Tales From Manchestoh : Yahni’ed

Posted on May 27, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 25 May 2023.

The 2022/23 season was nearing completion. Our final away game was to take place at Old Trafford against Manchester United; our second trip to the city in just five days. I worked an early shift in order to get away in good time. It would be another long day. I set the alarm for 4.30am, and worked 6am to 2pm. There are four United fans in our small office of eleven; a ridiculously over-stacked ratio.

Manchester United 4

Arsenal 2

Chelsea 1

Such is life. Growing up, Manchester United fans were everywhere around Frome and the surrounding towns. I’ve always said they were “ten a penny” and that view has not changed much over the years. In my schooldays and the forty years since, it has always been quite uncommon to meet a supporter of United who can be bothered to shift their arses off sofas to travel to Old Trafford on even a semi-regular basis.

Their loss, not mine.

Ironically, Old Trafford heads the list of my most visited grounds with Chelsea. After the day’s trip to Manchester, the tally would be as follows :

Manchester United 27

Liverpool 26

Arsenal 25

Tottenham Hotspur 24

Everton 22

With PD convalescing and Parky at a hospital visit all day, my sole travelling companion to the north-west was Sir Les. I picked him up at his house, just five minutes from work, at 2.20pm. It wasn’t the best of trips along the M4, up the M5 and M6, then onto the M60. We hit some heavy traffic, as always, around West Bromwich and then at several locations further north. But Sir Les is a good travelling companion and we had a good chat about all things Chelsea.

Les detailed a vast back catalogue of various mishaps and misadventures from his footballing past; mainly involving misfiring cars and spluttering mini-buses that either blew up, broke down, or were witnesses to bust ups with opposing supporters over the years.

We looked ahead to next season; for Les, a first-ever trip to Sheffield United’s Bramall Lane is greatly anticipated. I have only been once, in 2006, and a return visit is long overdue. We both want Coventry City to get past Luton Town, a lost footballing city that was once a top flight staple from 1967 to 2001. With no European adventures ahead, in 2023/24 the plan for my little band of Chelsea obsessives is to night-out in various northern hotspots every month or so.

Hello Sheffield, hello Liverpool, hello Burnley, hello Manchester, hello Newcastle again.

Les : “How many European aways have you done?”

Me : “Dunno. Maybe twenty-five. Probably more.”

We rattled of our complete list of European away games over the years, or at least gave it our best shot. I liked it that we both went to Jablonec in 1994, Chelsea’s first UEFA away game since 1971. I only got to know Les since around 2008/9 but we famously stood next to each other in Turin against Juventus that season.

We reckoned that we had both done about thirty-five games.

Wrong.

My figure was forty-five and I suspect Les‘ total would be around the same too number if our listing of shared experiences was anything to go by. I still can’t believe that I haven’t visited Valencia despite our four visits to the Mestella. Les was gutted to have missed Dortmund this season.

Les has been reading my blog during this ball-ache of a campaign and we spoke about 1982/83. We listed all the teams in that Second Division, our peers, that had won silverware – and how many trophies – in the intervening years. It makes for stunning reading.

Chelsea : 21

Leicester City : 4

Blackburn Rovers : 2

Leeds United : 1

Sheffield Wednesday : 1

Middlesbrough : 1

“Fucking hell, Les. We can’t grumble, can we?”

The traffic slowed as we approached Manchester. We were never under a threat of missing the kick-off, but the slow-moving flow was both annoying and tiring. Eventually I parked up – £10, twice as expensive as City – at 7.15pm, just five minutes shy of five bastard hours on the road.

It was a fine, mild night. There was no need for a jacket; I wore just a long-sleeved polo.

On the walk to the ground Les asked me for my score prediction.

“We’ll lose 2-0, mate.”

I had, however, worryingly recalled Frank Lampard’s first-ever game in charge back in August 2019, which was at Old Trafford and resulted in a 0-4 shellacking. And here we were at the same venue for his last away game as manager.

…mmm.

We reached the forecourt at about 7.30pm and it is such a familiar sight. I always think that the away fans have the best approach to this stadium; the away turnstiles are right under the famous Munich clock, next to the plaque honouring those victims of 1958, and the gentle slope down to our gates which is full of atmosphere and character – a great sense of place – has been unchanged in decades. Indeed, that little wedge of brickwork in the south-east corner has more history than the rest of the revamped and rather bland Old Trafford put together.

This would be an important game for me. For only the fourth time in my life, I would tally up a full set of league aways.

2008/09 : 19/19

2015/16 : 19/19

2021/22 : 19/19

2022/23 : 19/19

Darren from Crewe was stood behind me. He had lots of spares to get rid of so just invited loads of his mates, fans of other teams, along for the ride. I was expecting big gaps in our wedge of three-thousand but I was proud to see very few spaces. Darren had bettered me this season; for the first-time ever he had not missed a single first team game. By my reckoning, come Sunday, that would top out at fifty games. A fantastic achievement. Well done mate.

Looking back, I will have missed three; City away in the League Cup and Champions League aways in Zagreb and Madrid.

I had a decent spot, above the corner flag and in row nine. There were familiar, battle-weary, faces everywhere. I hoped that the blazing sun, high above the Stretford End, would soon disappear behind the towering Sir Alex Ferguson Stand. The atmosphere was quiet. It must be testing times for United at the moment, with the rampaging City on form. I suspect a nervousness in their ranks regarding the upcoming FA Cup Final.

Eight o’clock neared.

I like the entrance of the teams from the corner position at Old Trafford, though it wasn’t always so. It adds a sense of drama.

Us?

We reverted to a back four once again.

Kepa

Azpilicueta – Fofana – Chalobah – Hall

Chukwuemeka – Enzo – Gallagher

Madueke – Havertz – Mudryk

Apart from Dave, a young side but “Docherty’s Diamonds” revisited? I doubted it.

The home team needed a point to secure a Champions League place at the expense of Liverpool; a nice prize for them on a perfect evening at Old Trafford.

The game began with Chelsea in good voice.

And it was a bright and open start to the match. We looked good. A shot from Carney, a wayward effort from Mykhailo after a clean and fast break. What on Earth was going on? The home fans were quiet and the Chelsea choir got our sticks out and started to poke away.

“Is this the Etihad?”

My normal Canon SLR is unable to gain admittance to either stadia in Manchester, so I was making do with my small Sony pub version; my ‘phone has a relatively crap camera. With United awarded a free-kick on the far side, in front of what used to be the United Road paddock, I hoisted my camera up and photographed the ensuing cross from Eriksen, a United header amid some Chelsea bodies…oh bollocks…and a goal.

The natives roared.

Casemiro – 1-0.

Twelve minutes City, six minutes United.

Shite.

It was difficult not to sense a horrible score line rapidly approaching. I loved it that a few youngsters were close by with their fathers, enjoying every tackle, every pass, every song. The bloke next to me spotted a friend. This chap enquired where a mutual acquaintance was.

“Nah, not here mate. He had an appointment at an acupuncturist’s in London.”

I nudged him.

“He should be here. There’s enough pricks at Old Trafford.”

With the away section fitted with rail seating – was it present last season? I forget – I was able to lean on the bar in front and it felt bloody fantastic, recreating a football position of old. A polo shirt – a navy long sleeved Robe di Kapa – jeans, and Adidas Gazelles, leaning against a barrier on a football terrace.

This is the fucking life.

As the game developed, we shockingly played some half-decent stuff, with occasional glimpses of great things. We moved the ball eagerly out wide and the players moved to support the man in possession. Had someone at Chelsea stumbled across a “Football For Beginners” book at Cobham during the week? This was alright, this.

United were always a threat on the break, though. I had a deep-down feeling that they were just waiting for a chance to rip us open. But this was an open game, with spaces everywhere.

Conor almost got on the end of a square pass from Kai, but it was over hit. This followed another quick break, this time instigated by a Carney tackle and a Noni dribble.

Dave stretched out a leg to deny a United shot from close in after they broke at speed too.

Antony went down in our box after what seemed an innocuous challenge by Trevoh. He looked in considerable pain and was eventually stretchered off after a few minutes of lying on the turf. The Chelsea crowd made the most of the quiet Old Trafford atmosphere.

“Ten men, nine men, eight men, seven men, six men, five men, four men, three men, two men, one man and his dog Spot went to mow a meadow.”

It’s still our greatest song when sung properly.

Antony was replaced by Rashford.

On the half-hour, a fine move but a wasteful header from Kai after a great break and ball in from Lewis.

Mykhailo had been quiet, but then had a nice give-and-go with Conor and ran strongly into the heart of the United defence before losing the ball.

Just before half-time, a lovely turn and shimmy from Noni set up Conor, who took a touch. His low shot looked good. We waited for the net to ripple. It went wide.

Fackinell.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Alas, in the dying-embers of an entertaining half, a dinked chip over the top from Casemiro played in Sancho – no offside despite the appeals – and the ball was crossed for Martial to tap in.

Bollocks.

There was my 0-2.

Despite the team being behind, which was hardly a surprise, there were encouraging green shoots of recovery in that first period. A bit more aggression, a bit more energy, some cohesiveness at last. I overheard a conversation that made me chuckle. Some friends were chatting behind me.

“There’s a few empty seats here, if you want to sit here second-half.”

“Nah, it’s OK. I’m in my lucky seat over there.”

I smiled.

I went down to chat to Deano who was sitting with Alan and Gary in the second row. Their trip up from The Smoke took even longer than mine; a full six hours. A bloke saw me chatting and told me that a seat was free alongside him if I wanted to stay.

“Ah, no thanks mate. I have a lucky seat back there.”

It was too good a line to waste.

Soon into the second-half, United cut us open after Conor was pick-pocketed and I sensed danger.

“Too much space. Fackinell.”

Fernandez struck the bar from the right side of our box.

Phew.

United remembered their voices.

“Viva John Terry.”

A few minutes later, Mykhailo ran from deep after being released magnificently by Lewis. He ran and ran. In the end, his shot was scuffed and bobbled apologetically towards De Gea but the ‘keeper still had to work hard to scramble to his right and push out for a corner.

Then, probing play from United looked dangerous, and the ball was played in for Malacia, but Kepa covered magnificently to save on his line; the rebound was struck tantalisingly wide. Another close shave.

On the hour, a short corner allowed Lewis to unleash a thunderous effort right at De Gea and the ball rebounded out. Mykhailo’s tamer effort, deflected, was saved by the spring and leap of the ‘keeper again.

On sixty-four minutes, some changes.

Christian Pulisic for Mykhailo.

Joao Felix for Kai.

Just after, Dave raced back to thwart a United break as if his life depended on it and slide in to make a bloody superb tackle. It was stunning and it amazed me.

Bizarrely, it felt as if we were still in this. You would have thought that I really should have known better, eh?

On seventy-four minutes, Fernandes skipped inside Wesley who clipped the United player as he passed.

A fair few Chelsea left before the resultant penalty kick, which Fernandes coolly punched in.

United had not exactly produced a wall of noise, but now they seized the opportunity to take the piss.

“You’ve seen United. Now fuck off home.”

Our response was typical.

“Just like London. Your city is blue.”

Our support had been excellent all night long. As the numbers dwindled, the support still made some noise. Top efforts.

Five minutes later, a suicidal pass across his own penalty box – we were told not to do this at the age of ten – by Fofana gifted the ball to Fernandes who passed to Rashford who untidily scored past Kepa.

Fofana – for fuck sake.

I remembered my pre-game worry.

2019 : 0-4

2023 : 0-4

Fackinell.

With eight minutes to go, more subs.

Hakim Ziyech for Noni.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Carney.

David Datro Fofana for Conor.

The peroxide plonker Garnacho caused us some late problems and hit the bar with a shot that took a slight deflection off Trevoh.

Hakim had already played in one fine high pass with plenty of fade, and he spotted Felix spare in the centre circle and played another one. The substitute trotted towards goal with players backing off. He took aim and his low, daisy-cutter was hit with perfection, just evading the leap from De Gea. It was a fine goal.

Manchester United 4 Chelsea 1.

I suppose gallows humour is fine, but I just wasn’t in the mood to either appreciate these two late efforts, and certainly not join in.

“You’re nothing special, we lose every week.”

“We’ve scored a goal.”

Nah.

There was still time for a great save from Kepa, very late on.

The manager and the payers apologetically walked over to our corner to applaud us. Dave stayed for a while. He looked gutted. As I said to Les in the car “we are supporters, no more, anything else is bollocks…all we can do is support the team.”

At the moment, this is a controversial opinion according to many in our fan base.

By the time I had stepped outside onto the forecourt, Les had virtually reached the car already.

“See you in fifteen minutes’ mate.”

At the top of the slope, United were having a field day, reprising an old favourite.

“Hollow, hollow, hollow.”

Then a homophobic song that they seem to love was aired and I sighed at the playground antics.

Some police waded into them.

I was starving and indulged in a bacon cheeseburger with onions. It did not touch the sides.

I walked on, listening to the various post-match opinions from the United fans. A Yorkshire accent, not for the first time, made me smart. I get that fans of United – Yahnited or even the looser Yahni’ed – come from everywhere; I am a Chelsea fan from Somerset, after all. But a United fan from Yorkshire seemed wrong on many counts. Maybe it was the same bloke that I heard in a similar location on the Chester Road a few years back.

Whatevoh.

I spotted Les waiting for me. He approached and put an arm around me. I suspected a problem. Had my car been broken into?

No, worse.

“Listen mate, I have walked up and down four times and I can’t see your car.”

Jesus Christ.

That’s all I needed. My brain began to whirl. Who can I phone? Luckily I had kept my emergency numbers in my wallet.

We walked on.

“That’s it there, innit?”

I dabbed the key fob.

The lights blinked.

“Oh bloody hell, I thought you parked here, not there.”

“No worries mate. Let’s get home.”

Two visits to Manchestoh in five days, two defeats, no surprises. Let’s get home, indeed. I moved slowly along the Chester Road and thankfully the flow rapidly improved up on the M60. But it was still a long night.

We were pragmatic about the evening’s fare. We can’t truly complain about being Chelsea. And I know that sounds trite, but we can’t. Since 1983, remember those twenty-one major trophies.

Win or lose, Penelope Cruz.

I drove on, aided by Les’ blackcurrant and liquorice sweets and a couple of iced coffees.

“My biggest fear, Les, is that we will have a barren spell for what…four or five years…possibly more…and other supporters will start to mention that, surprise, surprise, with Roman gone, so have the trophies. All that buying success stuff.”

Ouch.

The way it’s going, even a League Cup win in 2030 might well be celebrated like the second coming of Christ.

But that’s football.

I had commented to Les on the way up to Manchester :

“…all those supporters of teams in our division in 1983 that supported teams like Wolves, Newcastle, Barnsley, Carlisle, Derby, Charlton…forty years with nothing…and they still go…they are the real heroes.”

I dropped Les off in Melksham at around 2am. I reached home at 2.30am.

Next up, the last game of this pitiful season sees us meet up with Newcastle United once again at Stamford Bridge.

It’s another milestone for me; but more of that shite later.

See you there.

Tales From Manchestoh : Ci’eh

Posted on May 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 21 May 2023.

There was an old-fashioned 1982/83 feel to Saturday afternoon, the day before our game at the Etihad against Manchester City. I sat on my sofa in the living room and listened to Radio Five Live for the football commentary and was more than happy to hear that a lone Taiwo Awoniyi goal – the thorn in our side last Saturday – would condemn Arsenal to a 0-1 defeat at the City Ground, and thus hand the Premier League title to Manchester City.

City were champions and Arsenal weren’t. Perfect.

It of course meant that City were not looking to get over the line against us on the Sunday, a scenario that would have struck fear into myself and countless other Chelsea supporters. With them chomping at the bit, I dreaded it. There were thoughts of a cricket score. In the new circumstances, I hoped that Pep Guardiola would take the foot off the accelerator and also play some fringe players with two cup finals still to fight for this season.

That said, I am struggling to remember a game where I was so convinced that we would lose. As I set off to collect Lord Parky and Sir Les at around 9.30am, I was of the opinion that I would be happy losing 0-3. Even in the darkest of days of yore, I don’t think I was ever as downbeat – “pragmatic” – as that.

We were on our way from Melksham at 10.15am and the drive up to Manchester – Manchestoh to the locals – went well. The skies were brilliantly blue and sadly brilliantly sky blue too. We stopped for a very filling pub lunch at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 – the landlady recognised us from the FA Cup game in January – and I then drove on to our usual parking spot off the Ashton New Road. It felt odd to be playing City – Citeh, or Ci’eh with the full-on glottal stop of the locals – in an away game this late in the season. The last time I had seen us at City in May was in 2001. There was a lone game behind closed doors in May 2021 but that doesn’t count in my book.

With us playing at them so late in the season, and the weather being so nice, the locals had dispensed with the usual coats and jackets of a Manchester autumn, winter and spring. Many were wearing replica shirts – not just the current edition – to an extent that I don’t usually see at City.

I sorted out tickets for both Manchester games – we return on Thursday against the other lot – with Deano and headed in. I was perched in the first few rows of the upper tier at 3.30pm.

The Chelsea team was announced on the TV screens.

Kepa

Fofana – Silva – Chalobah

Azpilicueta – Fernandez – Loftus-Cheek – Hall

Sterling – Havertz – Gallagher

The City team was announced too and it immediately pleased me. There were fringe players throughout their line-up. There was a hope that City would not function to their full capability.

For some in the Chelsea support, this would be a third visit to this stadium during the current campaign. I looked around and I was pretty impressed with our turnout, which was surely over the 90% level; not bad for an end-of-season game in the circumstances.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, there was a medley of songs as flags were twirled down below us behind an Italian-style banner that proved difficult to read from behind.

The Dave Clark Five : “Glad All Over.”

Queen : “We Are The Champions.”

The Beatles : “Hey Jude.”

The teams appeared and flames flew into the air along the touchline directly in front of me. I missed the guard of honour amid my photographic manoeuvres.

Then, the old standard.

“Blue Moon.”

Officially we were in the fourth row but as the front two were covered in nets, we only had one row of spectators in front. To be honest, it was a splendid view. There was barely a seat not being used in the home areas, and the vast bowl was bathed in sky blue. It is an impressive stadium. With City looking to expand to around 63,000 with the addition of a third tier at the northern end, I wonder if they will do a Barcelona and dig down to increase capacity further; there is certainly tons of space. That would get it up to around 68,000 I suspect.

Pre-match chat with a few friends uncovered the fact that I was not the only Chelsea fan who would be happy with a 0-3 defeat.

Sigh.

The match began. The fans immediately behind us were sat and so, for the first time for ages and ages, I sat at an away game.

There was a bright start from City but we had a couple of promising forays into their half too. I soon spotted a new City song.

Snap : “Rhythm Is A Dancer.”

I couldn’t quite work out the words though.

Must be that Manc accent.

Ten minutes had passed. I turned to Gary :

“Well, we’ve made it to ten.”

Two minutes later, an attempted pass out of defence from Wesley Fofana ended up at the feet of a City player and the ball was soon zipped by Cole Palmer to the advancing Julian Alvarez and the Argentinian, surely at home in sky blue, purposefully steered the ball low past Kepa.

Sigh.

“Here we bloody go.”

Our confidence then disintegrated so easily and the home team dominated for most of the first-half.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart. Again.”

This was a hard watch. I remained sat. There wasn’t a barrage of support from our three tiers at this away game. We were all there in body, but the spirit was yet to emerge. Not many Chelsea chants pierced the warm Manchester air.

Another new song from City. Status Quo? Give me strength.

“City’s won three in a row.”

There was a flurry of City attempts on goal. A lob from Phil Foden just cleared the framework. Palmer looked lively and his shot was booted off the line by Trevoh Chalobah.

With the home crowd buoyant with their team’s domination, several sections of the ground “did the Poznan” but Chelsea responded with a doggedly defiant “Carefree.”

Dave was getting roasted by the kid Palmer down below me. A trusted “7/10 every game” player, Dave shoudn’t really be anywhere near the first team these days. I chatted to Gary about him.

“Maybe Frank just needs players who he thinks he can trust. I dunno. It’s a mystery.”

I guessed that Benoit Badiashile was injured. I would rather have him in the three and move Chalobah over to right wing-back.

“Why isn’t Mudryk playing? City are bound to come at us. All that space he could exploit.”

Gary sighed.

The noise levels lessened. At times it was quiet. A few inflatable bananas were tossed around. This had the definite feel of a dead rubber game.

I was sorely wondering if we might go the whole game without an effort on goal. On half-an-hour, Raheem Sterling broke but his weak effort rolled away for a goal-kick. He was then played in by Kai Havertz but his shot was ably saved by Stefan Ortega.

To be fair, our play improved in the closing moments of the first-half.

A deep cross from the left by Lewis Hall found the completely unmarked Conor Gallagher who stooped to head at goal. The ball hit the near post and appeared to be pushed out by the ‘keeper.

Our support improved.

“Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea – Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

At half-time, one of Manchester’s favourite sons was remembered.

Andy Rourke, who played bass guitar for The Smiths, passed away in New York on the Friday. He had been suffering with pancreatic cancer for quite a while. As a member of one of my very favourite bands, I was obviously upset to hear of his death. He was only fifty-nine. It is a deep regret that I never saw The Smiths live, but they provided the soundtrack, along with the Cocteau Twins, to my youth. I am seeing Johnny Marr in Frome in August. Iremember that on a visit to Manchester in late 2006, I visited Salford Lads Club prior to a game at Old Trafford and the caretaker had mentioned that Andy Rourke had visited the previous day, using its recording studio. This is the nearest I got.

“Barbarism Begins At Home” was played at the very start of the break, with Rourke’s funky intro making me unsurprisingly emotional. I glanced up at a banner away on the upper balcony of the main stand.

“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.”

RIP.

There were no substitutions from either manager at half-time.

The game continued along strange lines. City seemed happy to play within themselves while we tended to have more of the ball in attacking areas than the first-half, and our support rallied a little. But the match was played out in an odd atmosphere.

Kalvin Phillips, starting his very first league for City, hit the same part of the goal frame as Gallagher as the second half began.

John Stones appeared for City. We feared that more would come on. We definitely played better in the second-half. A few runs, Ruben looking half-decent, and a couple of shots from Hall peppered their goal. There was a strong run from Sterling but another weak effort.

On sixty-eight minutes, Mudryk replaced Gallagher and Madueke replaced Sterling.

The City support applauded Raheem off; a nice touch in the circumstances. I am not so sure many Chelsea would have applauded him on.

Mudryk blasted high when clean through.

City made three substitutes; on came Haaland, Rodri and De Bruyne.

Their fans were full of it.

“Erling Haaland. He’s scored more than you.”

Gary chirped : “Fuck me. John Stones has scored more than us.”

At some moment in the second-half, Hall slipped as Alvarez advanced and slotted home, but VAR easily spotted the arm that controlled the bouncing ball. A few Chelsea left when this soon-to-be-disallowed goal went in but I was really happy with how many of us stayed right to the end.

We then made a flurry of substitutions.

On came Koulibaly, Chukwuemeka and Pulisic.

Pulisic sent over a fine ball but a diving prod from Dave, of all people, was blocked on the line by Foden.

Thinking to myself : “bloody hell, we could have got a point here.”

At the final whistle, thousands of City fans invaded the pitch despite being warned continually about it.

We walked slowly back to the car.

One young City fan walked along in the middle of the road, arms aloft.

“Ederson and Ake. Walker and Akanje. Ruben Dias, Johnny Stones. Best defence in Europe. We’re Manchester City. We’re on our way to Istanbul.”

…remember Porto, lad, remember Porto?

Sadly, my car was hemmed in back at the car park and so we had to wait for all of the post-match celebrations to end. We stepped inside a rancid pub – “The Grove Inn” – which was full of extras from “Shameless” and reeked of bleach. As we stood silently at the bar, City lifted the trophy on the TV screen to our right. Oh boy.

We had a little banter with the locals; to be fair they were OK. Eventually, bodies appeared outside and we finished our drinks.

“Take care. Hope you pump United in the Cup Final.”

I didn’t pass on my wishes for the Champions League Final though.

I suppose we set off at around 7.15pm. I drove west and then made my way south. There had been a lot of talk between the three of us about football – Chelsea – in the ‘eighties on the drive up to Manchester and there were a few mentions on the return trip home.

Concluding my retrospective about one particular season from that decade – 1982/83 – is the final match of the campaign, the home game with Middlesbrough on Saturday 14 May 1983. Going in to the game we knew that a draw would see us safe. The visitors were one point ahead of us, one place ahead of us, but needed a draw to be safe too.

In the match programme, there was much praise for the fans that had travelled up to Bolton the previous week. The three thousand-strong support represented a full quarter of our average home gate that season and would be the equivalent in today’s money of us taking 10,000 to an away game. The programme honoured those loyal fans who had travelled on the “special” that year by listing the ninety-seven supporters who had gone to at least fourteen of the twenty-one away games with the club. Despite the five London teams in the Second Division that season – Charlton, Crystal Palace, Fulham, QPR and us – there was a definite northern feel to the division that year. Utilising the club special would have been an easy way to save money. I know four of the ninety-seven; Paul Holder, Russell Holbrook, Patrick Gordon-Brown and Kev O’Donohoe, and I am also aware that although my match-day neighbour Alan Davidson qualified for the roll-call, for some reason he was inexplicably excluded, a fact that gnaws away to this day. Kev won a raffle from this list of heroes and the prize was a season ticket to The Shed for 1983/84. He has recently told me that he traded up – paying the difference – for a much more agreeable and fashionable Gate 13 season ticket.

Only three of the ninety-seven are female and I have never seen so many Steves and Daves in one list.

On another page in the Middlesbrough programme, there is a brief mention of my friend Neil Jones, who is wished a happy birthday by his parents. Jonesy recently told me that his actual birthday was spent in the seats at Bolton the week before. That must have a fine birthday present.

In the centre pages, there is a photo of Seb Coe presenting the “Player Of The Year” award to Joey Jones. From an ignominious start and a sending-off at Carlisle United in late October, Joey certainly worked his way into our collective hearts in the remaining seven months of the season. Just below is a picture of Breda Lee and Mary Bumstead.

I would listen to Radio Two, as it was in those days, during the afternoon for score updates. Going into the game, I had hoped for a 10,000 crowd.

The match ended 0-0, thus securing the safety of both teams, and I remember being really pleased that 19,340 attended the game.

Thus, our top four home gates in 1982/83 really were decent.

Fulham – 29,797

Leeds United – 25,358

Queens Park Rangers – 20,821

Middlesbrough – 19,340

However, the dismal run of attendances in the winter had a terrible effect. Our home average levelled out at 12,672. This was narrowly lower than the 13,132 of 1981/82 and the 13,370 of our very first season of 1905/06. Apart from the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/2021 – two league games with an average of 6,000 – these have been the low points in our 118-year history.

We ended the season in eighteenth place, easily our worst-ever placing in our history. We were just two points clear of safety. That Clive Walker goal really did make all of the difference. The three teams relegated to the Third Division were Rotherham United, Bolton Wanderers and Burnley. At the top of the table, Queens Park Rangers were promoted as champions, with Wolverhampton Wanderers and Leicester City filling the other two automatic places. Our neighbours Fulham narrowly missed out by one point in controversial circumstances. Losing 0-1 at Derby County, the home fans invaded the pitch with a minute of the game remaining and the referee signalled the end of the game. At one stage, Fulham were looking a safe bet for promotion.

Elsewhere, Liverpool won the League Championship despite a recent trailing-off of form, finishing eleven points clear of Watford and then Manchester United. Their 2-1 loss at Watford was their fifth loss in seven games.

As for Manchester City, they lost 0-1 at home to Luton Town at Maine Road in front of a massive 42,843, and were relegated to the Second Division.

In some parts of Manchester, the image of David Pleat, dressed completely in beige, still brings convulsions of terror to this day.

OK, Yahni’ed – you’re next.

Tales From Baltimore, Bolton, London And Stockholm

Posted on May 18, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 13 May 2023.

…this one is going to resemble a mazy Pat Nevin dribble, drifting from place to place, hopefully entertaining, and with a few dummies thrown in for good measure.

In the build up to our home game with Nottingham Forest, I had read that there would be a couple of banners appearing before kick-off in The Shed and the Matthew Harding to celebrate the impact that Thiago Silva has had during his relatively short period of time at Stamford Bridge. And quite right too.

Everybody loves Thiago Silva.

The man is a defensive colossus. He is calmness personified. He oozes class. In a season that has stumbled along with many a setback along the way he has stood out like a beacon of professionalism. How I wish that all of our players showed the same skill set and the same work ethic as Thiago Silva. Ah, I had best add N’Golo Kante here.

We need a banner for him too.

On the evening before the game, by chance, I caught a comment by an acquaintance on Facebook that Thiago Silva was looking to return to Brazil, to his childhood team Fluminense – for whom he played seventy-odd games – after he eventually leaves Chelsea. I loved this idea, of legends returning home, and of course I immediately thought of Gianfranco Zola returning to Cagliari for a couple of seasons after leaving us. I just hoped that we could tease another season or two out of our veteran Brazilian.

I then checked on Thiago Silva’s playing career and I was reminded that he had played for Milan, after his spell with Fluminense, from 2009 to 2012. And that made me think. I was lucky enough to see Chelsea play Milan in Baltimore in the summer of 2009, just ahead of our wonderful double-winning campaign under Carlo Ancelotti. I did a little research and soon realised that Thiago Silva had indeed played in that game. My heart skipped a little. I then checked a few photographs, as is my wont, and I spotted an image that made me smile. In the first-half of the game, which Chelsea would win 2-1, I had taken a photo, focussed on Frank Lampard, that also featured a veritable “Who’s Who” of top-ranking footballers from that era.

Ronaldinho, Didier Drogba, Alessandro Nesta, Jon Obi Mikel, our man Frank, Andrea Pirlo and – there he was – Thiago Silva.

So, here indeed was proof that this was the very first time that I had seen Thiago Silva play. It’s very likely that this was the first time that Frank had seen Thiago Silva play too, though his view was certainly different than mine.

Almost fourteen years later, the two of them are at the same club, although of course it was Frank who signed the cherished Brazilian during our interim manager’s first spell at the helm at the start of the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/21.

I then decided to flick through a few photos from that very enjoyable stay in Baltimore. I took plenty of the game of course – probably the highest quality match of the seventeen that I have seen us play in the US – but just as many of our fellow supporters too. One photo again made me smile. It featured my good friend Burger on the right of a group of random, blue-jerseyed, American fans who must have been drinking with us, or near to us, at the time. But I immediately spotted two other people that I recognised; Kristin and Andrew from Columbus in Ohio. I had not noticed their faces in this particular photo before. As luck would have it, those very same two people – friends of mine for a few years now – were going to meet us in the pub on the Saturday morning before the game with Forest.

As I continually say, Chelsea World is a very small world indeed.

We were all up in London at the usual time. I was parked up at around 10am. With PD still convalescing at home, his seat in my car and his seat in the stadium was taken by Glenn, my match-going friend from Frome since as long ago as 1983.

1983. You know where this is going, right?

The next match to feature in my look back at the 1982/83 season is the iconic and famous encounter against fellow strugglers Bolton Wanderers at their Burnden Park ground on Saturday 7 May 1983. In the years that have passed since this game was played, many of our supporters have bestowed upon it the title of “the most important match in Chelsea’s history” and it is easy to see why. Going in to the game we were fourth from bottom, one point below our opponents. Chelsea had been financially at risk for many a season, and the thought of dropping into the Third Division was not only depressing enough from a supporters’ perspective – the pain, the ridicule, the struggle to recover – it would also cause an extreme strain on the immediate future of the club with reduced revenues hitting hard, despite the tightening of strings inaugurated by Ken Bates over the previous twelve months.

Although my mind was full of worry about my upcoming “A Levels” in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing, this was nothing compared to my concern for my beloved Chelsea Football Club.

My diary on the day tells that when I heard on the radio of Clive Walker’s low drive in the second-half giving us a 1-0 lead, I was not too elated because all of the other protagonists at the basement were also winning. However, after all the results came through, I was overjoyed. We had risen unbelievably, to fourteenth place.

I called it “quite a wonderful day.”

With emphasis on “won” no doubt.

How many Chelsea went to the game? The gate at Bolton was 8,687. The general consensus was that we took thousands. In the following week’s home programme, Ken Bates praised the “almost three-thousand” who were there. I have to say that a photograph of the away section of the ground on that rainy day in Bolton, with Chelsea playing in the all lemon kit despite no obvious colour clash, suggests that only around 1,500 were standing in a small section of terrace. However, at the time it was always a predilection for London clubs, especially, to invade the home seats at away games, so I am in no position to suggest that we did indeed not have around 3,000 up there. I know that some Chelsea were in the seats at the other end of the ground. There is another photo of the scenes at the final whistle and a good number of Chelsea fans are seen celebrating in the upper tier above a deserted home terrace along the side of the ground. The number in this section does in fact look like 1,500. So, around 1,500 on the terrace and around 1,500 in the seats. Let’s go with 3,000.

I always remember that on my first ever trip to Bolton’s new Reebok Stadium in 2004, I picked my long-time Chelsea mate Alan up en route and he told me a few stories about the game at Burnden Park in 1983. He, it goes without saying, was one of the three-thousand. I always remember how he told the story of how Breda Lee, loved by so many, was bedecked with good luck charms as she made her way up to Bolton on the Chelsea Special. Breda had lost her son Gary after a horrific incident at Preston in 1981, and would always travel on the Chelsea Special with John Bumstead’s mother Mary, and was seen by many Chelsea fans as their “Chelsea Mother.” On this day, Alan said that she was wearing a lucky four-leafed clover trinket, a lucky horseshoe, a sprig of lucky heather and was clutching a rabbit’s foot too.

It all worked.

The victorious Chelsea team that day was as follows –

Steve Francis.
Joey Jones.
Chris Hutchings.
Gary Chivers.
Micky Droy.
Colin Pates.
Mike Fillery.
John Bumstead.
Colin Lee.
Paul Canoville.
Clive Walker.

The non-playing substitute – hard to believe in this day and age – was Peter Rhoades-Brown. I love it that four players from this line-up (Chivers, Pates, Bumstead, Canoville) still take part in the match-day experience at Stamford Bridge forty years later as corporate hospitality hosts.

I salute them all. And I salute the 3,000 too.

Forty years on, the day was starting to take shape. I dropped Glenn and Parky off outside “The Eight Bells” and then met up with Ollie at Stamford Bridge once more, this time with his cousin Julien, both from Normandy. I often write about the gathering of the clans on match days and this was no exception. By the time I reached the pub at 11.30am, a gaggle of friends – old and new – were well into a session. Sitting alongside Glenn, Parky, Ollie and Julien were Kristin and Andrew, fresh from a few days in Edinburgh, and with some fellow Ohio Blues, Steve and Jake who I met on their visit in 2019, plus Jeromy and Neil, who were attending their first game at Stamford Bridge. We all got along famously. It was also superb to meet up again with Jesus, from California, who we last saw at Watford last season, and who was another chap that Parky took under our wing while he was living in London many years ago. Completing the scene was Russ, originally from Frome, who now lives in Reading and was attending his first home game for quite a while.

Everyone together, everyone happy.

Up on the platform at Putney Bridge tube, a few Forest fans were engaging in some light-hearted chat. The well-rounded vowels of their East Midlands accents made a change on match day in SW6.

“Bit of a free hit for us, this game, not expecting much but you never know.”

To be honest, we hadn’t thought too much about the actual match – probably with good reason – and Glenn admitted that he wasn’t expecting much from the game either. In our current predicament, the day was all about seeing friends and enjoying each other’s company.

Elsewhere in London, over twenty thousand Notts County fans were in town for the National League Play-Off Final against Chesterfield. One of them, Craig, a friend from college in Stoke, sent me a message to say he hoped that we were victorious against Forest. He hates Forest, does Craig.

I said to the Forest supporter “the only person worried the outcome of this game is a Notts County fan.”

This of course wasn’t strictly true, but it raised a laugh at least.

The front cover of the programme marked the exact twenty-fifth anniversary of our European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph in Stockholm against VfB Stuttgart.

A few personal memories…

A group of us went with the club to Stockholm, flying out from Gatwick on the day before the game, and flying back right after. It seems really expensive now, and it was then; £450 not including a match ticket. With inflation, that equates to just over £1,000 in today’s money. I drove up from Frome with Glenn and met up with Daryl, Andy, Mick, The Youth, Neil and Tony, three of whom still go to all the home games and many away games to this day. I always remember that on the coach in to the city from the airport, it became apparent that Chelsea had managed to split the hotels of a father and his teenage son. Tremendous. Thankfully, that faux pas was soon resolved.

We all stayed in a hotel a mile or so to the north of the city centre and that first night was as pleasurable as it gets. We went off for an Italian meal in a restaurant called “Pele” which was named after the Brazilian star’s 1958 World Cup debut in the city. We drank Spendrups lager and ate Italian as couples danced to the tango. It was a very surreal visit. Later, we found ourselves in a bar owned by the former Arsenal and Everton players Anders Limpar – the bar had the worst name ever, “The Limp Bar” – and he was serving that night. I remember a “sing-off” between Chelsea fans and an all-girl German choir. Another surreal moment.

On the day of the game, we bought some cans and soaked up the sun in a central park – I remember seeing Ruth Harding nearby – and then made our way to a crowded bar where Johnny Vaughan was spotted.

Then, back to the hotel and a nervous wait for the coach to the game. Once aboard, The Youth lead the community singing. Outside the Rasunda Stadium in Solna there were Chelsea everywhere. The gate for this game was 30,216 and we greatly outnumbered the Stuttgart fans. We must have had 25,000 there and I think everyone who travelled to Sweden got in. With road travel from the UK being highly expensive and time consuming, virtually everyone went by plane. At the time, it was the biggest single airlift out of the UK since World War Two.

Growing up as a Chelsea supporter, the twin cup triumphs of 1970 and 1971 were etched on our soul and in our psyche. For a while, the two stars on our chests celebrated those two wins. And here we were, twenty-six years on from Athens, with a chance to equal that celebrated feat.

This was a magnificent time to be a Chelsea supporter; some might argue the best of all. Glenn Hoddle had raised the profile of the club by reaching Europe in 1994, and then the signings came…Ruud Gullit, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Gianfranco Zola. We were truly blessed. The 1997 FA Cup win under Gullit was followed by the League Cup under Vialli in 1998.

We all travelled to Sweden in May 1998 with a sense of being very capable of repeating that win in Athens.

Stuttgart were managed by Joachim Low and their star man was the striker Freddie Bobic. Their ‘keeper was Franz Wohlfahrt who had been on the receiving end of Spenny’s run in Vienna in 1994. The former German international Thomas Berthold played for them too.

Our team?

De Goey

Clarke – Leboeuf – Duberry – Granville

Petrescu – Poyet – Wise – Di Matteo

Flo – Vialli

Shades of Ryan Bertrand in Munich; Danny Granville at left-back. Vialli played Mark Hughes in the League Cup Final but he wasn’t missing out on this one.

At the game, I wore a Chelsea 1970 replica shirt and the scarf that my mother bought me after my first game in 1974.

In truth, the game wasn’t a classic, but the Chelsea fans were at our best that night in Sweden. The game hinged on a substitution. On seventy-one minutes, Gianfranco Zola replaced Tore Andre Flo. Within twenty-five seconds, Dennis Wise floated a ball through and the ball held up. Zola caught it sweetly on the half-volley and it rose all the way into the goal at our end. I was almost behind the flight of the ball.

Absolute fucking delirium.

I caught Glenn and Andy right after our goal.

In the last five minutes, Dan Petrescu was sent off but we were in control, the Germans were a spent force.

“Dambusters” rang out in Solna.

What a night. What a team. What a club.

Athens 1971. Stockholm 1998.

We had done it.

The euphoria was real. I have rarely been as happy at a Chelsea game. And yet most who were in Stockholm probably thought that it would not get any better than this. We were a cup team, no more, and the equalling of the 1970 and 1971 wins were seen as our “glass ceiling”. We knew we would never win the league…

We walked out into the Solna streets so happy. Famously, a local girl flashed her assets from a balcony as thousands of Chelsea fans walked past. We eventually found our coach.

Back at the airport, it was mayhem. There was coach after coach after coach in a massive line. In the terminal, we saw Ron Harris and Peter Osgood. Johnny Vaughan commented “it’s like the last chopper out of Saigon.”

The call went out that anyone on a Monarch flight should make their way to the departure gate. We sprinted. It was a matter of getting bodies on flights. We were lucky; we left at around 3am, on the same flight as actor Clive Mantle who I had photographed earlier outside the stadium.

Stockholm 1998 was one of the very best nights.

I’d rank the European wins that I have seen like this :

Munich.
Stockholm.
Porto.
Baku.
Amsterdam.

Incidentally, the club’s photographs from that night were taken by Mark Sandom, who sits a few rows in front of me, and I sent away for a set when I returned home. I still need to frame one or two enlargements from that game and find space for one of them in my Blue Room.

…Solna 1998 gave way to Fulham 2023.

Unfortunately, Alan was unable to make it to this game, so I sat with Clive and Glenn in The Sleepy Hollow. There were more than a few mutterings of discontent at Frank Lampard’s starting eleven, but there was pleasure in seeing Lewis Hall at left back. In came Edouard Mendy between the sticks while Mateo Kovacic, Raheem Sterling and Joao Felix started too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Hall

Gallagher – Enzo – Kovacic

Madueke – Felix – Sterling

The two Thiago Silva flags appeared at both ends of the stadium just before the teams entered the pitch. The one in The Shed was particularly striking. I loved it. I also loved the words of the match day announcer as he ran through the team.

“Number six, your captain, Thiago Silva.”

Despite our struggles this season, there appeared to be a near full-house at Stamford Bridge. The three-thousand Forest fans were already singing about “mist rolling in from the Trent” and their players looked smart in their plain red / white / red, a combination – the simplest of all kits – that rarely gets seen at Stamford Bridge these days.

While we huffed and puffed in the opening section of the game, The Sleepy Hollow claimed a victim, with Glenn quietly nodding off after some alcoholic fumes rolled in from the Thames. After an unlucky thirteen minutes had passed, a Forest cross from their left from Renan Lodi was bravely met by the leap of Taiwo Awoniyi, impressive in the away game on New Year’s Day, and the combined forces of Mendy, Badiashile and Silva were found lacking. The away team, in their first real attack, had struck.

The Forest fans erupted, the scorer did his best “Christ The Redeemer” and Forest players swarmed around him down below me.

Fackinell Forest.

I sent a photo of a dormant Glenn to Alan with the caption “one down.”

Our reaction was hardly immediate, and our attacks lacked precision and incision. Noni Madueke, looking so good at Bournemouth, tended to frustrate both himself and us. On one occasion, his turn was sweet but he then fell over himself. It summed up his luck. There was a shot on seventeen minutes, our first, saved, from Sterling and an effort from Hall was then blocked. Our best effort took a whole thirty minutes to arrive; a Hall cross, a Felix header, but too close to Keylor Navas in the Forest goal.

This was a really poor first-half.

Clive helped to alleviate the pain by buying us a hot chocolate apiece.

Just before the whistle, Mateo Kovacic – who has dipped in form quite shockingly of late – was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek, the perennial squad player.

I was surprised that there were so few boos at the break.

Soon into the second-half, Glenn resurfaced and Russ came over to sit by us for the duration of the game. The Sleepy Hollow had undergone a significant reshuffle. We were now back to a four. Clive, who had been near suicidal during the first-half needed cheering up.

“We’ll win this 2-1 mate.”

He smiled. Or was it a grimace?

Forest, though, began the brighter and almost doubled their lead through Moussa Niakhate but his volley was blasted wide.

On fifty-one minutes, there was a nice interchange between Madueke and Trevoh Chalobah down our right and the ball was pulled back from the goal-line by Chalobah into the feet of Sterling, whose goal bound effort took a deflection before hitting the net.

Yes.

The crowd roared as Sterling briefly celebrated.

“C’MON CHELS.”

Immediately after, Forest retaliated with a tantalisingly deep cross that just evaded the nod of a red-shirted attacker.

The crowd rallied.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We were playing much better now. A few half-chances, and then on fifty-eight minutes, a strong run from Loftus-Cheek in the centre was followed by a prod of the ball to Sterling, who cut inside and left his marker Joe Worrall on his arse before perfectly curling an effort into the top far corner of the goal.

Bliss.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

His celebration, this time, was far more euphoric, and so was ours.

Clive was full of praise : “you called it.”

But this was Chelsea 2023, not Chelsea 2009 – that photo from Baltimore succinctly illustrates the cyclical nature of our sport’s teams – and just four minutes later, a ball was pushed into the six-yard box by Orel Mangala and I immediately feared danger. The ball was headed home by that man Awoniyi, with another unmarked team mate alongside him to give him moral support and guidance, with Mendy was beaten all ends up. A VAR review couldn’t save us.

Double European Champions Chelsea 2 Double European Champions Forest 2.

On seventy-three minutes, Kai Havertz replaced Felix and Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

Clive threatened to leave.

I tried to give him hope.

“Sterling hat-trick mate.”

He definitely grimaced this time. But so did I.

Every time that Ziyech got the ball, either in the middle of a wriggling, shuffling dribble, or at a free-kick, I genuinely expected him to provide some magic. To be fair, his brief outing was not without merit but we could not, quite, claim the winner.

It ended 2-2.

The away fans celebrated loudly inside Stamford Bridge and out on the Fulham Road. This was a big point for them in their dogged fight to avoid an immediate relegation back to the Second Division, er The Championship.

The day seemed to be all about Nottingham. On the drive home, we were to learn that Craig’s Notts County dramatically edged out Chesterfield at Wembley, so well done to them. Forty years ago, Notts finished in a respectable fifteenth place in the First Division.

Talk about cycles.

Next up is the toughest away game of them all. I am fearing our trip to Manchester City next Sunday.

Anyone dare to join me?

Baltimore.

London.

Stockholm.

Tales From A Happy And Victorious Afternoon At The Vitality

Posted on May 7, 2023 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 May 2023.

Yet another crazy Chelsea season was nearing completion. There were five games left; three away, two home. The next match was Bournemouth away, the easiest of trips for me.

With PD resting at home and out of action until the new season, we called in a last minute replacement. Mark, from nearby Westbury, was able to pick up a spare ticket and would join Parky – recovering after his own hospital appointment this week – and little old me as I made my way from Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset, via the slightest of incursions into Hampshire.

I left home just after 7.30am. I knew that a few fans had already travelled down on Friday to make a weekend of it. I collected Parky at 8am and I picked Mark up in the Market Place in Westbury at 8.25am.

This brought back memories from almost forty years ago. The first time that I ever met Mark was on a trip up to London to see Chelsea play Leeds United in April 1984 when we went up in the same car. The driver was Mark’s mate Gary, but he has not been seen for years. Also in the car was PD and Glenn who obviously still go. Thirty-nine years later, four out of five ain’t bad, is it? We beat Leeds 5-0 that day and on the way back to Frome, we stopped off at the Market Place in Westbury and enjoyed an evening pint in “The Crown”.

My route from Westbury was simple enough; down the A350 to Warminster and then down the A36 to Salisbury, then the A338 – via a brief stretch on the A331 – to Bournemouth. As the crow flies, from my house, it is an hour and a half. With my two pick-ups, it took me two hours and ten minutes.

I had not seen Mark since the away game in Milan, so we had a good old catching-up session while I ate up the miles. We agreed on lots of things.

“Why hasn’t Badiashile featured at all? He was calm and efficient in his starts. Since then, nothing.”

“Can’t understand what Frank sees in Sterling. Hope he doesn’t start today.”

“Mudryk is a raw talent and needs game time.”

“In a four, no reason why Chalobah can’t play right back.”

“I like Enzo, though.”

For some reason, I fancied us to win at Bournemouth. I told everyone that I met before the game that “we surely can’t lose all our matches this season?” Although I was never sucked into believing that we had a bona fide relegation fight on our hands, we knew that a win would make us mathematically safe.

In fact, deep down, I suspected that those in our support that were genuinely worried about relegation had not really understood the complexities involved in a relegation struggle. I also think that some of our newer fans were almost revelling in a mock concern about this alleged relegation fight to help them get some “sufferance” brownie points among their peers.

For those who have been reading about 1982/83 this season…now then…THAT was a relegation fight.

I dropped Parky and Marky off outside “The Moon In The Square” and joined them a few minutes later. We breakfasted like kings while many in the pub sat watching the royal coronation on TV.

We met up with a few friends and the time soon passed.

At 1.30pm, we drove the ten minutes out to the Vitality Stadium, spotting a few Chelsea fans along the way. I squeezed my car into the allotted “JustPark” space on Holdenhurst Road and made my way towards the away end. It was ironic that while we have enjoyed many fine days out in Bournemouth since 2016, from October to April, here we were in May and there was drizzle in the air.

I stood alongside Gal, John and Al in the fifth row.

Just before the teams appeared, the noisy and overly-enthusiastic PA announcer pleaded for each of the individual four stands in turn to make “noise for the boys” and my eyes continually rolled.

The teams stood at the centre-circle and “God Save The King” was sung with gusto by all.

As the players lined up in readiness of the kick-off – we attacked our “end” in the first-half, not usually the case here – I absolutely loved Frank’s choice of a starting line-up.

I checked position by position. It was the team that I would have picked in a 4/3/3.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell

Kante – Enzo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Havertz – Madueke

Did Frank read the comments in my Arsenal blog?

I relaxed knowing that Raheem and Pierre-Emerick were not involved.

The drizzle had mostly petered out but the floodlights were still on. I noticed a surprising number of empty seats in the home areas. Sadly, a fair few were not filled behind me in our section. I find it inconceivable that one of the top fifteen clubs in Europe can’t fill all 1,200 tickets for an away game just one hundred miles away.

It was an open start to the game. The home team – ouch, those nasty zig-zag stripes – created a couple of tasty chances, but Kepa spread himself at his near post to save our blushes while another flashed past a post.

There were a couple of positive chants in support of Frank in those first few minutes.

“Super, Super Frank…”

“Scored two hundred…”

My man Noni Madueke had settled in well on the right flank, twisting and turning, running past defenders, a threat. On just nine minutes, from that right flank, Trevoh Chalobah touched the ball to N’Golo Kante who had time to cross. Conor Galagher moved towards its flight glanced it in at the far post past the marvellously named Neto.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

I just couldn’t bring myself to sing along to the “we are staying up” chants, nor could the young lad next to me. I get the desire for self-deprecation.

But.

Just.

Not.

Right.

Now.

Enzo set up Chalobah but Neto saved well. We looked neat on the ball, with Enzo looking to play in whoever he could whenever he could. Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Dominic Solanke and Ryan Christie set up Matias Vina who ghosted past defenders and, as he set himself up for a shot, I absolutely feared the worst. His lofted curler was perfectly placed beyond the reach of Kepa.

The game was tied 1-1.

I liked the way that Madueke feared nobody as he attacked down the right. His shots on goal showed confidence even if his shot selection and execution were awry. Down our left, seemingly within touching distance, a growing relationship between Gallagher and Mudryk was starting to flourish. The Ukrainian is certainly fast.

I glimpsed into the future at the potential of our very own “M & M” boys – “Mad/Mud” anyone? – causing havoc down the wings, the days of Arjen Robben and Damien Duff reincarnated perhaps, if not the days of Peter Rhoades-Brown and Phil Driver.

Ah, 1983.

Forty years ago, on Friday 6 May, I had an uneventful day at school but the twin nightmares of “A Levels” and a probable relegation were lying heavily on my mind. The very next day – Saturday 7 May 1983 – Chelsea were to visit Bolton Wanderers, one point and one place above Chelsea, in a pure “relegation six pointer”, and my diary noted that if we lost I felt that we would surely be relegated.

Despite seeing the game against Bournemouth being advertised by a few people, who really should have known better, as a “relegation six pointer”, this game wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

We were decent enough in that first-half and at the break I was quietly confident that my pre-game prediction of a Chelsea win would prevail. Kante was producing another 8/10 performance and while he is in the midfield, and Thiago Silva is in defence, we have a chance.

We lost our way a little at the start of the second-half, however, and while Bournemouth created a few chances, we slowed.

I turned to Gal : “Havertz always wants to take one touch too many, doesn’t he?”

This was a strange game now. There were patches of quality; we loved a magical twist out on the touchline from Madueke that made his marker look foolish. This had us all purring. But these were matched by moments of farce; an optimistic volley from Kante went high and so wide that the ball didn’t even leave the pitch.

The pro-Frank songs continued. However, on sixty-three minutes, he had us scratching our heads.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kante.

He was our best player. There was no midweek game to worry about. Was he carrying a knock?

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Oh bloody hell, Raheem…you again?

In the away section, things were getting a little testy. A chant for Roman Abramovich was loud, and an undoubted reaction to the substitutions that seemed to exemplify the current, failing, regime. A chant about the current owner was more forthright.

“Boehly – you’re a cunt.”

There were punches exchanged between two Chelsea fans a few seats behind me.

Christie blasted over. A superb sliding tackle on Solanke by Silva inside the penalty area went to VAR, but there was no foul. Havertz took an extra touch as he broke in on goal from an angle and the moment was lost.

The game rumbled on, with the mood seeming to change inside the away section every few minutes. Ben Chilwell pulled up on the far side and we feared the worst. Dave replaced him. At the same time, Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

The appearance of Hakeem didn’t thrill me, or many, with much joy, but he hugged the near touchline and looked to cause trouble with that tip-tapping style of his.

Vina was clean in on goal to my left, but Kepa made an absolutely brilliant shot, his arm outstretched, strong wrists, magnificent. A Ziyech cross found the head of Havertz, but the effort was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, a corner was headed back across the face of the goal but Dango Ouattara headed over from virtually underneath the bar.

At this stage, it seemed we had lost the momentum and that a Bournemouth goal would be the typical, obvious, sad conclusion.

“Why did I think we’d fucking win this?”

On eighty-two minutes, Sterling and Ziyech stood over the ball at a free-kick on the right hand side of their defensive third. Ziyech floated an in swinging curler towards the penalty spot. The cross had everything. It always looked like it might trouble the defence and ‘keeper. The trajectory, pace and dip were all to perfection. A few Chelsea players rose and the leg of my boy Badiashile flicked the ball past Neto.

The net rippled beautifully.

YES!

His joyous run and slide was lovely to see, his smile wide.

We were back in front.

Phew.

Another substitution, just after, Joao Felix for Havertz.

“How long to go, Gal?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s hang on.”

The Chelsea crowd were rocking now.

“We’re gonna have a party, when Arsenal fuck it up.”

On ninety minutes, a beautiful run by under-fire Sterling set up Felix who calmly slotted the ball low past Neto.

I screamed my joy at this one. The game was safe.

AFCB 1 CFC 3.

What a beautiful sight.

These were good times now at The Vitality.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

One win doesn’t make a season, but this bugger was a long time coming. After six consecutive losses, at last three points for Chelsea, and for Frank.

After the game, the players walked over to reciprocate our applause for them. We were happy. They were grateful.

Back in the car, we realised that we had risen to eleventh place.

I made a very quick exit out, and dropped Salisbury Steve off on the way back. I was home by 7.30pm.

Easy.

Next up, two-time European Champions Chelsea take on two-time European Champions Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge.

See you there.

Tales From The Arse Ends Of 1982/83 And 2022/23

Posted on May 5, 2023 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 2 May 2023.

My season-long companions were missing for the trip to North London and the away game at Arsenal’s Emirates Stadium. Over the weekend, PD collapsed twice while away at his static caravan and had been admitted on the Sunday to a hospital in Taunton. On the morning of the game he was fitted with a pacemaker. Best wishes for his speedy recovery flooded in from his many friends. On the Monday, I had heard from Parky who had been paying a visit to a hospital in Bath, undergoing tests for a very problematic knee. He too would be unable to go to the game at Arsenal.

At 2.15pm, I set off for London but I was not alone. Sir Les, from Melksham, was alongside me and although I missed the laughter from PD and Parky, the time soon passed on the trip up the M4. We parked up at Barons Court in readiness for a flit into the city on the Piccadilly Line. First, though, Sir Les got the coffees in at a little café near the train station. It was here, after a game at Arsenal in the April of 2012 – a 0-0 draw – that Parky and I chatted to Chelsea fan Lord Coe who had also been to the game, and who had uttered the immortal line :

“Arsenal are a bloody miserable bunch aren’t they?”

We split our trip to North London in two with a stop-off at Holborn where we spent half-an hour or so at “Shakespeare’s Head”, a pub that I had not frequented since the day of the calamitous 0-3 reverse at Arsenal in early 2016/17.

The place was full of the younger element and I only recognised a handful of people that I knew, adding further fuel to the belief that there is a way to circumnavigate the “virtual waiting room” for away tickets.

“These young’uns surely know of a way to beat the system.”

They were full of song though, a good sign. There was a nice reprise for the Fabregas song that I ironically heard for the very first time in the same pub before our game at Arsenal in April 2015 – another 0-0 draw – and the pub was rocking.

I would have given anything for a 0-0 this time.

This would undoubtedly be a tough match in an increasingly tough run-in of games. Clutching at straws, I tried to explain a positive spin from the build up to the game.

“We have had six months of being shite. They are experiencing it for the first time this season. Maybe they’ll find it more difficult to cope with this dip in form tonight than us.”

I wasn’t just clutching at straws; it felt like I was wrapping my arms around a large bale of straw and then hugging it to death.

The pub was awash with away day clobber; I spotted just one replica shirt among the hundreds of Chelsea fans, a Jesper Gronkjaer shirt from 2003/4.

A new song filled the air.

“We’re gonna have a party, we’re gonna have a party, we’re gonna have a party – when Arsenal fuck it up.”

Then another new-ish one.

“Todd Boehly went to France in a Lamborghini. Brought us back a centre-back, Benoit Badiashile.”

A ten-minute trip deposited us at Arsenal tube station and we began a slow walk to the away turnstiles. I stopped-off for a hot dog and onions that I liberally doused with ketchup and chilli sauce. A foreign Arsenal fan asked the server what he thought the score would be and he replied “3-1 to Arsenal” while I whispered “1-0 Chelsea” to him, but I knew damn well that it would never happen.

We were inside at about 7.30pm. Despite it feeling that Arsenal have had the upper hand over us of late, my last two visits to the Emirates both resulted in Chelsea wins; 2-1 under Frank Lampard in December 2019, 2-0 under Thomas Tuchel in August 2021.

Everyone I spoke to wasn’t confident.

At all.

With my good friend Alan also unable to make it alongside Gary, John and me for this game, I joked that we’d have more space than in the Chelsea defence. In the end, Clive left his seat towards the rear and sat alongside us. It was Clive’s first visit to the Emirates.

The stadium is a grand size and although its undulating top deck is steep, its big failing is the lower tier, relatively far from the pitch and so shallow. I was way down in row five and I knew my view would not be great apart from when the action was within twenty yards of me.

The team was flashed up and it looked like a 4/3/3.

Kepa

Azpilicueta – Fofana – Silva – Chilwell

Kante – Enzo – Kovacic

Madueke – Aubameyang – Sterling

Seeing Dave in the starting eleven was a surprise. An even bigger surprise was the appearance of Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang. Oh, and I don’t think many were too pleased with Raheem Sterling upfront either. But, this was Frank’s team and he would live or die with it. Ask a hundred different Chelsea fans about a starting eleven and the result would probably be a hundred different variations. But you have to wonder why Badiashile, looking so calm and equipped in his appearances thus far, has been dramatically overlooked for weeks, while the impish Mykhailo Mudryk was not chosen on a night when Arsenal would undoubtedly come at us, leaving space to exploit on the counter. Maybe that is where Noni Madueke came in, rewarded with his first start for ages.

Banners were draped from the balconies at both ends. A small section of youngsters, clad in black, have clearly aped the Holmesdale Road Ultras. They were stood at the front of the Clock End and started to wave a few flags, bless’em. They have called themselves, roll on drums, The Ashburton Army, though they resembled an errant boy scout group on this particular evening.

At kick-off, there were a few, but only a few, gaps in the away section. I saw “Gronkjaer” arrive. I only saw one other replica shirt on show in our end the entire night.

As always, we attacked the North Bank in the first-half. Or at least, that is what we tried to do. This wasn’t pretty stuff and although we enjoyed a fair proportion of the ball early on, it was the home team that looked more likely to score.

A mistake from the otherwise immediately impressive N’Golo Kante was not pounced upon by an Arsenal player and the ball was hacked away. Then, a head in the hands moment as Dave headed the ball back to Kepa with an Arsenal striker loitering dangerously. Our ‘keeper saved us.

The Chelsea choir were in good voice.

“Crying in Baku. We saw you crying in Baku.”

On the pitch, Kante was on fire, full of his usual vim and vigour, with his neat control and his ability to knit things together. With Madueke keen to run into spaces on the right, a partnership was forged with surprising ease.

On fourteen minutes, a cross from Granit Xhaka a few yards away on the Arsenal left resulted in a threatening header from Bukayo Saka, but Kepa rose well to save.

Three minutes later, another cross from the left, again from the boot of Xhaka.

Clive : “That’s too easy.”

Martin Odegaard, completely unmarked on the edge of our box, swept it in with a sweet first-time strike and the ball crashed in off the bar. Kepa’s gloves got a touch but the pace beat him. Thiago Silva looked horrified and gesticulated his disdain at what he had witnessed.

Bollocks.

We struggled to get into the game but a fine raking pass from Kante on twenty-four minutes released Ben Chilwell in the inside-left channel. His shot across Aaron Ramsdale gave the ‘keeper an easy ball to swat away past the far post. It was our first shot on goal.

Elsewhere, Aubameyang had hardly touched the ball. Sterling was just as bad. At least Madueke was showing genuine pace and promise, testing his marker and looking dangerous.

Clive lambasted the home fans for nicking Liverpool’s “Allez Allez” chant.

I spotted that in order to combat the regular attacks down our right, Silva had swapped with Dave. Alas, on thirty-one minutes, a carbon-copy move involving Xhaka and Odegaard – inside the box this time – resulted in a second Arsenal goal.

Fackinell.

Just four minutes later, a deep cross from the right from Ben White caused problems at the base of our far post and the ball was eventually stabbed home by Gabriel Jesus.

Shite.

Here was a repeat of 0-3 first-half shellacking that we experienced in September 2016, but Frank Lampard – bless him – is no Antonio Conte and there was never likely to be a seismic shift in shape in the near future. By now, Silva had returned to the centre.

The home fans turned the screw.

“Super Frankie Lampard.”

We stood and took it. This was just horrible. I grimaced. I thought back to the drubbing at Elland Road in September, a very similar feeling. Sigh.

With two minutes to go to the break, Wesley Fofana pushed a finely-weighted ball through an open channel towards the waiting Aubameyang but his control was dismal and the chance was lost.

We howled.

At half-time, a sizeable number of Chelsea supporters left.

This match report is not dedicated to them.

At the break, Lampard changed things a little.

Kai Havertz for the abysmal Aubameyang.

Yes, he had little service but he rarely moved into space, rarely tackled, rarely put players under pressure, rarely jumped for a high ball. Shocking.

Kepa was beaten to a cross soon into the second-half but Silva majestically cleared from the line. Our ‘keeper then redeemed himself with a series of fine saves, mainly down low, and as the second-half progressed we marginally improved.

For some undefinable reason, one song galvanised us all throughout the middle of the second-half…

“He comes from the Ivory Coast, Kalou, Kalou.

He don’t do coke like Adrian Mutu, Mutu.

He crossed the ball from the left.

It landed right on Riise’s head.

That’s why we love Salomon Kalou.”

It came out of nowhere, but kept us going…

On sixty-five minutes, the otherwise quiet – and that’s being polite – Mateo Kovacic spotted a central run from Madueke and picked him out with an exceptional ball. The young English striker prodded the ball, a bouncing bomb, past Ramsdale.

I had a moment of insanity.

“Half an hour to go. Maybe. Just maybe.”

More substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Sterling.

Another shocking showing from Sterling, often seen on this night in North London walking around the park as if he had been told by the club doctor to avoid undue stress and toil.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

I like Enzo, but this was a really poor performance from him and his form has been off for a few weeks. It is, of course, his first few months in a new league and I am definitely prepared to give him time. That’s good of me, innit?

Mudryk especially looked “up for it” as soon as he came on and gave White and a few other defenders a merry dance down our left. Luckily, I was close enough to capture some of his captivating play. This was another fine cameo, on a par with his debut at Anfield. One dribble was pure theatre.

Two final substitutions.

Hakim Ziyech for Madueke.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

In fairness, although some miscreants fucked off at half-time, many more stayed on and the mood in the away end was not as sombre as it really should have been. I felt that the Arsenal crowd were quieter than they ought to have been too.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

Sir Les walked over to watch the last few minutes of the game with me and, at the final whistle, we began the slow walk back to Highbury and Islington tube. The mood among the Arsenal fans was definitely subdued.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

Our walk down the Holloway Road reminded me of my visit to the same street in the late winter of 1983 when I attended an open day – not an interview, oddly – at North London Poly. I remember the faculty buildings being dull and depressing and I thought “how Arsenal”. In that era, Arsenal was the dullest of clubs.

1983, eh?

With a demoralising 0-3 defeat at bottom club Burnley on St. George’s Day 1983, Chelsea Football Club dropped into the relegation zone of the Second Division of the Football League for the first time that season. After a few days of contemplation came the gut-wrenching realisation that my beloved team would – very likely – be unable to avoid the drop and would be playing in the Third Division in 1983/84.

I was so certain of our fate that I even penned this – admittedly terrible – poem about our imminent demise.

“Going Down.”

The time has come I’m sad to say.

We ain’t no good and we’re on our way.

We’ve had some great times and we’ve had some bad.

Now we’re hopeless and I think you’re glad.

Speedie and Walker can’t score goals, Droy’s defence is slack.

And the famous royal blue has turned to fucking black.

The fans are loyal, there ain’t no doubt.

They’ll cheer the blues, they’ll swear, they’ll shout.

But they know they can’t reverse the slide.

When a prick like Alan Mayes is playing in the side.

So, we have to accept the news.

Look what’s happening to the Chelsea Blues.

We’re off to a land Down Under.

When will we be back I wonder?

Can you hear, can you hear that thunder?

You’d better run.

You’d better take cover.

At the arse-end of this horrible season, we had just four league games remaining.

30 April : Rotherham United (H)

2 May : Sheffield Wednesday (H)

7 May : Bolton Wanderers (A)

14 May : Middlesbrough (H)

Luckily, three games were at Stamford Bridge where our overall record was fair-to-middling, winning eight, drawing five and losing five. Sheffield Wednesday were a decent team, but not so the others, with all three right in the relegation mix. So, we had at least some chances to gain points and try to secure safety.

On the Friday before the home game with Rotherham, there was another local party and another dalliance with the elusive Rachel, but that evening did not end well either, despite early promising signs.

Maybe I should have read her my poem.

I had been hoping for a better conclusion because on the Sunday there was a sponsored walk from Frome to Wells and, by some odd twist, Rachel and I had been thrown together as two responsible sixth-formers to head up a group of younger kids on this twenty-two mile walk to raise funds for a charity.

On the Saturday, nursing feelings of regret and sadness at my inability to impress Rachel, I focussed on the radio and score updates coming out of Stamford Bridge. We went behind against Rotherham, Kevin Arnott the scorer, but Clive Walker equalised before half-time. There were no more goals in the second-half and so nothing much had really changed. We still remained third from bottom. The gate of 8,674 was par for the course.

On the walk to Wells the next day, Rachel and I took care of our brood for the first three miles but then went on our separate ways, both of us walking with different sets of mates. I have a very strong recollection of her looking gobsmacked when I told her that I had gone up to London to see Chelsea play Newcastle a fortnight earlier. I am sure she thought that I was deranged. It probably didn’t help my cause.

On the Bank Holiday Monday, I recuperated at home from the sponsored walk and again listened in to score updates from Stamford Bridge on the radio. It was a game that we had to win. I predicted a gate of 10,000. We went ahead via David Speedie in the first-half but perennial poacher Gary Bannister equalised for the visitors in the second-half. The gate was 10,462. The corresponding fixture the previous season drew a healthy 17,033. The shortfall was proof enough of our demise. My diary noted that we had crawled out of the relegation zone, leap-frogging Crystal Palace but they had two games in hand.

With just two games remaining for Chelsea, things still looked bleak. We had, remember, never played in the Third Division in the seventy-eight years of our existence. The season had turned into a real nightmare.

…to be honest, not unlike this one.

Sir Les and I took the Victoria Line to Green Park and then changed onto the Piccadilly to take us back to my waiting car at Barons Court. We reached there at 11pm and I eventually returned home at 1.30am.

Next up, an easier away day.

Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset.

PD, bless him, will be sitting this one out, but Lord Parky and Sir Les will be going. Such is the lure of football, that even in our worst season for decades, there is still a clamour among my friends to get tickets for games, any games, and as I kept saying at the Arsenal match –

“It’s what we do.”

See you there.

Gallery 1 : Pre-Match

Gallery 2 : Match Action

Tales From The Ron Harris Derby

Posted on April 29, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 26 April 2023.

Towards the end of my match report for the recent home game with Real Madrid, I mentioned a comment that Alan had made.

“Fans these days wouldn’t have coped losing 3-0 at Burnley in 1983.”

Let’s hop back forty years, eh?

The immediate aftermath of our 0-2 loss at home to Newcastle United was that a sit-in on the Stamford Bridge pitch involving three-hundred supporters had taken place. I only found out about this once I had returned home. With Charlton Athletic beating Oldham Athletic on the following day, Chelsea were plunged even deeper into the mire. We were fifth from bottom of the Second Division, but with just five points separating the bottom eleven teams, not including Burnley who were adrift right at the very bottom.

There were just five league games left.

Our next game? Burnley away. My thoughts before the game were surely along the lines of “if we can’t get at least a point there, we are in a mess.”

During the week, at a mate’s eighteenth birthday party, I missed an “open goal” chance to get back into Rachel’s affections, and on the Saturday I needed Chelsea to cheer me up. On St. George’s Day 1983, my spirits took a further hit.

We shipped three goals in front of 7,393 at Turf Moor, and we slipped unceremoniously into the relegation zone. Northern Ireland’s hero from the 1982 World Cup Billy Hamilton scored two and Terry Donovan nabbed the other.

My diary was all doom and gloom.

“The problem is that we have been playing so badly recently that I can’t see us beating anyone.”

Sound familiar?

To round off this look at events from forty years ago, Brentford spent 1982/83 in the Third Division, and on the same day that we lost at Burnley, the Bees won 7-1 at Exeter City in front of 2,759. During that season, three former Chelsea players made appearances for them; Graham Wilkins with twenty-eight games, Ron Harris with fourteen games and Peter Borota with three pre-season games. They finished that season in ninth place with an average gate of 6,184.

Ron Harris played all of his 871 games for just Chelsea and Brentford.

2023 is calling…

With no Chelsea match at the weekend, I took advantage of the gap in our schedule and drove down to Tavistock in deepest Devon for Frome Town’s last league game of the season. Despite an under-par season, a recent run of very fine performances had put the team with an outside chance of sneaking into the last remaining play-off spot. In an entertaining game, Frome lost 4-3 and thus our hopes of the play-offs were extinguished. So, my local team’s season is over. It was my busiest ever; eleven home games, nine away. I can’t say the football has been too enjoyable, but I absolutely adore the connection with my home town. Here’s to 2023/24.

It was another early shift for me on Wednesday 26 April before our local derby with Brentford. I was up at 4.45am, and I headed to London at 2.15pm. None of us in the car were optimistic for a Chelsea win. Remembering the 1-4 loss at home to Brentford just over a year previously, we all knew that this would be a tough fixture.

Irrespective of the short term and long term future of our club, I just wanted us to win for Frank. I remember the joy on his face when he took charge a few weeks ago, and just wanted us to get a win to take some of the heat off him.

I also wanted a win for my own sanity.

But as the kick-off time approached, I was not hopeful at all.

I was parked up at 4.30pm. PD, Parky and I popped into the Italian eatery next to The Goose again, then decamped into the pub to meet up with a few friends from afar. Pals from Jacksonville were in town – the returning Cindy, Jennifer and Brian plus the Chelsea virgin Mckenzie – and Johnny Twelve Teams was with a few mates from Los Angeles.

Pride of place, though, went to our friend John from Ohio – with his wife Nichole on a delayed honeymoon – who was visiting England for the first time since 2009. While John studied at Reading University for a few months, we took him under our wing. His first ever game at Stamford Bridge was sitting next to Lovejoy in the East Lower as Frank Lampard scored a last minute winner against Stoke City. Memorably, the recently departed Lovejoy slept through virtually the entire game, his predilection for red wine having a devastating effect.

We tried to work out how many games John attended back in 2009. Apart from Stoke, there were home games with Middlesbrough and Juventus plus an away game at Anfield. I last saw John in Ann Arbor for the Real Madrid friendly in 2016. It was a joy to see him again. I managed to get tickets for Nichole and John in the West Lower, the same ones used by two sets of Stateside friends already this season. I met a couple from Raleigh – Shel and Tiffany – for the first time and despite them sharing my loathing of the upcoming game against Wrexham in their home state, I completely forgave them for attending the game at Chapel Hill as the stadium is just fifteen minutes from their house. Fair play.

Clive was unable to attend this one, and I eventually managed to sell his season ticket to a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.

Tomasz was originally from Lodz in Poland and now lives in West London, not far from Brentford in fact. In his home city, he supported Widzew Lodz but is known as “Chelsea” and I liked that. I quickly contacted my mate Jaro in Virginia, originally from near Warsaw. It quickly transpired that they shared a mutual friend.

Small world this football lark.

I knew that there would be gaps-a-plenty on this evening of mid-table football. I was inside at about 7.30pm and the Bridge was indeed taking a while to fill up. The team didn’t raise much of a smile.

Kepa

Fofana – Silva – Chalobah

Azplicueta – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Kante – Gallagher

Sterling

Or something like that.

If I was an expert on tactics and formations I would be able to rip this starting eleven to shreds, but I am a mere supporter so I won’t.

In the MHU, I was part of a flat four.

Chris – Tomasz – Alan – PD

The game began with tons of visible blue seats dotted around the stadium.

Brentford, in a rather fetching simple kit – unchanged from last season, top marks – began the brighter and made a few early forays into our defensive ranks. It took a long wait until the thirteenth minute for our first real attack of note. We broke well, and Ben Chilwell found himself in a high position on our left, and I had spotted Raheem Sterling intelligently peeling away from his marker into space at the far post. Alas, the cross to him was poor and a defender cleared.

On nineteen minutes, with N’Golo Kante playing in a very forward position, he lost his man with a beautiful feint. It was almost Hazard-esque, a beautiful dip and shimmy. Soon after a shot from the same man was deflected over. His play would be the highlight of a pretty dire first-half.

A Thiago Silva header was easily saved by David Raya.

Midway through that pedestrian first period, Chilwell took two similar corners down in Parkyville. They both failed to clear the first man. With each one, the groans of disbelief were fully audible.

“Our corners have no zip, no curve, no dip, no pace.”

They just flop into the six-yard box.

I spoke to Budgie in the row in front :

“I am no golfer but they remind me of when a ball ends up in the rough and a golfer just chips it out safely back onto the fairway.”

Fackinell.

On the half-hour mark, a good move involving a burst from Kante found Enzo in an advanced position but his curler was saved by Raya and it went over for a corner. There were ironic cheers when Chilwell, on more corner duties, managed to get the ball into the six-yard box.

A Sterling curler went high and wide. Soon after the same player just couldn’t reach an early free-kick zipped in by Enzo.

I spotted that Frank was sitting on the bench, instead of cajoling his troops from a standing position. This saddened me. This wasn’t going the way that many of us had hoped. At the time of Frank’s rehiring, there was a split among our support about the decision; from memory there were more for than against.

On thirty-six minutes, a rare Brentford attack resulted in a corner down below me. Sadly, my camera caught the moment that the ball was lofted in, with a melee of players jumping. This seemed to be in slow motion. The ball hit Dave’s thigh and flew past Kepa.

Chelsea 0 Brentford 1.

Our confidence was hit. The otherwise impressive Kante, the one positive, wildly over hit a cross from the right and the crowd experienced an “et tu Brute?”

The Brentford fans had changed their previous anthem about Fulham to a new one…

“Chelsea get battered everywhere they go.”

Next, a cross from Dave was over hit.

There were a few unappetising and lazy shots from us from distance.

Then a first. With half-time approaching, Albert, sitting in the row in front, pointed out to me that the bloke next to him was watching the Manchester City vs. Arsenal game on his mobile ‘phone.

Fuck sake.

There were boos at the half-time whistle.

Ugh…that’s not for me.

There was a quick chat with JD at the break :

“Pochettino? We will be lucky to entice anyone to this shit show right now.”

There were changes at the start of the second-half.

Off : Conor and Dave.

On : Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang and Mykhailo Mudryk.

It eventually dawned on me that we had shape-shifted to a 4/3/3.

Aubameyang has been a bust at Chelsea, for whatever reason, but for those first opening moments of the new half, it felt good to have a presence, a target, loitering around up front. The crowd reacted nicely to an upturn in our performance. Even Sterling seemed to be more energised, more active, though an upgrade on his first-half showing would not have been difficult to achieve.

A Chalobah cross eventually found Kante, but his shot was another wasteful one, zipping well wide of the far post.

Eight minutes into the second-half, a neat Aubameyang twist and turn but a shot straight at the Brentford ‘keeper. Just after, a fine pass from Thiago Silva found Sterling at the far post. His header found the leap of Aubameyang but his header from close in, under pressure from Raya, was always ending up above the bar.

“Carefree” boomed resiliently out from the Matthew Harding. I was grateful for this as I always am. Too many times we sit in silence. The bloke in front had put his mobile ‘phone away too.

On fifty-eight minutes, a free-kick from Mudryk was glanced wide by Silva. The Ukrainian was showing signs of promise and positive intent even though it appeared that his shoe-laces were tied together; very often his first-touch was wayward and he needed to work hard to keep possession. That fine debut at Anfield seems distant, eh?

A decent pass through the middle found Aubameyang but his shot was ridiculously weak. At that exact moment in time he looked the player that our managers had witnessed, presumably, at Cobham for so long this season.

On seventy-one minutes, a break down Brentford’s left was thwarted by a sliding tackle from Sterling who had tracked back – hold the back page – and he was roundly applauded for it.

The game continued but time was running out. Kante had tired from his fine show in the first-half. Enzo was having a quiet one; one of his worst in Chelsea blue.

Alas, on seventy-seven minutes, camera ready, I photographed the substitute Bryan Mbeumo and Mads Roerslev running unhindered down our left-flank. I had spotted two Brentford players free at the back post, but Mbeumo had no intention to pass. He cut inside – “butter, meet hot knife” – and slammed the ball high past Kepa. I saw it clearly. It was a hot knife to my heart. It was, unbelievably, the visitors’ only shot on goal during the entire game.

Fackinell.

More spectators left.

More substitutions.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Joao Felix for Enzo.

A wild errant pass from Kovacic caused the mass tipping of seats and an even greater exodus.

Brentford : “Frankie Lampard we want you to stay.”

Chelsea : “Frankie Lampard, he’s won more than you.”

The game drifted away, as did more and more of the support.

In a tale of two Franks, the Brentford manager had prevailed. This was a game that we clearly should have won. Yet again, we lack someone to finish. It hurts writing this every bloody week.

Stoney-faced, I sloped out and met up with a few of the overseas visitors at the Peter Osgood statue. I apologised to Nichole and John for such a rotten performance. The days of Frank Lampard as a player – so memorable for John – seem so distant. John was pragmatic though.

“Nah, it was all about seeing you and Parky.”

Bless.

I met up with the Jacksonville group and the couple from North Carolina. We didn’t know quite what to say about the performance.

But plenty did.

There was much wailing.

It dawned on me that a sizeable amount of our core support seems to have seamlessly morphed from level-headed types who acknowledged our rather underwhelming trophy haul in our first one hundred years and revelled in the joy of each new trophy into consistently annoyed individuals who demand continuous improvement.

That’s quite an achievement.

I was one of the thousands that has experienced a less successful time in our history, personified by this season long look at 1982/83, and I am eternally grateful for the perspective that this have given me in these relatively troubled times. However, many other teams – too many to mention, in fact most other teams – have experienced much less than us since 1983, certainly since 1997. That’s not to say all of these defeats don’t hurt.

And they hurt in 1983 too.

There will be lean spells. It’s only natural. This season is the worst since many a year. Alas there is no quick fix here. We need to get to the end of this season – unbelievably there is still another month of it left – and then the owners need to act. Or maybe before. There are rumours that Mauricio Pochettino is on the cusp of signing.

Our next game is at Arsenal and it is sadly likely that I will be writing a similar rallying-cry at the end of that match report too.

See you there.

2009 & 2023

Tales From The Last Supper

Posted on April 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Real Madrid : 18 April 2023.

In order to get everybody up to Chelsea in good time, I needed to work another early shift. The alarm was set for 4.30am. This would be another long day following The Great Unpredictables

It’s odd the things that go through people’s minds first thing in the morning, eh? I had barely been fully awake a minute or two, but as I started to clean my teeth, my mind was already focussed on the game with Real Madrid. And, for the first time ever – probably – I pondered the “Real” part of their name. Well, it means “royal” right? I quickly came up with a buzz-phrase for the evening’s entertainment.

The Royal Blue of London versus the White of Royal Madrid.

And I was on my way. Off to work, an eight-hour shift, then a meet up with PD, Parky and Ron at just after 2pm, with thoughts of the game haunting our immediate future.

I just hoped that we wouldn’t get royally fucked.

I dropped Ron off at the bottom end of the North End Road so he could join Gary Chivers, Johnny Bumstead, Colin Pates, Kerry Dixon, Paul Canoville and David Lee in their corporate pre-match entertaining. The remaining three of us parked up and made a bee-line for “Norbros Pizzeria” – shite name, great food – which I use occasionally before mid-week games. I had booked a table for five o’clock but we were there early.

We hadn’t talked much about the imminent game. Why would we? Did anyone think we could turn it around? Not me. Not PD. Not Parky. In fact, to be brutally frank, I have rarely looked forward to a second leg at Stamford Bridge less. With our rapidly diminishing chances of partaking in UEFA competition – of any nature, even the rightly ridiculed Europa Conference – in 2023/24, this night of exotic European football seemed like it would be the last for some time.

With this in mind, I quickly termed our meal in deepest Fulham as “the last supper.”

The food was fine though; bruschetta and prawns, rice balls, chicken and mushrooms, spaghetti Bolognese and a pizza. They all managed to hit the spot, several in fact.

We popped into “The Goose” and bumped into a few faces from near and far. We then skipped down to “Simmons” to see others. The mood in both pubs was pretty sombre.

Inside the stadium, flags had been left by each seat and I knew that not many would be taking up the chance to “flag-wave” in our section. It seemed old hat in 2007, let alone now. Let the tourists in the Shed Lower and the West Lower do all that.

I briefly spoke to Oxford Frank.

“We will know we are in a bad way if Eden Hazard comes on to play during the second-half…”

The team that Frank chose didn’t seem to inspire many and I found it odd that Conor was our man supporting Kai. The midfield was certainly packed though. We had quality in some areas, not others.

If a curate’s egg was a football team…

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Fofana

James – Kante – Enzo – Kovavic – Cucarella

Gallagher – Havertz

An unpalatable part of the pre-game smorgasbord of images and sounds that UEFA foist upon us these days is a short segment of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Sod that.

This felt like a Champions League evening but only just. There was not the sense of occasion that was present in the air last season. And this is what the morons who were looking to foist a “closed shop” / US style Super League on us in 2021 always fail to recognise; that familiarity can breed boredom, even at the top table. For starters, there were clearly less Madridistas in The Shed than last season, down to 1,500 from 2,000 from memory. I guess Chelsea had been “ticked off” last season and the thrill of a “new ground” was not so big. However, I am sure that there were many Spaniards – and other nationalities too, my immediate boss is a Real Madrid fan from Latvia – dotted around the home areas. PD had arrived in the seats earlier than me and he commented that when the Madrid team took to the pitch for pre-match drills, a noticeable buzz came out of the Matthew Harding.

Sod that too.

We attacked the Matthew Harding in the first-half, never my preferred option. As the game got underway, it was a joy to be part of a noisier than usual crowd inside the stadium.

It was a lively start from both teams, but there was an early concern when Vinicius Junior showed Reece James the ball, then easily side-stepped him in a move of blinding speed and execution. Thankfully the cross did not hurt us. He looked a major threat in Madrid so we prayed that Reece could stay closer to him throughout this game.

Soon – almost too soon, “give the bloke a break” I chuckled to myself – the MHL were on to the visiting goalkeeper. However, Thibaut didn’t seem too bothered by the name calling.

On ten minutes, Alan opened up his packet of “lucky Maynard’s” and we chewed away. I felt like saying we might need several packets.

Soon after, a cross from James was half-cleared and the ball fell invitingly to N’Golo Kante, who rather stabbed at it and the ball bounced down and wide of Thibaut Courtois’ post. We groaned. But Stamford Bridge remained noisy. Despite a persistent cough and a thick head, I was bellowing away with the best of them.

“I’ll regret this in the morning…”

Our corners were mainly shite, though eh? One down below us from James got us all howling.

The noise kept up.

“Super Super Frank, Super Frankie Lampard.”

On twenty minutes, we gave them too much space, allowing Dani Carvajal to pass to Rodrygo who slammed a fierce shot against a post.

More song.

“Oh Tiago Silva.”

We continued to create half chances, and I was pleased with our application and drive. However, a terrible Enzo free-kick had us all wailing again. Thiago Silva then prodded a lob almost apologetically at Courtois.

We were half-way through the first-half.

“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC…”

There was a worrying burst from Vinicius but his shot was saved. Kepa then thwarted a shot from Luca Modric at his near post. I was relatively happy with our general play and the way that the noise kept up. Even Marc Cucarella was half-decent. I whispered to Clive :

“We are playing OK but this is our limit.”

With the end of the first-half approaching, Conor Gallagher made a fine run between two defenders but Enzo – new hair colour, new pink boots – over hit the ball.

On forty-two minutes, a lightning break caught us out but Karim Benzema, rather quiet thus far, overstretched and missed.

Right on half-time, a James cross found Cucarella at the far post. He took a touch, allowing Courtois to readjust. His powerful shot was miraculously saved by our former player. I turned away from the action in disgust.

Fackinell.

At the start of the game, we needed to score two goals – the bare minimum – in ninety minutes. We now needed to score two in forty-five minutes. I wasn’t hopeful. Was anyone?

There was applause for Antonio Rudiger, replacing David Alaba, at the start of the second-half. The game began again and it was a lively few minutes. I was frustrated to see Kai Havertz often appearing on the right when he was needed further inside. However, six minutes into the re-start, his fine cross caused panic in the Madrid box. It was headed out and Gallagher headed it back, but Kante’s shot was blocked by Eder Militao.

Another terrible free-kick from Reece got us all venting.

A roller from Enzo went wide.

We had a good little spell.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

A low shot from Havertz was easily saved. Oh for a cutting edge.

Then, on fifty-eight minutes, a lightning break and a failed Trevoh Chalobah slide to rob the breaking Rodrygo. He advanced and reached the goal-line before playing the ball in. Benzema fell over himself, but Vinicius was able to play the ball back to Rodrygo who had continued his run. He slotted it in easily.

We were down 0-3.

Bollocks. This was particularly annoying as we had seemed invigorated.

The half-chances continued.

A grass cutter from Gallagher at Courtois. A shot from Enzo at him again.

OH FOR A FUCKING CUTTING EDGE.

On sixty-five minutes, Real waltzed into our box but a weak shot from Benzema was easily saved. Their striker was having a quiet game.

Soon after, a plethora of substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo.

Joao Felix for Gallagher.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Cucarella.

I tried to work out who was playing where. It was a mite confused. A shot from James was blocked and we then admired a nice shimmy from Mudryk, but he skied it.

The Madrid fans were not the noisiest that have ever appeared at Stamford Bridge. Using my telephoto lens to zoom in on them all, they hardly looked the most intimidating bunch of individuals.

Despite being 0-3 down on aggregate, I loved it that virtually nobody in the home sections had left.

Proper Chelsea.

Mason Mount for Havertz.

Right after, a way-too-easy advance from Vinicius down below me resulted in a pull back towards that man Rodrygo who pushed the ball home easily.

We were down 0-4.

Now people left.

Improper Chelsea.

Alan mentioned how spoilt we have become and dropped in a reference from forty-years ago into the mix.

“Fans these days wouldn’t have coped losing 3-0 at Burnley in 1983.”

More of that later.

Our task was always going to be a supremely tough one. We had not been humiliated. To be truthful, it certainly appeared that Real had not moved out of second gear over the two legs. He is a wily old fox, that Carlo Ancelotti.

On ninety minutes, the home support still sang.

“We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.”

I took a photo of virtually the last kick of the game and shared it on Facebook.

“Over and out.”

So, 1983.

On Saturday 16 April 1983, I travelled up by National Express bus from Bath to Victoria Bus Station for the home game against Newcastle United. This would be my fourth and final game of this particular season. Amid the worry of the upcoming “A Level” exams, the day ought to have been a relaxing side-show…

Going in to the game, Chelsea were in fifteenth place, six places behind the visitors. With Kevin Keegan revitalising Newcastle, their league campaign had not lived up to the pre-season expectation. At the top of the table, QPR, Wolves and Fulham were in the three automatic places. I had hoped for a gate of 15,000 but fully expected one of around 12,000 to assemble at Stamford Bridge.

My diary tells me that – presumably to save money – I walked to and from Stamford Bridge, along the Kings Road, full of shoppers and punks. It was a lovely sunny day.

The team lined up as below –

Iles

Jones – Droy – Pates – Hutchings

Rhoades-Brown – Bumstead – Fillery – Canoville

Speedie – Lee

The visitors included some decent players; alongside Keegan were Imre Varadi, Terry McDermott, David McCreery and Chris Waddle. During the game, Keith Jones – yes, him – replaced Paul Canoville.

I remember that I wore the 1981 to 1983 replica shirt to the match.

“We started OK but when Keegan scored a penalty, it knocked the stuffing out of us. Mike Fillery was unrecognisable. Colin Lee played quite well. Keegan was the best player on the pitch; he was a bundle of energy. Newcastle played the more controlled football but we had more possession.”

After Keegan scored a first-half penalty at The Shed, Varadi made it two-nil to the visitors in the second-half. By then, the mood had deteriorated, with calls for John Neal’s resignation being heard in The Shed. One chap in front of me kept singing :

“Eddie McCreadie’s Blue & White Army.”

I also heard “One Man Went To Mow” at a game for the very first time.

At the game, I kept with my guess of 12,000. There were quite a few visitors – two pens from memory – and the East Lower was quite full, but The Shed not particularly. The actual gate was 13,466.

In the programme there was a letter from one of our greatest-ever supporters Ron Hockings, whose attendance at the Fulham away game had marked his 1,400^th Chelsea game. He had seen 877 at home and 523 away. I can only imagine the awe that I must have had for such numbers as a seventeen-year-old Chelsea fan in Somerset.

Back at Victoria, the place was swarming with Brighton fans after their 2-1 win against Sheffield Wednesday at Highbury in their FA Cup semi-final. In the other semi, Manchester United had defeated Arsenal by the same score at Villa Park. Chelsea seemed well and truly down the pecking order. We could only dream of FA Cup semi-finals; our next one would still be eleven years away. On the coach trip home, I was of course pretty depressed about the state of our club. The Third Division was definitely beckoning. I was at a low ebb.

Next up – in 1983, that game at Burnley, in 2023 a home game against Brentford.

See you there.

1982/83 & 2022/23

Tales From Another Tough Watch

Posted on April 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 15 April 2023.

Just as I was driving away from my usual parking space at Chelsea after the game with Brighton, I summed things up to PD in the seat alongside me :

“Out-played, out-shot, out-fought, out-thought.”

In a season of sub-par performances, this perhaps had been the worst of the lot. No positives at all? It certainly bloody felt like it. I will come back to the game later but as there is a lot to get through in this ramble I had best begin.

Shall we do things chronologically again?

The next game to feature in my retrospective look at our worst-ever season, 1982/83, is our away match at Boundary Park, the home of perennial Second Division battlers Oldham Athletic. This encounter was played on Saturday 9 April 1983 and came on the back of a four-game winless streak for John Neal’s troops. My diary noted that the game kicked-off at 2pm. Perhaps this was a result of that afternoon’s televised Grand National which, from memory, used to start around 4pm. Clubs were so desperate for spectators in those days that I suspect that this was the reason. Regardless, the match was really poorly attended; just 4,923 showed up. I often hear talk of us taking thousands to away games in those days. I suspect that it wasn’t the case on this occasion.

At the time, Oldham Athletic were stacked full of former Manchester City players and were managed by the former City striker Joe Royle. Playing for the Latics on this occasion were Kenny Clements, Tony Henry and Roger Palmer. Not involved on this day were Paul Futcher and Ged Keegan. All of these players had previously turned out for Manchester City.

At half-time, the score was 1-1, at full-time it ended up 2-2. Mercurial midfielder Mike Fillery scored both, with one from the penalty spot. The Chelsea team included debutant Paul Williams, a young central defender, who only ever played this one game in our colours. After the match, we dropped two places to fifteenth in the twenty-two team division. We had six games left to play with four being at home, yet were just two points off a relegation place.

I, and many thousands of others, were worried. We were barely limping along as the end of the season approached.

My diary the day after the Oldham game mentions my thoughts :

“All of a sudden, things are looking really desperate. Only now does relegation seem a possibility. I hadn’t really considered it to any depth until today.”

Despite all of this, I was definitely excited to be attending our next fixture, a home match with Newcastle United, only my fourth “live” game of the season. I was still at school and I had only worked a couple of Saturdays in my father’s shop that season so every spare bit of pocket money, Christmas money and ad hoc gifts from relatives were saved up with such frugality that I rarely spent any extra money on anything else. An occasional illegal beer on a night out, quaffed slowly, was really my only other expenditure. These were definitely simpler times but Chelsea was everything to me. The game against the Geordies, on Saturday 16 April, could not come quick enough.

As a quick aside, on the preceding Thursday I had met up with a couple of Canadian relatives who were touring England at the time. My father’s cousin Mary was chaperoning her daughter Marina on a school band trip. I met Marina for the first time one evening in nearby Bath. I, sadly, already knew that Marina was a Manchester United supporter. She kindly presented me with a Chelsea scarf, but also a few of Vancouver Whitecap items. Marina and both her parents were Whitecaps season ticket holders. No doubt I tut-tutted when I saw Marina wearing an actual United shirt. Anyway, for reasons beast known to Marina, she had been wearing the Chelsea scarf on her travels around England but the coach driver had warned her to take it off as she would get beaten up. This, I thought, was a bit excessive, but no doubt fed into the narrative of Chelsea Football Club being famous, only, for hooliganism in 1983.

Fast-forwarding to 2023, I have three games to mention.

On Bank holiday Monday, I watched Frome Town defeat local rivals Melksham Town 2-1, winning the game with a last-minute goal from Jon Davies in front of 491.

On the Wednesday, I watched at home on my computer as Chelsea lost 0-2 against Real Madrid at the Bernabeu. Such is my level of expectancy at the moment that I was relatively happy that we didn’t get beaten more heavily.

Then, on Thursday evening I returned to see Frome Town defeat strugglers Cinderford Town 5-1. This game attracted 425, a gate helped by a fine sponsorship deal involving local businesses allowing fans to enter for free. The football against Melksham and Cinderford was the best all season and, as daft as it now seemed, Frome now have an outside chance of sneaking into the last two play-off positions, currently held by Wimborne Town and Tavistock.

On the morning of the Brighton game at Stamford Bridge, a sizeable part of me wished that I was staying in Somerset to see a third Frome game in six days, another derby against Paulton Rovers.

But Chelsea was calling.

As often is the case, the pre-match was far more enjoyable than the main event. I met up with Ollie from Normandy once again and also my Brighton mate Mac and two of his friends Barry and Guy. We enjoyed a fine time in “The Eight Bells.” I arrived at about midday. PD and Parky were already there. Salisbury Steve would join us too. We just about fitted around a table.

Ollie told me that he much prefers the older stadia in England as opposed to the new ones. He is yet to visit The Emirates and has no desire to do so. He much prefers the likes of Goodison Park, Fratton Park and Selhurst Park. We promised each other to meet up at Turf Moor next season.

Mac and I are soon celebrating ten years of friendship; we started chatting about football in a Manhattan bar in late May 2013 and have kept in touch ever since. Our two teams play, ironically, in the US in July. I, for one, won’t be there. Barry asked me for advice about travelling to Wembley as they are playing Manchester United in an FA Cup semi-final next weekend. This ties in nicely with my 1982/83 retrospective as in that season’s FA Cup Final, Brighton took eventual winners Manchester United to a replay.

It honestly didn’t seem six months ago that we were all drinking in Lewes before that shocking 1-4 defeat at the Amex. And who would have thought that both of our teams would now be hosting Argentinian World Cup winners?

Alexis Mac Allister – no relation – I would realise, was playing for Boca Juniors at the time that I saw them play Atletico Tucamen in January 2020, although he did not take part in that particular game. On the previous night, however, I did see his brother Francis play for Argentinos Juniors against Lanus.

Like me, Mac gets no thrills from watching England play these days. And also like me, he hardly watches football on TV if it doesn’t involve his team. His wife can’t understand it.

“But you are a football fan. Why don’t you watch?”

“I’m a Brighton fan.”

I had a knowing chuckle.

And I summed up my reluctance to get emotionally involved with England these days.

“Why bother watching millionaires who play for teams I hate?”

My bluntness shocked me, God knows what the others thought.

We made our way to Putney Bridge tube, Ollie’s Army, an updated version of Oliver’s Army.

“The boys from Somerset, Wiltshire, Sussex and Normandy…”

The rain had held off; the sun was out. I was in at around 2.30pm, perfect.

Frank’s starting eleven?

Kepa

Chalobah – Fofana – Badiashile – Chilwell

Enzo – Zakaria – Gallagher

Pulisic – Sterling – Mudryk

A few question marks there. The forward line certainly didn’t thrill me. And a return to a flat-back four? Righty-oh.

The new pre-match of Blur, Harry J. All-Stars and – er – the Foo Fighters.

A sign was unfurled in The Shed.

“WELCOME HOME SUPER FRANK.”

But this was as low key as it gets.

Not many people that I spoke to expected a win. I have been saying all season long that our position does not lie and that Brentford, Fulham and Brighton are better than us. I still could not see where a goal was coming from. It was four games in a row now. I mentioned our horrific end to 1980/81 to a few souls; “nine games with not one single goal.”

Gulp.

There was no emotional backdrop of noise welcoming Frank Lampard back at Stamford Bridge. I’ll admit that it seemed odd, super-odd, to be seeing him in navy blue in front of the East Stand once more, our first sighting since the Everton game slightly more than three years ago. What a crazy time it has been since.

COVID, football behind closed doors, Lampard sacked, Tuchel in, European Cup glory, a war in Ukraine, sanctions, Roman Abramovich ousted, reduced-capacities, Lampard to Everton, Clearlake in, Billy Gimour to Brighton, Levi Colwell to Brighton, Marc Cucarella to Chelsea, Tuchel sacked, Potter to Chelsea, De Zerbi to Brighton, Chelsea walloped at Brighton 4-1, Lampard sacked at Everton, Potter sacked at Chelsea, Lampard returning to Chelsea, Tottenham still shite.

Football, eh? Fackinell.

The game began with Brighton looking the most-threatening in the opening spell. After just two minutes, I thought they had scored via Kaoru Mitoma but cross was touched wide at the near post by Mac Allister.

In a very open start to the game, a Mykhailo Mudryk run from deep promised much before he was felled unceremoniously by Joel Veltman. There then followed a cross from Mudryk that was deflected away for a corner by Lewis Dunk. The Ukranian then followed this up with a shot from thirty yards that went wide.

Next, breathless stuff this, a chance for Brighton with the goal gaping but wide. They then hit the bar a minute later, Evan Ferguson digging one out from outside the box. Trevoh Chalobah and Benoit Badiashile were looking nervous in their first starts for a while.

On ten minutes, the first “Super Frank” chant but it was hardly deafening.

On fourteen minutes, probably against the run of play, Mudryk broke in from the left, advanced, and played the ball back to Conor Gallagher. His strike was on target but hit Lewis Dunk – the own goal king a few years ago – and spun high and over Robert Sanchez in the Brighton goal.

Bloody hell, a goal, I hardly knew how to react.

Phew.

We had spoken about getting a little luck to break our recent drought and this was just right. Conor reeled away, a former Palace player, and celebrated in front of the Albion fans.

Sadly, we didn’t push on and Kepa soon had to be called into action to thwart the away team’s advances. Twice in a minute he saved us. First, he claimed a high ball into the six-yard box and then ran out to block.

On twenty-five minutes, the elusive Mitoma slalomed into the box but Kepa did ever so well to save low.

The atmosphere was quiet. I was yet to join in with anything.

On the half-hour, three more Brighton chances. A really fine break at pace carved through our lines but the end result flew wide. Another shot was blocked. Then Kepa saved well from point blank range, a Ferguson header palmed over.

This was turning into a very ropey Chelsea performance indeed. On thirty-seven minutes, a rare attack saw Wesley Fofana cross from the right, but it was slightly too high for Raheem Sterling to either head goal wards or properly steer the ball back to Mudryk.

Just before the break, Brighton moved the ball well and a hanging cross came in from the right. I was hoping that Chalobah would be able to head away, but the ball fell between him and Fofana, and new substitute Danny Welbeck pounced.

1-1.

My sadness temporarily evaporated when a friend messaged me to say that Frome had gone 2-0 up against Paulton. As I shouted over to PD with this information, no doubt with a smile, I was filled with absolute guilt.

The away support boomed loudly.

“ALBION! ALBION!”

Just before the whistle, a fine move from us but a save from Sanchez at the near stick.

At least there were no boos at half-time.

At the break, Gary Cahill, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink and Eidur Gudjohnsen appeared on the pitch, promoting the good work carried out by the Samaritans.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Eidur and Jimmy were a fine partnership up front for us. My God, how I wished one of them, or even both, could lose twenty years and parachute into the current squad.

I took a photo as they exited the pitch down below me.

The second-half began. There were no substitutions.

Early on, Kepa needed to be called into action again, saving well on two occasions. There was a fine diagonal out to Ben Chilwell down below us but although he advanced well, his shot was weak.

Chalobah raked the shin of a Brighton player and was booked. This elicited the humorous response from Brighton : “You dirty northern bastards.”

Our play just wasn’t joined up.

On fifty-seven minutes, a quadruple change.

Reece James for Fofana.

Hakim Ziyech for Pulisic.

Mateo Kovacic for Enzo.

Joao Felix for Sterling.

I was only disappointed with the Enzo substitution, but I suspected that the Argentinian was being saved for Tuesday against Real Madrid. Still four at the back.

This new injection of players seemed to wake the crowd up from our collective slumber.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

At last I joined in.

My poor performance had mirrored that of virtually all of the players.

Just after, there was a mix-up between James and Chalobah on our right and we were pickpocketed. Julio Enciso’s shot slammed against a post but Welbeck could not touch home the rebound.

It was all Brighton. All the tackles. All the movement. All the passing. We were being given a horrible lesson in team work.

PD chirped : “I’ve got Samaritans on speed dial.”

With sixty-five minutes gone, at last we perked up a little. A shot from Kovacic was blocked by that man Dunk. At long last, the noise boomed around a sunny Stamford Bridge and it was a joy to hear.

However, all this was to be deadened. On sixty-nine minutes, a wonder strike from Enciso gave the visitors an absolutely deserved lead. We had given the ball away cheaply and the resultant rising shot was magnificent.

Brighton had never won at Stamford Bridge before. The scorer celebrated in front of their supporters. I strongly suspected that this would be their first victory.

A few minutes later, Mason Mount replaced Zakaria.

I turned to Clive : “you wouldn’t even know he was playing would you?”

On seventy-eight minutes, an enlivened Mudryk broke away and reached the bye-line but appeared to play the ball too far behind our attackers. The low ball found Mount but he leaned back and the ball flew high over the bar.

Neat interplay allowed Gallagher – out best outfield player – to wriggle in to the box but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Reece drilled in a beautiful cross into the six-yard box but sadly Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was nowhere to be seen.

In the last minute, Mudryk cut in and sent a riser just over. To be fair, he had shown very occasional glimpses throughout the game. I haven’t given up on him just yet.

The away fans were the only ones singing now.

“We are Brighton, super Brighton. We are Brighton from the south.”

At the final whistle, boos.

This was yet another tough watch and it seemed that virtually all of our games this season – Tuchel, Potter, Lampard – have been a tough watch.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about the club’s choice to play “Three Little Birds” as we trudged out. Better than the fucking Foo Fighters, I suppose.

So, were there any pluses from the day? Kepa had played well, saving us on many occasions. But this was a rare positive. If he was a 7, maybe Gallagher was a 6, maybe Mudryk a 5, with everyone else 4 or less. It was grim. And by the time I had reached home – early, at 8.30pm – the internet was full of supporters getting off on ripping into Lampard – some were actually enjoying it as far as I could see – while some were talking about boycotting the remaining games. I honestly didn’t know what to make of it.

In the midst of this gloom, I saw that Tottenham lost at home to Bournemouth, so that raised a smile..

Frome won 2-0 in front of another gate of 491. It had meant that the club had enticed 1,407 into three home games over just six days; a fine achievement. While Chelsea play Real Madrid on Tuesday, Frome will visit already promoted Totton.

Don’t worry, I will be at Stamford Bridge.

Bring a hard hat. See you there.

1982/83 & 2022/23

Tales From Another Draw With Liverpool

Posted on April 7, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 April 2023.

While I was finishing off the closing sentences of my match report for the Aston Villa game on Sunday evening, PD sent me a brief message :

“Potter sacked.”

I suspect that I experienced the same initial thoughts as many Chelsea supporters.

“Blimey, they did it then? So much for a long-term project.”

“Didn’t even wait until Monday.”

“I never really warmed to the bloke at all.”

“What next, then, Chelsea?”

While we all pondered the next long-term – ha – appointment at Stamford Bridge, there was the matter of a home game with Liverpool seeking immediate attention for those within the club. However, to be blunt, I was hardly thrilled at the prospect of this one. In fact, as the three of us drove towards London – alas no Parky on this occasion – I remember thinking that I had never been less excited about a Chelsea versus Liverpool game at Stamford Bridge.

We were still seeking cohesiveness, and a goal, any goal. Liverpool, recently walloped at Manchester City after giving a bigger walloping to Manchester United a few weeks back, were as hot and cold as it is possible to be. Secretly, I feared the worst.

I was parked up at around 4.45pm. PD and I began the evening with an al fresco Italian meal outside a fully booked restaurant next to The Goose on the North End Road. The linguini and the gnocchi went down well and set us both up for the evening ahead. Towards the end of our meal, a chap plotted up at an adjacent table and immediately began telling us his bloody life story. Yes, one of those annoying buggers. Soon into his rabbit, he told us he was a Fulham supporter. My reaction was immediate :

“Poor bugger.”

It seemed that our decades of dominance over Fulham in this localalised battle had enforced an opinion in my consciousness of superiority over our less successful neighbours. I was going to call them “little neighbours” but even I am not that condescending. And yet, as we were to hit the last ten games of the league season, we are below Fulham, and have only taken one miserly point from the two games against them. I have said it for weeks that we are easily the third best team in West London at the moment. The league table does not lie and other clichés.

Forty years ago, we were embroiled in a couple of games that took place in West London. Let’s go back to 1983 again.

On Saturday 2 April, we played a Second Division game at Fulham’s Craven Cottage. Fulham, for once, were enjoying a far better season than us and were bona fide promotion contenders under manager Malcolm Macdonald, who was born in Fulham, and who was forging a fine team involving Ray Houghton, Gordon Davies and Dean Coney along with ex-Chelsea midfielder Ray Lewington. We drew 1-1 with both goals coming in the first-half. Paul Canoville scored for us in front of the Chelsea supporters in the Putney End with a fine volley at the far post from a corner. Kevin Lock, the ex-West Ham defender, sadly equalised.

It was the day of the Oxford vs. Cambridge Boat Race and I watched it on BBC1, as I usually did – I was always Oxford – and it started just after our game at Craven Cottage had finished. Seeing the many football supporters who had stayed on to watch filled me with a dull ache. I so wanted to be part of the Chelsea match-day experience, but here I was, stranded in Somerset with only enough money to attend a handful of games each year. Even though we were having a nightmare of a season, I still wanted to be part of it. That feeling has never left me. For the record, I was hoping for a better crowd than the 15,249 who showed up.

The game was shown on “Match of the Day” on Easter Sunday and I commented in my diary that Canoville and Mike Fillery seemed our best players. The commentator John Motson, who has sadly recently passed away, was seemingly enthusiastic about our performance. Perhaps there was life in the old dog, yet?

Two days later, on Easter Monday, Chelsea played our other near neighbours Queens Park Rangers at Stamford Bridge. While I was assisting in a couple of events at our local village fair, Chelsea conceded a goal in each half as we lost 0-2 to a QPR team that was flying at the top of the division. One of Saturday’s heroes, Fillery, was sent-off with two minutes to go. I had expected a crowd of 17,000 so was pretty happy with 20,821. I miss the chance to play “guess the gate” with sell-out attendances the norm at modern top flight matches these days. It seems crazy now, but any crowd over 20,000 in those days was seen as decent, especially for the second tier. Many teams in the top flight would average less than 20,000 in 1982/83.

So 4 April 1983 to 4 April 2023…let’s continue.

On the short walk of four hundred yards from the North End Road to West Brompton tube, I ridiculously bumped into four lots of mates – Andy and Kim, Charlie, Dave, Mick – while I spotted Raymondo too. I have said before that I really feel at home at Chelsea. I could walk around Frome town centre for half-an-hour and not see anyone I knew. I guess I am part of the Chelsea match day scene these days. My 1983 wish has come to fruition.

I had a busy pre-match. The tube whisked me to Earl’s Court – “The Blackbird” – for a quick chat with Stan about Abu Dhabi while I waited for Ian, fresh back from his South America odyssey, to hand back two season tickets. Then another tube to take me over to South Kensington – “The Zetland Arms” – to pass on a spare ticket to Cal. We had the briefest of chats. We were both hoping for a positive atmosphere against Liverpool.

“After all, who can we rail against?”

With Potter now gone – his sacking didn’t really affect me too much, I have never been so ambivalent to such major news ever before – I was fully hoping that all supporters would be roused to fully get behind the team.

The tube trains were packed. I was regretting wearing my heavy Barbour. By the time I joined up with the usual suspects in “Simmons” at 7pm, I was gagging for a cold drink. My “Diet Coke” barely touched the sides.

I made my way inside for 7.30pm or so.

The skies were clear. Dead centre was an – almost – full moon. I knew I would be watching its gentle arc towards the West Stand throughout the game; I only hoped it would not be my major focus as the match developed.

Francis, a Liverpool mate, texted me from a Frome Town game to tell me that his team looked weak. I eventually found out our starting eleven, chosen by Bruno Salter, a man who might well only ever get one mention on this website.

OK, this was it.

Kepa

Fofana – Koulibaly – Cucarella

James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Kante

Felix – Havertz

Or at least, that is how it panned out during the evening. At the start of the game, trying to guess where N’Golo Kante would be playing would be like a blindfolded kid pinning the tail on a donkey at a birthday party. I think I got it right.

There were flashing lights and fireworks before the teams entered, then – I am reliably informed – a Foo Fighters dirge just before kick-off.

What?

What’s “Chelsea” about that?

I never ever saw US stuff fitting the vibe of a UK match day to be honest. The thumbs-down from me.

We began attacking The Shed, housing the usual three-thousand away fans.

Our fine start surprised me but also, of course, pleased me. After just three minutes, Joao Felix was one-on-one, and he carried out a great shimmy but dithered a little too much with the goal gaping and allowed a block tackle from Joel Matip. Kai Havertz was loitering but unable to connect from the deflection.

Just after, a lightning break, and everyone on the edge of their seat, with Havertz setting up the bursting Mateo Kovacic. He rounded the ‘keeper Alisson, but his goal-bound effort was cleared off the line by Ibrahima Konate, whoever he is.

There were predictable groans from us all.

But this was a cracking start. And there was some fine noise emanating from the Stamford Bridge stands at last. The crowd were in this. The positivity warmed my soul.

Ben Chilwell played in Havertz, but Alisson blocked from close-in.

In the first fifteen minutes, we were easily on top and the obvious star was the returning Kante, who was playing like a man possessed. Forget the Kante twins; this was more like the Kante quadruplets. There was one moment when he had, mysteriously, lost possession on the halfway line but as Liverpool’s rare break moved forward, it was Kante back in our penalty area to intercept perfectly. It dawned on me; have we been this shite all season simply because N’Golo has not been available for virtually all of it?

On eighteen minutes, another Liverpool break, but Kepa was on hand to hack the ball away.

Oh that lovely ability for Kante to play the ball with the correct strength. He absolutely assesses the pace of a break and rarely lets that pace drop. It staggers me that his role as essentially cover in front of the defence has now evolved into an attacking threat. Everybody loves him. Fackinell.

We all had that weirdest of sensations mid-way through the first-half. A Chilwell corner was met by Felix at the near post but was scrambled clear. The ball broke to Reece James who banged a shot towards goal with great precision. Good God, I watched with disbelief as the ball flew into the net.

A Chelsea goal.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Alan and my “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine was rendered redundant when Enzo’s toenail was offside in the melee that had ensued from the corner.

However, this galvanised the crowd further and a loud “Carefree” sounded out. This was ten times better than the non-atmospheres against Everton and Villa.

There was then an exchange from supporters.

“FUCK THE TORIES.”

“FUCK THE SCOUSERS.”

Just before the half-hour mark, that man Kante advanced perfectly and set up Havertz but he scuffed an effort meekly wide. After this fast and furious start to the game, the first-third, the game died a little and, with it, the atmosphere quietened too.

At the end of the half, Liverpool enjoyed a few chances but Kepa saved well from Joe Gomez and Marc Cucarella hacked away with a shot likely. An effort rattled wide from a corner. It had been the visitors’ most dominant part of the game thus far.

At the break, I mouthed to a few folk nearby : “better”.

And it had been.

The cynics among us would probably counter with “it couldn’t be any worse” but I, at least, was enjoying it more than I had predicted. And the atmos was much better too, eh?

There were no changes at the break.

We attacked the Matthew Harding in the second-half.

Soon into it, we were again rueing our astonishing (dis)ability in front of goal. The offender was again Kovacic, set up by a fine run from fleet-footed Felix and aided by Kante, but he leaned back and sent a shot way over.

We uttered a thousand curses. There was more than one wagging tongue.

Fackinell Kovacic.

I watched as he turned away in absolute disgust, his hands coming up to his face, maybe contemplating hiding himself from the thousands of searing eyes.

Just a few minutes later, Havertz broke through but his shot – big surprise – was blocked by Alisson, a vision of sorts in lavender, including tights, but the ball luckily rebounded and hit the German. The ball returned towards goal.

GET IN.

I photographed the joy of the players but VAR intervened before Al and I could dust off our routine again.

Handball apparently. There is no TV-screen replay for us in the stadium of course. Viewers in Detroit, Doncaster, Dubai and Dunedin probably saw it though. Mad, eh?

Kepa saved well from a Fofana back header at the Shed End.

On fifty-seven minutes, there was a foul by a Liverpool player but the ball broke in our favour, if out wide. Rather than let the move develop, the hated Anthony Taylor called the play back. It was a close call this. Should he have let play continue? In reality, Felix was still chasing to control the ball before it would go off for a goal-kick. I think Taylor called it right. Regardless, James struck the resultant free-kick over.

A shot from Felix, rolled just wide.

Then a lovely slalom from the same player into the box but it came to nothing.

Mo Salah came on with twenty minutes of the second-half gone, but thankfully didn’t seem to integrate at all with his team mates.

On sixty-nine minutes, no surprises, Kante was substituted.

Anyone else turn their nose up at the new phrase “subbed-off” these days? Just me?

He was replaced by an eager Conor Gallagher.

Another exchange between the two sets of fans.

“Allez allez” versus “Chowlsea Chowlsea Chowlsea Chowlsea.”

As a sign of his laziness, Havertz had sleep-walked into an off-side position. Alan was fuming alongside me.

“Fackinell Havertz!”

He’s an enigma, is Kai.

The game continued to drift.

Felix was set up by Chilwell but, off balance, his shot was never going to trouble Lavender Lad. The effort flew wildly over.

Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Chilwell.

There was a great cross into the six-yard box from Kovacic down below us but nobody had gambled to sneak into the danger area. Nobody was poaching.

“Couldn’t poach an egg.”

Maybe they were waiting for an official invitation.

Raheem Sterling, the forgotten man, replaced Felix.

A last high effort from Enzo.

So, another draw, another goal-less draw, against Liverpool. It is becoming a habit. Our last six games against them reveal a dull regularity.

28 August 2021 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.

2 January 2022 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 2.

27 February 2022 : Chelsea 0 Liverpool 0 – lost on penalties.

14 May 2022 : Chelsea 0 Liverpool 0 – lost on penalties.

21 January 2023 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 0.

4 April 2023 : Chelsea 0 Liverpool 0.

Back in Somerset, even Frome Town drew 0-0 in their home game against Bideford.

It had been a better performance, the first-half especially, but against a very disappointing Liverpool team. Our lack of confidence in front of the goal is reaching maddening levels. We remain in eleventh place with a negative goal difference. Below us, a crazily tight battle to avoid relegation. Above us, an equally tight race for a European position next season. If I was a betting man, with our tough run-in, I would put money on us to just make the top half of the table.

In closing, I had to chuckle when I checked out the official match report of this game on the official club website and our formation is given as “3-4-1-1”.

It would seem that particular writer’s donkey tail has missed the target completely.

Next up, an away match in Wolverhampton.

See you at Molineux.

Tales From Fool’s Gold

Posted on April 2, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 April 2023.

April Fools Day In Fulham

There are three games to detail in this edition; two from 1983 and one from forty years later. Let’s do things chronologically.

On Saturday 19 March 1983, Chelsea played a London Derby against Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park. With Chelsea eager to pick up as many points as possible from the remaining games of the Second Division season to stave off relegation to the Third Division we could only eke out a 0-0 draw.

The Palace team included on-loan full-back Gary Locke who had played over three-hundred games for Chelsea after his debut in 1972. Locke played more games for Chelsea than Gianfranco Zola, Graeme Le Saux, David Webb, Micky Droy and Gary Cahill, but I fully expect there are folk reading this who have never heard of him. I guess this is normal, if not a little sad. I spoke with Bill from Toronto before the Everton game about this. He confirmed that many of the newer Chelsea supporters that he encounters simply have no care in the world to learn about parts of our history.

Gary Locke played in the very first Chelsea game that I ever saw in March 1974 and his performance is the only one that I can honestly remember much about; in the second-half he was playing right in front of me in the West Stand Benches and I recollect a succession of well-timed sliding tackles to thwart Newcastle United’s attacks down their flank.

Also playing for Palace was Jerry Murphy, who would make a move in the opposite direction in 1985. I was getting good at the “guess the gate” sideshow. I predicted 14,000. It was actually 13,427.

A week later, on Saturday 26 March 1983, Chelsea played Barnsley who were managed by the former Leeds United defender Norman Hunter. In the “Forward Line” section – it took the place of “The Talk Of Stamford Bridge” for programme aficionados – there was a desire for the club to finish in a better final placing than the twelfth spot of 1982. The club was currently in thirteenth place, but just six points above a relegation spot. There was news that our star player Mike Fillery was seeking a move to a team in the top flight and was therefore recently placed on the transfer list.

In the 1981/82 and 1982/83 seasons I subscribed to the home programmes and I eagerly awaited their arrival right after games. These days we are bombarded with official club information via the internet and endless social media offerings. In those days, the programme was everything. It was our only link to the club. I devoured those small match day magazines with an absolute passion.

In the Barnsley edition, there is a two-page spread featuring Paul Canoville who had recently scored two against Carlisle United. Needless to say, these were the first goals scored by a black player for Chelsea. Until then, Canners was our only black player. Sadly, the letters page contained two pieces from supporters complaining about racist abuse aimed towards Canoville at recent games.

On this day, Barnsley went in 1-0 up at the break and went on to win 3-0. My diary doesn’t detail any great shock nor surprise at this reverse. The gate was just 7,223. It was getting easy, so easy, to guess our home attendances. The most recent five home fixtures produced depressing figures.

Cambridge United : 7,808

Derby County : 8,661

Blackburn Rovers : 6.982

Carlisle United : 6,677

Barnsley : 7,223

Our substitute was debutant Keith Jones who replaced Clive Walker. Not only was Jones our second -ever black player, but he was the first player to reach the Chelsea first team who was actually younger than me. He was born on 14 October 1965, three months after me.

I was seventeen, coming up to eighteen in July. I remember that this game provided a particularly sobering moment for me; that someone younger than me was now playing for my beloved Chelsea. I found it hard to cope with the thought that I would be supporting and cheering on a lad who was younger than me.

At that moment, I may well have uttered my first-ever Chelsea “fackinell.”

As an aside, I had played football for my school teams from 1976 to 1982, but had drifted away from playing in 1982/83. There may have been occasional games within the school, but I think my competitive football came to an end in 1981/82. Regardless, the presence of Keith Jones in the Chelsea team had undoubtedly meant that I had missed the boat to become a professional footballer or a footballer of any standing whatsoever. That a lad younger than me was infinitely better than me at the tender age of seventeen had left me somewhat deflated. I still find it hard to forgive him.

Forty years later, our underwhelming season was starting up again after a fortnight break with another 5.30pm kick off at Stamford Bridge.

Aston Villa, who have won only twice in twenty years at Stamford Bridge, were to be the visitors.

There was no great sense of enthusiastic anticipation as I made my way up to London in the morning. The driving was tough going – “hello rain, hello spray” – but I made good time and dropped PD and Parky outside “The Eight Bells” at around 11.45am. All of us were not expecting much of a spectacle. In fact, the mood was pretty sombre. Sigh.

“Just can’t see us scoring” was a familiar lament as the day developed.

I was parked up on Bramber Road at around midday and the first three hours of my day at Chelsea would be spent meeting up with friends from Edinburgh, New Orleans and Dallas. But first, I wanted to involve my third passenger in a photo that I had been planning in my head for a month or so.

I have written about the Clem Attlee Estate before and how it has undoubtedly housed thousands of local Chelsea fans since its inception in the late ‘fifties. The tower block that overlooks the Lillee Road, consisting of three wings, dominates the first few minutes of my walk down to Stamford Bridge. I’ve taken a few photos of it in the past. On this occasion I wanted to pay homage to our gritty past and so I arranged for Ron Harris to stand in front of two of the building’s wings.

I hope you like it.

For the next few hours, I chatted with some pals.

First up, Rich from Edinburgh, visiting Chelsea again, this time with his uncle’s son Matt, on an extended holiday from his home in Perth in Western Australia.

A few former players were milling around.

There were plenty of laughs as Bobby Tambling told a lovely story about Terry Venables scaring Eddie McCreadie to death at a hotel in the Black Forest while on tour in West Germany. McCreadie was apparently scared of ghosts, so Venables borrowed a pair of Bobby’s black pyjamas and hung them outside McCreadie’s window as a storm was raging outside. A window was rattled, and McCreadie pulled the curtains back and screamed in horror much to the amusement of those in adjacent rooms.

Next up, Jonathan from Dallas, a chap that I was meeting for the first time, but who has been reading these ramblings for a while, and whose daughter was to be one of the team of mascots for the day’s game. The wait was long; eleven years. Initially his son was on the list, but COVID got in the way of his turn and was now, sadly, too old for mascot duties. The baton was therefore passed to his sister. I enjoyed chatting with Jonathan about a few topics. We briefly touched on the recent rumours, unproven, about Chelsea re-igniting the option of moving to Earls Court. Although a stadium upgrade is likely, and needed if I am honest, I’d prefer the current regime to sort the bloody team out first.

Lastly, my good friend Stephen – visiting from New Orleans with his wife Elicia and her friend Makeda – arrived at about 1pm and I handed over tickets that I had been keeping warm. I last saw Stephen in his home town of Belfast ahead of the Super Cup game. It would be Madeka’s first-ever Chelsea game.

As ever, Ron gave the same welcome that he gives to all Chelsea virgins : “if we lose, you’re not coming back.”

It was a pleasure for me to have the briefest chats with Ken Monkou. I first saw him play in August 1989. He would go on to become our player of the year that season.

At about 2.30pm, I sped off down to Putney Bridge tube to meet up with the lads – and lasses – again. There was subdued talk of the game. Bill from Toronto was back for another match, this time with his wife Beth Ann, her first one too.

I chatted mainly to Andy and Sophie. We centred on the current state of affairs at Chelsea, but also yakked about Vincent Van Gogh, my relatives’ migration to Philadelphia in the nineteenth century, visiting Canada and our combined love of Bournemouth. It’s not all about football.

Despite the desperate state of our play at the moment, I loved Sophie’s reaction to the news that she had been sorted with an Arsenal ticket. It is surely a mess of a club right now, but nothing beats going to a game. She punched the air and smiled wide.

I had earlier said to Andy that “I can’t understand people who say they want the season to end. I bloody don’t. It’s what I live for, this.”

Andy was surprisingly upbeat. Sophie and I questioned his sanity.

There were a few Villa fans on the tube back to Fulham Broadway. They were full of song and were singing praises of Unai Emery and John McGinn on the train and as they alighted at our destination. I inwardly sniggered. Well, you would wouldn’t you?

I was in at 5pm. The troops slowly appeared. My chat with Oxford Frank was predictably down beat.

“Just can’t see us scoring.”

The team?

Don’t ask.

Kepa

James – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Enzo – Chilwell

Felix – Havertz – Mudryk

The appearance of not only Reece James but Marc Cucarella in a back three while both Benoit Badiashile and Trevoh Chalobah were on the bench was unfathomable. This forced Ruben Loftus-Cheek as a far from convincing right wing-back on us yet again. Oh my life. I was hoping for a better performance from Mykhailo Mudryk in this game than in recent others. I wanted to see more of the Anfield Mudryk than the post-Anfield Mudryk. At least Enzo and Felix, two bright points surely, were playing. I prepared myself to be frustrated by Kai bloody Havertz yet again.

Before the teams appeared, a brief chat pitchside with John Terry and Roberto di Matteo, chatting about a “Legends” match versus Bayern Munich to raise money for the Royal Marsden Hospital, where Gianluca Vialli received treatment in his battle against cancer. John Terry joked he would play in his full kit.

There was a decent crowd; less empty seats than against Everton a fortnight earlier. Of course Villa had the standard three thousand. I was eerily aware that this was all happening on April Fools’ Day. I wondered what sort of headlines were waiting to be written. Our last game on this day of the year was the achingly depressing defeat to Tottenham in 2018.

The game began.

We were back to normal, attacking The Shed in the first-half. Without knowing it at the time, a wild effort from Mateo Kovacic after just two minutes set the tone for the rest of the evening. I can barely remember a shot from relatively close to goal that ended up so high in the upper tier. Soon after a shot from Mudruk inside the box was blocked by Emiliano Martinez. We were dominating the early exchanges but with some irritating early evidence that things might not go our way. Kai Havertz took an extra touch inside the box, as he often does, and invited an easy block. There was a scissor kick from Kovacic, similar to his fine goal against Liverpool last season, but on this occasion the effort almost went out for a throw-in.

Off the pitch, this game began quietly and continued the same way.

On the quarter of an hour, Ollie Watkins slid a shot wide in the visitors’ first attack. Just after, John McGinn slammed a shot from outside the box that hit the bar. A minute later, a ball was lofted towards Watkins, but two Chelsea defenders were drawn to the ball. It was my opinion that Kalidou Koulibaly, seeing the whole of the play, should have shouted down Marc Cucarella’s hurried chase to head the ball. Instead, the Spaniard’s touch just set the ball up nicely for Watkins, who had run from deep, to lob Kepa.

A voice nearby blamed Kepa, but it was hardly his fault.

So here we were again, dominating possession, finding it hard to finish, and a goal down.

The rest of the half continued in much the same way. If I am honest, our approach play was quite decent at times. Two players took my eyes as always; Enzo showed an eagerness on the ball and an ability to spray passes into space. And Felix exhibited fine skill at times, his happy feet taking him away from markers in tight areas. On the flanks, there were two different stories. Although he was away in the distance, Ben Chilwell looked to be doing all the right things at the right times, yet Ruben Loftus-Cheek forever looked a square peg in a round hole. His inability to cross the ball was annoying everyone.

The chances mounted up. The fleet-footed Felix forced a save. Then there was a lofted ball to Havertz that he chested down and volleyed, but the shot was straight at the ‘keeper. After a fine pass from Kovacic, a weak shot from the disappointing Mudryk. Loftus-Cheek continued to frustrate on his unconvincing forays down our right. He kept doing the simple things badly.

With half-an-hour played, Stamford Bridge was yet to warm up. I hadn’t joined in with a single song, nor had the majority of others.

We were ghosts again.

Kovacic as playmaker once more, this time a fine lofted ball towards Chilwell who advanced inside the box but slammed an effort against the woodwork. Half-chances came and went as the first-half continued. Chelsea’s approach play continued to hit some nice notes but we had no hint of a cutting edge.

Another Havertz effort was saved by Martinez. Late on, a dink into space from Enzo – becoming his trademark – set up Chilwell to head the ball in.

YES!

Sadly, our joy was short-lived when a tug on Ashley Young – who used to be a footballer – had been spotted.

There were muted boos at the end of the first period.

That a dirge from the hum drum Coldplay was aired at half-time just about summed it all up.

Our finishing had certainly been lukewarm.

I was waiting for a freshen-up – the footballing equivalent of a wet wipe to tidy up our grubby finishing – in the form of substitutions at half-time but there was nothing.

Attacking our end, the Matthew Harding, I was to appreciate the fine play of Chilwell at closer quarters. Soon into the half, he turned beautifully but shot weakly.

Just after, the Matthew Harding woke up, and me too.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I am ashamed to admit that this must be the latest in a game that I have ever got involved.

Fackinell.

On fifty-six minutes, we failed to clear a corner and the ball was worked back to the onrushing McGinn, galloping in at pace. I caught his shot, sadly, on film. It flew into the net, with Kepa well beaten. This was only their fourth or fifth effort on goal yet they were 2-0 up.

Another “fackinell.”

And I was mocking their “we’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn” chant at the tube station.

More fool me.

With that, at last some substitutions.

N’Golo Kante for Loftus-Cheek.

Noni Madueke for Mudryk.

“Off you go, Ruben.”

But, but, but…what of the shape now?

Madueke at wing-back, Reece still inside, but Kante appeared to be playing off Havertz and alongside Felix in a front three.

Oh my fucking N’God.

Our play actually deteriorated.

Madueke cut inside but curled one over. Kante shimmied nicely but pushed a low drive wide. This was desperate stuff. The mood inside Stamford Bridge was horrible. It wasn’t top level toxicity, but the natives were not happy.

Our play and chances continued to frustrate us.

“You don’t know what you’re doing” rung out.

It got worse.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

I thought to myself…”why wait until then?”

And I was only half-joking.

Two more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Christian Pulisic for Cucarella.

In the last few minutes, the setting sun behind the West Stand produced a ridiculously warm glow to the metalwork on top of the towering East Stand and the bricks of the hotel and flats behind the Shed End. It gave the whole place a strange feel, almost ethereal.

Fool’s Gold anyone?

At the end of the match, the boos descended down from those who were still in their seats. Many had left.

I met up with Elicia and Madeka underneath Peter Osgood’s boots and put the borrowed season tickets safely away.

“Sorry that we lost. Sorry it was so quiet.”

“Oh my. There were some angry people near us.”

“I can imagine. I bet you heard some bad words, right.”

“We did.”

It was a grim walk back to the car.

Surely there are not many Chelsea supporters left who would be saddened if Chelsea pulled the plug on Graham Potter?

Next up, a terrifying game with Liverpool at home.

See you there.

Heroes And Villains