgency and Ziyech attempted his trademark “cut in and shoot” once or twice.

On seventy minutes :

“God. There’s still twenty minutes’ left.”

It was almost a plea for help.

Elsewhere, grim news filtered through; City were now losing 0-2 to Villa.

FORFUCKSAKE.

We were one Liverpool goal at Anfield for this all ending horribly.

Then, crash bang wallop.

Two goals in as many minutes at City. The games were a little out of synch but on eighty-three minutes at Stamford Bridge, the noise erupted.

“COME ON CITY. COME ON CITY. COME ON CITY. COME ON CITY.”

Of the two evils, City seem quite angelic.

There was a fine shot from Barkley, but an equally fine save from Daniel Bachmann in the Watford goal.

“He did always have a fine shot on him.”

The game sparked to life, or at least three games together.

The news came through that Manchester City had gone 3-2 ahead against Aston Villa, managed – gorgeously by Steven Gerrard – and the Stamford Bridge crowd roared.

“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard. He slipped on his fucking arse. And gave it to Demba Ba. Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.”

Watford scored – I missed it, I was making notes on my mobile ‘phone – and nobody cared fucking less.

The chant continued seamlessly…

“…and gave it to Demba Ba. Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.”

Then came the loudest “Carefree” of the whole day.

Surreal. Bizarre. To the outsider quite unexplainable. To us, normal. Fuck’em.

Ben Chilwell came on for Mason Mount.

Mount was voted our player of the year. An odd choice, I think. For chunks of this season, his career has stalled. My vote would have been for Thiago Silva. Chilwell received a fine reception from us of course.

The noise was still bowling around The Bridge.

Amid all of this schadenfreude, Reece James danced and jinked just outside the box on the far side. My camera was poised…click, click, click. He “toe’d” over a perfect ball for Ross Barkley to stoop and conquer. His strong header was parried by Bachmann but its pace continued it over the line.

GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.

My immediate thoughts, as he ran and jumped towards me : “that’s one happy Evertonian.”

Phew.

Chelsea 2 Watford 1.

What a breathless end to an otherwise mundane afternoon.

Rather than stay on to see the players and the management on their lap of appreciation, I had to drive precious cargo home. I made my way over to collect Chopper outside the hotel. Everyone was staring for updates on their phones.

It was over.

In the end, Liverpool’s two late goals at Anfield were to be worthless.

What a crazy season, eh? Such highs – Belfast, Abu Dhabi, World Champions, Tottenham, always Tottenham, four times this season, the drive to Newcastle, Luton, Middlesbrough, a trip to Turin but not the result – and lows – the two domestic Wembley finals, the car ride to Norwich on the day we heard about the sanctions, the worry of it all – but a season that marked my return to football and football’s return to me.

Last season, I saw just two Chelsea games.

In 2021/22 I saw fifty-five Chelsea game.

In 2021/22 I saw eighteen Frome Town games.

Seventy-three games. I have never seen more in one football season.

I need to get out more.

As I walked under The Shed Wall, I spotted Chopper reach up to his Chelsea Football Club tie and un-do the knot. He rolled the tie up and placed it ceremoniously inside his jacket pocket.

Here’s to seeing it again in August.

Have a good summer.

Tales From Block 9 And Gate 17

Posted on March 20, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 13 March 2022.

As a pre-curser to our game at home to Newcastle United on the Sunday, I followed my local team Frome Town to Bath for a derby with Larkhall Athletic on Saturday afternoon. This was a first-time visit to Plain Ham for me and my first Frome game since just after Christmas. Larkhall play at a picturesque ground atop a hill overlooking the city, and as I settled in to cheer on the Robins on a sunny but blustery afternoon, I chatted to a couple of friends.

“It’s weird. I usually use Chelsea as a break – a getaway – from the stresses of normal life, of work, of everything. Today, I am using Frome Town as a break from Chelsea.”

The noise concerning the sanctions against Roman Abramovich and all of the associated rumours were loud and showing no signs of abating.

I fancied keeping a low profile. It felt like that I would be easy prey for a few fellow Frome supporters who followed other clubs. It felt like I was walking around with a large target on my back. In the end, I got off quite lightly. A few lads even felt sorry for the predicament of us Chelsea fans; how we were getting punished for the sins of others. The game was a poor one; a 0-0 draw but we improved our lot as the team below us, Cirencester Town, lost. Our lead at the top of the Southern League Division One South was extended to two points.

On the Sunday morning, I awoke early with a classic, if not slightly uncomfortable, match day ahead of me.

The football Gods had shone on me favourably. My first-ever Chelsea game was way back in 1974 against Newcastle United, and by a nice quirk of fate, the actual forty-eighth anniversary was out by just three days.

Game 1 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle, Saturday 16 March 1974.

Game 1,340 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, Sunday 13 March 2022.

That Ron Harris was again joining Paul, Parky and myself on the trip to London made it all a bit sweeter. We were away by just after 7.15am for the 2pm kick-off at Stamford Bridge. I soon explained to Ron about the lovely synchronicity of the two games. In the programme from that first game, Ron was originally due to miss out in favour of young John Sparrow at left-back, who had debuted the previous Wednesday afternoon – the days of fuel shortages and the three-day week – against Burnley, but I memorably crossed his name out and replaced it with Chopper’s name. Ron was keen to see how the current Chelsea supporters were going to react to the news of the sanctions, the selling of the club, the whole nine yards. I was hoping that everyone would be respectful of our delicate position. To be honest, I wanted the game to pass with as little negative noise as possible.

As I drove through the Wiltshire village of Tilshead on Salisbury Plain, six armoured vehicles passed us. It brought everything into sharp focus. Despite our obvious thoughts about the safeguarding of Chelsea’s immediate and long-term future, everything of a football nature seemed to disappear as each of those trucks, carrying soldiers, passed us.

Salisbury Plain, if not the headquarters of the British Army then certainly its training ground and its playing field, is not far from our four West Country homes. I remember that as a child I would often see tanks in training on one stretch of the road between Warminster – a garrison town and Ron’s former home – and Chitterne. I remembered how, during the First World War the army commandeered the village of Imber and forced its inhabitants to flee so that the buildings could be used for street-fighting purposes. In the late ‘eighties, on that same Warminster to Chitterne road, it was easy to spot a newly built village that was said to resemble that of a Polish town since that is where it was thought that any battle in a potential World War Three would take place. Much of the recent war film “1917” was filmed on the Plain too. We wondered if those young British soldiers that had passed us would soon be sent to foreign lands, maybe not to Ukraine, but to bolster the NATO presence elsewhere.

It seems odd, and awful, to be writing about a potential World War Three in a Chelsea blog.

We made good time. I dropped PD and Parky off outside “The Eight Bells” at 9.30am and they disappeared off for a coffee outside Putney Bridge tube station while they waited for the pub to open at 10am. I dropped Ron off near Fulham Broadway and then shot off to park up at the usual place further north.

I walked back down the North End Road and called in to see Mark Worrall at the CFCUK stall opposite the Fulham Broadway tube station. Here, I picked up my free copy of “Tales From The Shed” that had gone to print recently and was now on sale. I am one of thirty-four Chelsea supporters to have submitted a piece on various aspects of the club. Marco gave me a special extension to detail my experience in Abu Dhabi when Chelsea – gasp – became World Champions. I know eleven of the other folk and I chatted briefly to a few of them during the day. The book is the latest of Marco’s “Gate 17” publications and acts as a fundraiser for the Stoll Foundation, which benefits from Chelsea’s charity work in the local area, including “The Big Sleep Out.”

Details are given at the end of this piece.

It is, of course, heartily recommended. But I would say that, wouldn’t I?

Down at “The Eight Bells” we then enjoyed a cracking pre-match yet again. The three of us were joined by Daima from San Diego – her first game, against the Geordies, just like me – plus Deano from Lancashire via Yorkshire, Rich from Edinburgh and four of the lads from Kent who often call in. We had a ball.

It actually felt rather odd to be back at Stamford Bridge once again. Due to a variety of reasons, I missed the Tottenham league match, the Plymouth FA Cup tie and the Lille Champions League game. My last match at Chelsea was the Chesterfield cup tie. The last game that I witnessed from my season-ticket seat was the Tottenham League Cup game way back on the fifth day of January. Since the Chesterfield game, there had been ten games at other venues. This Newcastle game seemed like a homecoming for me.

I settled in alongside Alan, Clive and PD in The Sleepy Hollow section of Block 9 and waited for things to develop.

I spotted “The Roman Empire” banner that had apparently drawn some negative comments from the media earlier in the day. Its presence summed up our predicament.

Were we to airbrush our current owner from our history? No, of course not.

Should the club have taken it down? That would have been disrespectful.

Should we have left it up? That could well have been seen as disrespectful too.

Oh what horrible muddy waters.

Down below, “Three” was still being advertised around the perimeter of the pitch.

Confused? So was I.

Since the news of the sanctions against Roman had broken just four days earlier, my head had been sent into a constant spin. I am sure that elsewhere it was a similar case. It was difficult to find lucid and straightforward commentary and insight.

It certainly felt like we were the whipping boys.

But I kept thinking back to the terrible summer of 1976 when Chelsea appeared to be going belly-up. I can remember one moment that I often think back on.

Before I disappeared into my bedroom – one that was quickly becoming a shrine to Chelsea Football Club – I can remember sobbing as I pinned a note up on my bedroom door.

“1974 : Division One. 1975 : Division Two. 1976 : nothing.”

It was a cry-for-help to my parents and, looking back, it was of course all rather embarrassing. My poor parents spoke to me about it the next day and tried to allay any fears of my beloved club disappearing, but of course these were just empty words as they had no real clue.

So, I have been there before.

My have parents passed away now, but maybe I need to see if I have any Blu Tack for a 2022 version.

I was worried about a repeat of Burnley with some unwanted chants taking place during a minute of applause for the people of Ukraine. I hoped that Chelsea would not be holding a similar minute before this game and immediately hated myself for it. Did I really want to see the reputation of the club being upheld instead of us all joining in for a minute for Ukraine? Sadly, yes. Again, I hated myself.

I had spoken to a few friends in the pub that I liked the idea of us wearing yellow shorts for this one game.

Blue shirts. Yellow shorts. United with Ukraine. A big message to the world. And a message to our support that chanting our current owner’s name during the minute of applause was not deemed acceptable.

Among all of this, there was a game to be played. I hadn’t thought much about it.

The teams appeared. Lo and behold, the Chelsea players were all wearing “3” on the shirts and a state of confusion reigned. At one stage, it looked like both sets of players were converging on the centre-circle and my fears about a “minute of applause” was going to come to fruition. In the end, they all backed away. There was the knee, but no more.

The game began. The Geordies, backed by three thousand, must have won the toss because we attacked the Matthew Harding, where Daima was watching from the opposite corner.

Oh, the team?

It looked like a back four, but was Hakim Ziyech playing right wing-back?

No, a four surely.

Mendy

Chalobah – Rudiger – Christensen – Sarr

Jorginho – Kante – Mount

Ziyech – Havertz – Werner

The fact that we were playing against Newcastle United, a club now bankrolled by the oil-rich but highly dubious Saudis, provided a dark undercurrent both before and during the game. I hoped that the possible, no probable, chanting from both sets of supporters would not darken things further.

The first-half was a pretty poor affair and had little real merit. An early shot from Andreas Christensen flew high into the crowd. A header from Antonio Rudiger soon after did not trouble Martin Dubravka in the Newcastle goal.

Thinking to myself : “In 1974, we were already one-up at this stage.”

The game settled but it didn’t really thrill. Unsurprisingly, we dominated but struggled to break down a resilient Newcastle team. There were slim pickings.

A long corner was aimed for a waiting Mason Mount but his speculative volley from way out flew high and wide. On twenty-eight minutes, I noted the best move of the match down our right but the end shot, from Werner, was always drifting wide.

While we were attacking, some supporters in the Matthew Harding Lower sung “Roman Abranomovich” but the general noise and commotion in that section meant that it was missed by the rest of the stadium; it had no chance to picked up and carried by others.

I was relieved.

I just didn’t want the negativity that would have accompanied it.

“We’re grateful Roman for everyting. But you’re not part of our future now. Let’s move on.”

On the half-hour, a Newcastle chance was spurned, and we held on.

The away fans sang : “Mike Ashley he’s coming for you.”

The Matthew Harding responded : “Boris Johnson he’s coming for you.”

The sun appearing overhead was a welcome addition to the afternoon, but the football itself didn’t really warm up at all.

The away fans were still chipping away at us.

The home fans rallied with a loud and defiant “Carefree” as the half entered the last ten minutes. Until then, the support had been subdued, tamed, thoughts elsewhere perhaps.

Efforts from Kai Havertz and Mount were hardly worthy of the name.

Right at the end of the poor first-half, we were soon roaring our approval of a magnificent save by Mendy from Miguel Almiron through a crowd of players.

The second period began.

On fifty-five minutes, a superb ball was lofted forward by Andreas Christensen but after a poor touch from Werner, the chance evaporated.

The second-half followed much the same pattern as the first.

There was untidy play from us, a few half-chances from the visitors, resolute defending from them and a Roman Abramovich chant half-way through the half from the MHL that was again lost in the general hubbub and not spotted by the rest of the support. I again heaved a sigh of relief.

I summed up proceedings to Alan in an embarrassingly poor way :

“Fucking shit, innit?”

But it was. This was a poor match. One to forget.

On the hour, Thomas Tuchel changed it around.

Mateo Kovacic for Mount.

Romelu Lukaku for Werner.

We huffed-and-puffed to no avail and, as happens on these occasions when I know that there are friends watching their first games at Chelsea, I was sad for Daima.

On the seventy-five-minute mark, a header from the leap of Havertz after a cross from Havertz gave us a false rush of hope. The header was easily claimed by Dubravka.

Fackinell.

Christian Pulisic replaced Sarr.

The game ambled along. We had almost given up hope. Clive disappeared off with a minute of normal time remaining.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, a dream of a ball from Jorginho, who at last gets a mention right at the end of this report and not without good reason. He played a ball over the top and into space for the perfect run of Havertz.

One touch, a shot low.

Goal.

Stamford Bridge exploded.

I turned to my left and stared, eyes wide, at the yellow steps and double-punched my arms in a frankly disturbing way. I’d lost control. But fuck it. Seconds later I grabbed by camera to snap the celebrations.

You beauty.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now, like.”

Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds, like.”

Incredibly, the same player almost made it two a few moments later when he raced through in the inside-right channel but saw his delicate chip knocked away by Dubravka.

The Geordies were silent. The final whistle blew.

An incredible ending to a very poor game had given us three more points. I was especially elated for Daima over in Block 16.

The players clapped us as they slowly walked around the pitch. I have usually departed by this stage, but I stayed momentarily to clap them too. It was one of those moments.

“Blue Is The Colour” never felt sounded so emotional.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea Is Our Name.”

“Tales From The Shed.“

The price for a limited edition version from the CFCUK stall on matchdays at Stamford Bridge is just £9, of which £5 goes to the Stoll Foundation.

This version can also be purchased via the eBay link at www.gate17books.co.uk – here there is also a 10% auto donation to the Alzheimer’s Society and £2 will also go to Stoll.

A standard paperback version of the book is also available worldwide via Amazon – sales via this platform will generate £2 per copy for Stoll.

This is the link for Amazon UK https://amzn.to/3tLUg0K

Additionally, I have a spare copy which I am happy to send to a fellow Chelsea supporter – or not as the case may be – as a prize. The competition? I have been thinking long and hard about this and I am stumped for a question. Therefore, I am going to turn the tables a little.

What question should I ask for this competition to win a copy of “Tales From The Shed”?

Let’s see how your minds and your imaginations work.

Please email me your answer…er, question…to : c.axon@talk21.com

Closing date : Friday 25 March.

Tales From The Mother Road

Posted on September 12, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 11 September 2021.

It is a familiar motif from these match reports – I am tempted to say “stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before” – of games from the early part of our campaigns that I usually need a few matches to get back into the swing of things. I was doing fine this season. I was acclimatising reasonably well, I was getting back into live football, the games were seemingly important once again and even my vocal chords were coping. It all felt a little different this season, though. Our forced absence from the game for so long was playing heavily on my mind and I suppose the crux of it concerned my fears that I wouldn’t get the pre-COVID19 buzz back.

But here was a real test. After seeing Chelsea Football Club play just seven times in five-hundred and thirty-eight days (an average of one every seventy-six days), I was now about to embark on a burst of five games in just fifteen days (an average of once every three days for those who failed CSE Maths). This represented, in my mind at least, a test, a litmus test, for my enthusiasm. I certainly hoped that this spell of five games in London would rid me of the considerable disconnect that has hounded me since March 2020.

We all live in a place called hope, right?

I woke again way before the alarm, and gathered my tickets, trinkets, passes and thoughts ahead of the 10.30am departure. A new car, a new Chuckle Bus, was parked on my drive-way and this would be its first journey of note, its maiden voyage with me at the helm and it’s first trip up my version of Route 66 – in fact, Route A303 would be very apt as it arrived with just 303 miles on the clock – to London SW6.

It would be its first trip along the Mother Road.

I collected PD and Parky in good time.

There was talk of these upcoming games (the printing-off of some of the tickets at home was proving to be a far from a straightforward task) and some matches even further out. Just like holidays, I get a great deal of pleasure in planning these games, especially the away games, and these sometimes awkward tasks feed into my Obsessive Chelsea Disorder. Tottenham was almost complete, Brentford was a work in progress, but Newcastle was sorted. More of those three trips later. Turin, Malmo and Saint Petersburg away games were taking a back seat. Not that I would plan on all three anyway, but travel within Europe was so much “up in the air” right now – or not, as the case might be – that I wasn’t wasting energy on plans for those three destinations just yet.

One potential destination that had ruled itself out of my plans was Tokyo. It had recently pulled out of hosting the World Club Championships in December, and I was now hearing that maybe Las Vegas or maybe Qatar would step in like some gallant knight in shining armour. This was met with growls of disapproval from me. I am not a fan of Vegas. And even less of a fan of Qatar. From one extreme from the other. From “anything goes” to “strictly forbidden.”

Such was my feeling of abhorrence when Qatar was handed the 2022 World Cup a few years back, that I made the conscious decision not to watch a single second of the finals on TV. And I just recently decided not to watch any more of the qualifiers too. So, the recent International break absolutely passed me by. I may have lost England forever.

In the circumstances, the lingering presence of Qatar in talk of the World Club Championships focussed my mind further. I would be a hypocrite to avoid Qatar in 2022 as some sort of moral crusade – stop sniggering at the back – and yet blithely sign up to watch Chelsea in Qatar in December. So, let’s see how that all pans out.

No pressure, Vegas.

We only stopped at Fleet Services for a quick pit-stop en route from Somerset to London, but from then on in, we became embroiled in some nasty traffic. It usually takes me three hours from door to door (my door to the door of The Eight Bells in Fulham) but it took me just over four hours on this occasion.

I dropped PD and Parky at West Brompton, then about-turned to park my car just off Lillie Road. Then a quick flit by tube to Putney Bridge. Job done.

I had booked a table for 1.30pm, and the hosts had very kindly kept it for us when we arrived an hour later.

I met up with Mark, from Norwich, and his son Matt. We had been talking during the build up to this game how our first Chelsea match in 1974 was the very same one; Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, 16 March 1974. We are the same age. We both live out of town. A few nice similarities in fact. He is the first Chelsea fan I have ever met whose first match was the same as mine. I was quite thrilled when Mark shared a couple of previously unseen on-line photographs from that day forty-seven years ago. We chatted and reminisced about tons of Chelsea games, especially from the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, and we found ourselves finishing off each other’s sentences on a few occasions as the memories and reference points interweaved and overlapped. That’s always a good sign.

I have to admit to being taken aback on a few occasions during our lovely conversation when I spotted a rather stern looking fellow, with a mop of white hair looking up at me from the other side of the bar.

Oh, it was me in a pub mirror.

The passing of time, and all of its crimes, is making me sad again.

Note to self : must smile more.

Kim, Andy, Dan and the Kent lads arrived and it was the first time that we had seen them since last year. It was superb to spend time together once again; around a dozen of us in our cosy corner of The Eight Bells, all meeting up again, trying our best to prove that football is real life, and not a TV programme. I totally understand that many can’t attend live football due to finance and geography, but it seems that so many these days do not make the effort. Is modern football now a diet of watching games on TV in pubs, streaming at home, fantasy football and betting accumulators?

At Putney Bridge tube station, there were a group of boozy and cheerful Villa fans. One chap, of a certain age, approached me and told me that he liked my yellow Adidas SL76 trainers. Thirty-five years ago, the conversation might well have been different.

“You got too much for us today. Think you’ll beat us 3-0.”

I concurred. It was my prediction too.

At Fulham Broadway tube, the lad at the Krsipy Crème stand spotted my Boca Juniors T-shirt and asked if I was from Argentina.

My colours on this day of football were yellow and blue, in-keeping with the current Chelsea offering, but without me looking too much like a Billy Smart’s Circus reject.

There was further talk of South American football with Clive in The Sleepy Hollow. A few months before my visit to Argentina last year, he had visited Brazil, and had caught an itoxicating Flamengo game at the Maracana. He highly recommended Brazil. The World Club Championships in Brazil has a nice ring to it. Chelsea at the Maracana? Where do I sign up for that beauty?

From 1993 to 2016, my desire to witness new sporting stadia outside of Europe was clearly focussed on North American baseball stadia; twenty-one major league and four minor-league. I have a feeling in the future my focus will now be on South American football.

We had heard that ten-men Tottenham had succumbed to three late goals at Crystal Palace – how we laughed – but a Cristiano Ronaldo brace had helped Manchester United beat Newcastle. All of this fizzled away into insignificance as our collective thoughts focused on the game against Villa.

The sun was out despite some clouds, and the extra hours of drinking meant there was a bubbly atmosphere as kick-off approached.

The teams entered onto the beautiful green lawn. A new Mason Mount flag surfed below me.

I checked the team.

The inclusion of Saul Niguez surprised everyone, possibly none more so than him himself.

It seemed an oddly thrown together team, but one which was representative of the pressures put on members of our squad during the international break. No Mount. No Dave. But an injured Kante too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger

Hudson-Odoi – Kovacic – Niguez – Alonso

Ziyech – Lukaku – Havertz

Romelu Lukaku was to play in his first game as a Chelsea player at Stamford Bridge since a substitute appearance against the same team in August 2013. All the rail-seating was in now. The banners around the pitch lay heavy with the early evening humidity. “The “knee” drew boos but then louder applause. The game began.

A few early Chelsea raids acted as mere foreplay for the full-on end to end session that followed. The game was a cracker. A zipped-in corner on our left from Callum avoided everyone but hit a knee, I think, of a defender and bounced up onto the bar at The Shed End. The first thing of beauty that I noted was a deep and high ball from the cultured boot of Thiago Silva which dropped perfectly and pleasantly at the feet of the advancing Marcos Alonso. People talk of a deep-lying midfielder pinging balls like a quarterback, but here was Silva doing the exact same. It reminded me of Ruud Gullit and then Frank Leboeuf doing similar.

It turned out to be a precursor to an even better ball from Mateo Kovacic. Breaking away in that busy style of his, he spotted the advanced Romelu Lukaku. A magnificently-placed ball, cutting right between two scuttling Villa defenders, and curving and dropping into the exact place that both Kovacic intended and that Lukaku had expected, landed perfectly. Lukaku sized up the options, turned Tuanzebe’s limbs into a pretzel and dispatched a low shot past Steer into the Villa goal.

It is fair to say that The Bridge boomed.

Lukaku raced past Parkyville, and led on the floor, facing the sky.

At last we had a finisher in our midst, not a finisher in the mist, out of sight, lost.

A magnificently noisy and rude “Carefree” enveloped the entire stadium.

Bliss. Absolute bliss.

But Villa, who had already enjoyed a few moves into our half, were not put out and only a sublime save, low and late, from Mendy at his right post from a Watkins drive saved us. Halfway through the first-half, and with Villa vibrant, Saul Niguez surrendered possession and that man Watkins rounded Mendy. A goal looked on the cards, but Silva is an experienced fellow and he nimbly recovered to block the shot admirably.

Our Saul was struggling with the pace and tenacity of the early exchanges.

“Our Saul, you say? More like a fackin’ arsehole. Wake up you caaaaaaaaant.”

I turned to Clive :

“Well, they’ve had their chances.”

This was a good game, possibly a great game. I was involved, and I appreciated the moment. It was an intriguing game of football, but one which was causing Chelsea increasing problems.

On thirty-three minutes, our man Mendy threw himself to save a rocket from Mings, but was able to scramble to his feet to push away the follow-up from Konsa. These saves were simply sublime. They sent me spinning back to Wembley 1973 and the Jim Montgomery double-save.

This was becoming a disconnected and disjointed performance from us with only occasional flourishes. Ziyech was quiet. Saul was getting over run in midfield. There were only flashes from Havertz. Lukaku was hardly fed anything save the pass for the goal.

Callum Hudson-Odoi was again a disappointment. It was as if the well-worn football phrase “flattering to deceive” was invented for him and for him only. On several occasions he was presented with a few one on ones, but inevitably chose a soft option.

I moaned to Clive : “I wasn’t a great winger, but when I received the ball, my one thought was to get past my marker, not look behind me.”

It was Villa who grew in confidence as the first-half progressed and by the time we all reached the interval, there was a mixture of relief and worried expressions in The Sleepy Hollow.

“We should be 3-1 down. Villa must feel robbed.”

Lo and behold, Thomas Tuchel – still without a song, I still feel I don’t know him too well – spotted the obvious and replaced Saul with Jorginho at the break. It would be a move that we all wanted and that would help to solidify our position in the second-half.

Just four minutes into the second period, Lukaku lost possession but then harassed and harried Tuanzebe and the ball was rushed to Mings whose attempted back pass to Steer was ably intercepted by Kovacic. He doesn’t often find himself in such forward positions, but his finish was impeccable. It had something of the Pedro about it; an instinctive and incisive flick past Steer, and in off the far post it went.

GET IN.

Initial thoughts : “bloody hell, Villa must be spitting feathers.”

But the relief was palpable. We were now 2-0 up and able to consolidate things. A Havertz drive slid past the far post. Thankfully, the Villa offensive was not as potent in the second-half.

On fifty-eight minutes, I was poised to clap in memory of the wonderful comedian Sean Lock, a regular at Stamford Bridge for years, who sadly passed away recently. At the start of the dedicated minute, not many joined in, but thankfully at the end the applause was taken up by many. It extended past the minute mark. The Matthew Harding then started our own song of remembrance :

“One Sean Lock, there’s only one Sean Lock.”

Bless him. He was one of my modern day favourite comedians.

The game continued, and thankfully most of the visitors’ shots on goal were tame, and often at Mendy. Our crowd was surprisingly buoyant for a decidedly average performance. But we were leading, and I suppose that helped.

Stating The Bloody Obvious #716.

To be fair to them, the Villa fans were pretty noisy throughout the game, and even though they are not known for being particularly vociferous, I had to admit that I was impressed with their performance. The three thousand strong block virtually stayed en masse, despite the game going against them.

The devilish McGinn was running things for Villa, his spirit and energy mirroring that of our Kovacic. I was really enjoying this battle. As, I think were most. There didn’t seem to be a dull moment. The supporters were enjoying it too, and there was even one rare moment of appreciation of a strong tackle by a Villa player on one of our lot. Is this the new normal? To be fair, this isn’t too uncommon. Great saves by opposition ‘keepers, tackles by opposing players, even the occasional goal against – only as long as we are winning – have been clapped in the past.

On the hour, another change.

Dave for Kai.

Dave to right wing back, Callum to outside left, down in the Hazardous Area below me. Again, he was all flicks but with no real finished product.

“Thing is Clive, he doesn’t have to beat his man over five yards. He has twenty yards to run into. Knock it past him, and kill him for pace.”

The Matthew Harding had twice goaded into getting The Shed to sing in the first half with no response. An attempt to get The Shed involved – this is invariably met with a defiant “Carefree” – again fell on deaf ears. Midway through the second-half, when The Shed did finally get involved, an audible noise able to be heard, the Matthew Harding Lower jumped in.

“We forgot that you were here.”

Not sure what The Shed thought of that, nor ironically if they even heard it.

Former Chelsea player Bertrand Traore was given a nice reception as he came on as a substitute for Ings. A shot of his from distance was deflected narrowly wide.

Alonso had a trademark dig at an angle down below us, but his daisy-cutter fizzed wide.

Villa’s attacks grew weaker and without much intent.

Their fans still sang, but the Liverpool “Allez!Allez! Allez!” needs to be dumped. Sharpish.

Werner, the forgotten man right now, got a late run out, with Tuchel no longer willing to witness the advanced Hudson-Odoi anymore. By now, the game was being played out in a strange murky twilight, the sun long gone, the floodlights on, a hint of autumn in the air.

In the last moments of the game, a typically positive run from Dave down the right was followed by an inch perfect pass into the feet of Lukaku. A slight adjustment, and then –

BAM.

The ball flew past Steer.

Chelsea 3 Aston Villa 0.

Lukaku, attitude and / or arrogance on show, jogged over to our corner, and gave me – and others – a fine photo opportunity. Like the man himself, I don’t miss that easy an open goal.

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

At last, after the stern face, Lukaku smiled.

The ref soon blew up.

This had been a hugely enjoyable game. Villa had certainly surprised me though. Absolutely no way they deserved to lose 3-0. As we left the stadium, I shared these thoughts with PD.

“There must be few occasions over the years where an away team has come here and lost 3-0, yet the Chelsea supporters know deep down that they deserved more.”

The top three performers were undoubtedly Mendy for his excellent saves, Kovacic for his growing command of the midfield, his sublime assist and his beauty of a goal and Lukaku, two shots two goals, Goodnight Vienna.

We met up with Parky back at The Anchor fish bar on Lillee Road.

“Saveloy and chips mate, please, open.”

The drive home was a lot less stressful than the trip to London. It was a blissful trip back to Wiltshire and Somerset. I loved this day out. And I am so pleased to be able to report that I am rapidly getting my appetite for the game back.

Game one of five down, superb, very enjoyable. Zenit on Tuesday, my first European Night at Chelsea since that tough loss to Bayern in 2020. Then Tottenham away – “love it” – and one of the games of any season. Then Villa again in the League Cup (that might be the one that tests me) and lastly a possible season-deciding game against City. I suspect we will give them a few reminders of Porto, don’t you?

Good times. Let them roll. Let the Mother Road lead us back to London time and time again.

See you Tuesday.

Goal One.

Goal Two.

Goal Three.

Tales From Game One Repeated

Posted on October 20, 2019 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 October 2019.

The international break was over. Thank the Lord. I had found it a particularly tough fortnight; I had missed Chelsea much more than usual. Thankfully there is always “Chelsea stuff” to keep me as buoyant as possible. I have realised for a while that my brain must crave “Chelsea activity” of one sort or another to keep me as upbeat as possible, whether it is the planning of upcoming trips, away trips especially, or the sometimes difficult process of trying to procure match tickets, or even thoughts about where I can take the next match few reports. If I am feeling a little low – work, life’s problems or other serious stuff – I can often rely on Chelsea to lift my spirits.

As the preparations and plans for the home game with Newcastle United became overlaid with the dramas of getting Ajax away tickets, clarifying the final travel plans for Amsterdam, booking up – ironically – a weekend away on Tyneside in mid-January, and sorting out a few other Chelsea plans, it became a busy few days.

I had been working lates for the first time in almost two years, as holiday cover, and at 10pm on Friday, I was able to leave for home with thoughts of a fine week ahead; games in London, in Amsterdam, in Burnley.

But I’d need to be up at 6.30am on the day of the Newcastle United game; a long and busy day lay ahead, with plans to meet two sets of friends from the US, two sets of friends from Canada and one set of friends from Australia before the match.

I woke, typically – was it excitement? – early at 6am.

The day was beginning.

The most important news was that Parky was back among us for the first time since the cracking away trip to Norwich in late August, a gap of eight whole weeks. He had been missed by all of us. His hip-operation had resulted in a long, slow rehabilitation period. Parky will, unfortunately, be unable to join us in Amsterdam.

I collected PD and his son Scott at eight o’clock and Parky soon after.

London beckoned.

It was a cracking autumnal morning.

I live for mornings like these.

Because PD and Parky are unable to walk long distances, and because the District Line was closed, I drove right to the bottom end of the North End Road to drop them off. Their pre-match would be spent close to the ground at “The Oyster Rooms” at Fulham Broadway. I then drove back to park up at my usual spot off Lillee Road and then hot-footed back to reach Stamford Bridge at 11.30am.

I walked past The Shed Wall, topped with autumnal leaves, past the photographs and tributes of all our former legends. It is quite a sight.

I was really looking forward to meeting, for the first time at Chelsea, my mate Jaro from Washington DC, who was to see a Chelsea game at Stamford Bridge for the very first time. I got to know Jaro when we contributed to the much loved, and much-missed, bulletin board on the old Chelsea In America website, and where these match reports started to appear, on an ad hoc basis at first, in around 2006/7, and then regularly from 2008/9.

Jaro is originally from Poland – Legia Warsaw his team – but has been living in the US for over twenty years. I have bumped into him on a few tour stops in the US over the past few seasons – New York, Philadelphia, DC – and he has always been accompanied by his football-daft son Alex, who is well known by a few of the old-school US fans (in relative terms, I refer to those of c. 2006 vintage).

We met on the forecourt and I soon whisked them up to the foyer of the Copthorne Hotel, where they both met Ron Harris, although – sadly – most of the other ex-players had just left. But we sat in a quiet corner and chewed the fat, reminiscing on our respective childhoods in England and Poland, and how the working class sport of football was seamlessly woven into our respective cultures, along with the other staples of our youth, music and clothes.

Ah, clothes.

Clobber.

It may have started on the Scotland Road in Liverpool in 1977, but by the mid-‘eighties, it was to be found in little pockets all over Europe.

Jaro confirmed this.

“In Poland, it was Lacoste. Lacoste everywhere.”

There was little surprise that we were both wearing the little green crocodile on this sunny day in SW6. Alex was wearing a DSquared2 top. A relatively new addition. Something for the youth. But Jaro also spoke of how fashionable it was in the more austere and isolationist era of those times for foreign football shirts and scarves to be worn at Legia games. He mentioned one fellow fan, who gained a few fashion points and added credibility, by wearing a jacquard Chelsea scarf at matches. I mentioned some Verona fans who I saw at a UEFA game in 1988 wearing a “You can’t ban a Chelsea fan” T-shirt. And I mentioned that I occasionally, maybe no more than once or twice, wore a Juventus shirt at Chelsea in the ‘eighties.

It was part of the scene in those days.

Rare clothes. Rare labels.

Good times.

We then, probably to Alex’ disgust, had a “Moaners Five Minutes” as we vented about the ailments of modern football, VAR, the 39th Game and all that bollocks.

Jaro and Alex had, unknown to me, called in to Stamford Bridge – a squeezed visit on a brief layover from Poland back to the US – in the summer. They had managed to do an official tour of the stadium. It was hearing the two tunes – the pre-cursors to the match itself these days – “Park Life” and “Liquidator” being streamed through his headset that really hit a chord with Jaro.

“We had to come back. To experience the atmosphere. The steepness of the stands. We had to.”

They had arrived Friday morning and would be leaving Sunday morning. Let’s not all tar “foreign fans” with the same brush please. Some of the most devoted and inspirational Chelsea supporters that I have had the pleasure to meet do not live in SW6, London, the Home Counties, nor the UK.

We trotted over to “The Butcher’s Hook.” Sadly, the disruption of the tube during the day meant that the other friends from various places were severely delayed. Not to worry, they will all be back at some stage. The day was really all about Jaro and Alex.

Of course, there is a nice little bit of serendipity here. My first game at Stamford Bridge was against Newcastle United too.

I took Jaro and Alex down to meet Mark and Dave at “the stall” and the intention was then to have a drink with Parky, PD and Scott – you had forgotten about them, right? – but there was a strict “no kids” policy being enforced. Damn.

Jaro and Alex wanted to get inside to sample every last second out of their first game at HQ. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

“Hope to see you again soon.”

I meandered around the two forecourts, chatted to a few match day friends, and then took my seat inside The Bridge at a very early time, maybe about 2.15pm. It’s amazing how empty the place is until around 2.45pm these days. In the ‘eighties – “here he fucking goes again” – the terraces often used to be jammed for big matches by 2.30pm. This added to the atmosphere, the sense of anticipation, the sense of occasion.

These days, there is nothing warming about getting into a stadium full of empty seats at 2.30pm.

The stadium eventually filled.

My “missing friends” eventually made it in; Neil and Sammy from Adelaide down below me in the MHL, probably quite near Leigh-Anne and John from Toronto. Al and his son from Toronto were in the West Lower, the poor bastards, and Kim from Florida was, I think, in The Shed.

It would take me a while, but Jaro and Alex were spotted in the East Lower. It would be a section of SB where I watched all games from 1974 to 1980 with my parents.

The team news came through.

It was almost unchanged from the last match against Southampton, but with Ross Barkley in for N’Golo Kante.

Arrizabalaga.

Azpilicueta.

Zouma.

Tomori.

Alonso.

Jorginho.

Barkley.

Mount.

Willian.

Hudson-Odoi.

Abraham.

Overhead, a changing mix of clear skies, clouds, dark clouds, intermittent rain, bright sun.

A typical London autumn afternoon.

Newcastle United, with the two Longstaff brothers the talk of the toon since their lovely defeat of Manchester United, were wearing broad stripes this time, as opposed to thin stripes the previous year. Both look wrong to me. The away team didn’t create a great deal in the first part of the game, but neither did we. They caught us on the break a few times, but never really threatened. There were a couple of shots from the twin strikers Allan Saint-Maximin (not really a footballer, more a type of thermometer) and Joelinton, but Kepa was not troubled. He would be able to complete a few more pages from Thibaut Courtois’ Word Search book from 2016/17 as the game progressed.

The first real chance was created by some trickery from Callum Hudson-Odoi in front of the black and white hordes, but a weak Willian header was well wide.

It took until a few minutes after this chance for me to notice the first real, loud, chant of the game from the home supporters.

“CAN ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We noted that Marcos Alonso was getting dog’s abuse every time he ventured into the final third, right in front of the away fans.

Quick feet from Callum set up Mason Mount, but his quick turn was followed by a shot which was straight at Martin Dubravka.

As Newcastle attacked, Gary shouted abuse at Saint-Maximin.

“It’s Davey Crockett.”

The play deteriorated a little. Joelinton headed, stretching, wide.

The atmosphere was pretty dire. I felt for Jaro and Alex. I so wanted it to be a cracking atmosphere for them. The Geordies, unable to completely fill their allocation for the first time in ages, with a section of around two hundred in the Shed Upper unsold, were making all the noise. Willian cut in from the right but his shot missed the near post.

It was far from encouraging stuff.

It seemed to me that players and fans alike needed to be roused from the lethargy of the international break. There was a spell of stern challenges, free-kicks and the game did not flow. Tammy seemed to go too easily for our liking, but it is a part of his game he will hopefully improve upon. A free-kick from Willian failed to clear the wall. A few groans.

Just before the break, an injured Ross Barkley was replaced by Mateo Kovacic.

Ho hum.

It had hardly been a scintillating forty-five minutes.

I turned to PD.

“Well, that was shite.”

At half-time, I looked over to the front row of the East Upper, just above where a “Philly Blues” banner has been positioned for a while.

One seat was empty, and there looked to be a floral display – a wreath – instead. This was to mark the memory of Trizia Fiorellino, who so sadly passed away recently. Trizia worked steadfastly with the club on a matter of issues as chair of the Chelsea Supporters Group, and as a member of the often-derided Fans Forum, and often wrote Chelsea reviews in “The Observer.” Trizia always smiled and said hello when our paths crossed so many times in recent years. I always remember sitting next to her on the coach which took us to the San Paolo Stadium in Naples in 2012 and we excitedly swapped stories about football and specifically Italy. Trizia was a discerning and perceptive supporter of Chelsea Football Club. There was a lovely full page obituary, penned by Bruce Buck, on page nine of the match day programme.

She will be sorely missed by all those who knew her.

RIP.

At the half-time break, Ron Harris – playing in my first match in 1974 and at Jaro and Alex’ first match in 2019 – came down to the pitch and said a few words about how the team is playing at half-time.

Thankfully, the lethargy and lack of invention seemed to subside as the second-half began. Kovacic, the substitute, seemed to be one of the catalysts, driving on and playing in others. A lovely jinking run from Callum down below me created space but his shot was blocked. This stirred those around me and the noise started to, thankfully, increase. A weak Zouma header from a corner was soon followed by a thundering header from Tammy which crashed against the bar.

“Oh God, please not a 0-0 for Jaro and Alex.”

But we continued our improvement. There were a few lovely through-balls from Jorginho and our runners were being hit. Our pressure mounted.

Christian Pulisic replaced Mason.

More jinking runs from Callum. A free header from Tammy sailed over. He knew that he should have done much better. A deflected shot ended up at the feet of Pulisic, right in front of goal, but the young starlet appeared stage struck. His effort was swatted away by Dubravka, a fine save. A Willian shot saved at the near post.

Andy Carroll – “he always scores against us” – emerged from the bench.

Time was racing past.

Come on Chelsea.

With a quarter of an hour to play, Callum touched a ball out towards Marcos Alonso. A low angled drive followed. His shot was to perfection. My shot was blurred. But I caught his exultant run down towards us on film.

GET IN.

After the hysteria had died down.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now, but.”

Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds.”

Phew.

1974 all over again? Just maybe.

Kovacic set up Pulisic but as we were all expecting a shot on goal, the American right winger snowflaked it and instead played the ball to Tammy instead. His fumbled effort flew over.

Bollocks.

Virtually Newcastle’s first effort on goal in the second-half resulted in a shot from Willems ending up in The Shed Upper. A weak Geordie header soon flowed but floated over.

Reece James replaced Callum late on and we held on.

This was a much improved second-half and our win was deserved. I liked Kurt Zouma, who I thought played a little better than Tomori, who has been a little error-ridden of late. Callum was fantastic at times. Kepa was hardly tested at all. We solidified our place in the top four. There were Chelsea smiles all round at the end, and these will be remembered rather than the looks of concern at the break.

Jaro and I swapped messages at the end. They had loved it.

It had been 1-0 for me in 1974 and it had been 1-0 for them in 2019, too.

That just seemed right.

So. Thoughts turn to Wednesday.

Ajax away.

Europe.

The Champions league.

Makes everything tingle doesn’t it?

See you there.

RIP

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 1973-1974

Tales From A Golden Anniversary

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

Tales From Christmas Eve

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

Tales From The Hollins Suite

Tales From The First And The Last

Tales From The Last One Of Seventy-Three

Tales From Block 9 And Gate 17

Tales From The Mother Road

Tales From Game One Repeated