This was the oldest fixture in my particular book of Chelsea games. My first-ever game was Newcastle United at home in March 1974. This one would be my forty-third such fixture. In all of those previous forty-two matches, Newcastle’s record at Stamford Bridge has been wretched.
Chelsea have absolutely dominated this fixture.
Won : 28
Drew : 10
Lost : 4
Unlike my record at Anfield the previous Sunday, this was championship form.
With a 2pm kick-off at HQ, we were headed to Stamford Bridge once again. At 7am, I collected PD and Glenn. Alas, Parky was unable to join us on this occasion.
This was would be home game number 878. If I stop and think about the magnitude of those numbers, I feel slightly light-headed.
For a change, I drove up via the “southerly-route” to London, skirting Warminster, over Salisbury Plain, past Stonehenge, onto the A303, onto the M3 and in to London itself, past Twickenham, past Rosslyn Park rugby, past the Marc Bolan memorial at Barnes, and over Putney Bridge, where I dropped the lads off at around 9.10am. I was parked up at 9.20am, just two-and-a-half hours after leaving my house in Somerset.
There was a quick breakfast at “Café Ole”, and I then joined PD and Glenn in “The Eight Bells” at just after the 10am opening time.
During the Anfield report last week, there was talk of PD and Glenn and the Southampton away game in 1984. That loss, on the back of another loss against Watford and a draw at Millwall, meant that I was starting to get a little concerned about our form. Whereas we had stormed to promotion from the Second Division previous season, our early 1984/85 performances were rather mixed.
Forty years ago, again to the day, on Saturday 27 October 1984, Chelsea played Ipswich Town in a First Division game at Stamford Bridge. Thankfully, we won this one 2-0 in front of 19,213. I didn’t attend this one. I spent the day in Stoke, and heard about Kerry Dixon’s two second-half goals on my pocket radio. Darren Wood, one of only two signings since the previous campaign, made his debut in this match. On the same afternoon, Everton beat Manchester United 5-0 at Goodison, and the football world sat up and took notice. They had won the FA Cup against Watford in May and were starting to impress.
Soon after I arrived in the pub, the first of a few mates called in. Johnny Twelve, from Long Beach in California, fresh from the game in Athens, squeezed his considerable frame alongside us. With Johnny a Dodgers fan, and me a – rather lapsed – Yankee fan, there was a little talk of the World Series which was being played out in Southern California and the South Bronx.
Luke called by. Then Jimmy The Greek, full of interesting tales of his recent holiday in Sicily. Then, Tim from Melbourne, deep down in the Southern Hemisphere, accompanied by his mate Nigel from the slightly nearer Southern reaches of Merton. It was fantastic to see Tim again – another Yankee fan – after a few years. Glenn and I had met him over in Perth for our game in 2018.
Next to arrive was Rob from Hersham. I was only with Rob last Tuesday. He had driven down to Frome with two mates to attend the Frome Town vs. Walton & Hersham game. I met up with them in an old hostelry in the town centre and we then watched a thoroughly entertaining match. Frome went 1-0 up, only for the away team to equalise and then go ahead. As the fog descended, Frome kept going with dogged perseverance and, backed by the noisiest crowd this season, grabbed a deserved equaliser via Curtis Hutson. The gate was only 294, but the noise of the crowd and the commitment of the players produced a life-affirming moment. The clawing fog added to the drama. I really enjoyed this match.
This was followed by an away game on the Saturday at Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales. Pen-y-Darren Park, which hosted Football League football in the ‘twenties, has been on my list of “must-do” football venues for a while. On a gorgeous autumnal day, I appreciated the drive over the new Severn Bridge and the drive alongside the River Taff – parts of the scenery reminded me of a few drives through Appalachia – and I enjoyed the stadium even more. It is a beauty, and a monster of the non-league scene.
Believe it or not, as the weekend was approaching, I mentioned to a few close friends that I had been looking forward, in all honesty, to the trip to Pen-y-Darren Park more than the trip to Stamford Bridge. I am not sure if it shocked me, but I think it shocked them.
This was to be visit #1 versus visit #878, after all.
I think that helps to explain it a little.
Alas, Frome succumbed to four second-half goals to lose 0-4, and to cause more tremors of concern for our future in our current division. As if to rub salt in the fresh wounds, I had to endure “Liquidator” as we exited the deep terraces of that classic non-league ground. The locals had been friendly enough, though. Walking back to the car, I chatted to two Merthyr stalwarts about the game and as I stopped to get inside my car, one of the old chaps offered me a few “Roses” chocolates for the return drive home. You don’t get that at West Ham or Tottenham.
Rob and Johnny Twelve were joined by the other Rob – they come as a pair, these two lads – and Jimmy was joined by Doncaster Paul and his son. Lastly, Josh from Minneapolis appeared for one last pint before it was time to leave.
The more the merrier, I say.
At just after 1pm, were soon on the District Line train to Fulham Broadway.
This was another beautiful day, and the sunshine was a lovely addition. There were a few noisy Geordies making their way to the away section as I made my way in. I reached my seats at 1.40pm, just right.
This was a busy day of football in the nation’s capital.
Arsenal vs. Liverpool.
Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.
Crystal Palace vs. Tottenham Hotspur.
West Ham United vs. Manchester United.
London’s five biggest teams, plus the powerhouses from the north-west. I have a feeling that this series of fixtures would not have been similarly scheduled forty years ago.
Of course, the big surprise was seeing Reece James at left-back.
In the away team were our former players Lewis Hall and Tino Livramento.
The usual three songs were played.
“London Calling.”
“Park Life.”
“Liquidator.”
The twenty-eighth anniversary of the passing of Matthew Harding occurred during the week and so a large flag was displayed in the stand that bears his name.
RIP Matthew.
Never Forgotten.
At 2pm on a beautiful Sunday in SW6, the game began.
Soon in to the game, there was advice from Alan sitting alongside me to Noni Madueke, who had been set up by Nicolas Jackson.
“Cut inside and ping it.”
The shot was fired at the ‘keeper Nick Pope.
Soon after, just as PD and Alan were reminiscing about Phil Driver and his best-ever Chelsea performance in the 6-0 win against the Geordies in 1980, Jackson slid the ball to Cole Palmer, who – from a difficult angle – managed to gently steer a low shot in off the far post.
I celebrated, I took photos of the celebrations, but Alan was stalling his celebrations for the moment.
VAR.
A wait.
No goal.
Hmmmppphhh.
It annoyed me that a detailed explanation of the VAR decision appeared on the TV screens a full ten minutes after the event.
Not to worry, we were playing well and dominating the game.
On eighteen minutes, I was watching through my camera lens and was able to take a succession of key photos as a dreamlike move developed. Malo Gusto won the ball and played it to Palmer. Our kingpin, our sublime orchestrator, turned and soon spotted the forward movement of Pedro Neto. His pass dissected not only two Newcastle defenders but the space-time continuum. In fact, the space-time continuum has still not recovered, and has been scratching its head ever since. The ball was played to perfection. However, Neto needed to ride a possibly wild tackle from Fabian Schar and then took one touch before gliding the ball across the penalty box, thankfully devoid of defenders, and the perfectly-time run of Jackson resulted in a solid first time prod into goal.
GET IN.
The talk of 1980 had probably been working away subconsciously, because I immediately likened it to the Gary Chivers goal, played along vaguely similar lines, from that 6-0 game in October 1980.
Alan and I were bubbling over.
“They’ll have to come at us now, pet.”
“Come on my little diamonds.”
Newcastle briefly threatened, but we kept going. Neto shot at Pope, and then did ever so well to dig out a cross that Gusto failed to convert.
The away team improved a little and enjoyed a few chances, and just after the half-hour mark we allowed the Newcastle team far too much space. A move developed down below me. Harvey Barnes passed to Hall and his low cross was touched home by Alexander Isak, who had not been spotted by Reece James. Had the captain, recently under fire, switched off? It would appear so.
Bollocks.
VAR could not save us.
It took over ten minutes for the explanation of that decision to appear on the TV screen.
I loved the way that Moises Caicedo won a tackle, got a give and go with a team mate, and rampaged forward before shooting over. These rare displays of direct football are a nice change to the lateral pass-pass obsession.
If there is space in front, exploit it.
Who can forget that ridiculous touch from Palmer on the half-way line that almost defies description? This was another time/space mystery as he poked a ball past a defender, into space, only for him to carry on with the ball as if the defender was invisible.
What a talent.
During the half, which was extended by a mighty seven minutes, there had been two instances of utterly woeful distribution from Robert Sanchez. I wonder if that man has shares in the company that makes defibrillators.
There was, also, one memorable occasion when he rushed out to head a bouncing ball away, but we all expected the ball to bounce over his head, cartoon-like.
Oh boy.
It was 1-1 and tantalisingly level at the break, though I thought we had edged it.
Soon into the second-half, the impressive Romeo Lavia nicked a ball from a Newcastle player in the centre-circle. Alan had just offered me a bar of chocolate, but a good Chelsea move was developing here. The ball was now at Palmer’s feet, not so far away, and he took off. I had just broken off a chunk of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, and was just about to pop it into my mouth, when I had a brain flash.
“If we score here, either that chocolate is going to fly out of my mouth or I am going to choke.”
I threw the chocolate to one side.
With that, Palmer nonchalantly drilled the ball in between Pope and post.
GET IN.
What a goal from Cole.
Stamford Bridge was noisy again.
At least I caught his celebrations on film.
Soon after, a fine cross from Noni but a header from Neto hit a post, though I thought that it was excellently saved by Pope at the time.
Madueke drove inside from the right but a shot was saved easily by Pope, who was the busiest ‘keeper at this stage.
There were a couple of substitutions.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Madueke.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
On seventy minutes, it appeared that luck was on our side as a header from Isak ended up at the foot of a Chelsea defender who was on hand to clear. Soon after, a similar goal-bound effort was hacked away too.
Marc Cucarella for Gusto.
Christopher Nknunku for Jackson.
In exactly the same way that I appreciated the songs and chants of encouragement from the Frome die-hards against Walton & Hersham, I loved the fact the Chelsea support reached a crescendo in those last fifteen minutes when we could all see that the away team were searching for a way to get an equaliser. That is what support should be all about.
It’s not rocket science.
Isak, after another “episode” from Sanchez, really should have nabbed that equaliser as he rounded the ‘keeper with an open goal ahead of him. Thankfully, the combined forces of Colwill and Caicedo saved the day.
Stamford Bridge roared its approval.
In the closing moments, nobody around me expected VAR to uphold a penalty decision after Nkunku went down.
No penalty.
In the last moment of drama, deep into a further six minutes of extra time, Joe Willock rose at the far post but his header back across goal was headed dramatically over his own bar by the returning captain, James.
Phew.
On a day of lovely losses for both Tottenham and Manchester United, Chelsea momentarily appeared in fourth place. And although, I had been looking forward to the trip to Merthyr marginally more than the trip to London, there is no doubt that I was more emotionally involved in the Chelsea game than the Frome one. If we had conceded a late equaliser, I would have been crushed.
This was a fine win against Newcastle. All of the plaudits were for Cole Palmer but I loved the way Lavia and Caicedo dominated the midfield. Praise for Jackson too, once again a scorer.
A quiet week lies ahead for me, with no trips to Brislington with Frome nor Newcastle with Chelsea.
I need the rest.
Next up, for me, two aways at Sholing near Southampton and at Old Trafford, near Manchester.
That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.
A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.
And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
First of all, let’s go back to 1984.
The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.
Millwall away? No thanks.
On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.
The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.
Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.
We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.
On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.
Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.
On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.
As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.
I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.
However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.
I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.
I gulped.
“Poor bugger.”
With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.
I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.
It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.
With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.
The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.
It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!
With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.
Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?
The answer follows later.
In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.
Pandemonium in the South Stand!
As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.
However, football can be a bastard.
In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.
This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.
Fackinell.
After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.
But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.
I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.
After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.
A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.
I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.
The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.
The Football Road.
It certainly was.
As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.
I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.
“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”
“Yep.”
I gestured outside.
“Well, this is it.”
We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.
We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.
“2017 and all that.”
As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.
He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.
I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.
Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.
I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.
I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.
This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.
“The Vernon Arms”.
Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.
“The Rose & Crown”.
A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.
We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.
The Mersey played a little part in my family history.
I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.
Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.
“The Abbey”.
We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.
We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.
Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.
Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.
Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.
As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.
“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”
Those bloody anthems.
Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.
I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.
Fackinell.
“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.
The entrance of the teams.
Scarves held aloft.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Those bloody scarves.
A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.
A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.
Right, the team.
A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James
Lavia – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.
Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.
It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.
The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :
“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”
I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.
Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.
On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.
After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.
It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.
Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.
It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.
On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.
Penalty.
“Bollocks.”
Salah swept it in from the spot.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.
The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.
It was our first real attempt.
A couple of half-chances at either end.
At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.
In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.
“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”
VAR was called in.
No penalty. No yellow.
Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.
“Bollocks.”
The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”
At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.
Goal.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.
Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.
“Bollocks.”
Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.
On fifty-two minutes, three changes.
Renato Veiga for James.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.
“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”
“Think so, mate.”
I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.
There was a very loud “allez allez”.
It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?
We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.
I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.
The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.
I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.
On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.
Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.
We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.
Those bloody clocks.
I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.
The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.
Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.
At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.
“Don’t let him dance into the box.”
Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.
In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.
Fackinell.
This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.
Won : 5
Drew : 8
Lost : 15
For : 28
Against : 45
I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.
I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.
I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.
I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.
This football road.
Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.
There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.
I had an international game lined up too.
Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.
Well, I have to say that even though we couldn’t quite score the goal that would have won us the game against a spirited Nottingham Forest team, there is no doubt that I really enjoyed this match. At the end of it all, as I was on the way out of Stamford Bridge, I mentioned to a few friends that it had developed a real “old-fashioned” feel to it, and the second half especially. My friend Rob breezed past me and called it a “breathless” game of football and I knew what he meant. I suspect that it is a phrase that I have often used to describe certain football matches.
On the walk along the crowded Fulham Road, I bumped into a stranger and almost tripped him up. We struck up a conversation and agreed that it had been a decent game. He thought that we had played within ourselves in the first half, though I had actually enjoyed it, but we then spoke about the frantic nature of the second period, when – in my words – “it took on a life of its own.”
I met up with PD and LP in the car, and we all shared the same opinion; in these days of occasionally flat games of football, if we couldn’t see our team win, then at least it was good to witness an entertaining match.
This Chelsea game was the second match of my weekend. On the Saturday, I watched Frome Town for the first time in three weeks, a home FA Trophy tie against Havant & Waterlooville, a team that had beaten us 5-0 at their stadium in the league just a fortnight ago. In a tight game, the visitors went ahead with just ten minutes to go, but James Ollis equalised in the last minute. Alas, the home team lost 5-4 in the resultant penalties. The gate of 293 was a little disappointing but to be expected in light of a dip in performances over the past month. Unlike in 2023/24, there would be no FA Cup nor FA Trophy runs for my hometown team this season.
After I had parked up on Mulgrave Road, I took a short-cut via the Clem Atlee Estate, next to The Goose, and soon found myself walking south down the North End Road. Out of nowhere, I doctored the words to “Blue Day” and sung a new version to myself.
“The only place to be every other Sunday is strolling down the North End Road.”
I had a little smirk to myself. In some ways, the North End Road is just as much part of the Chelsea experience as the Fulham Road. With that, I looked over to the other side of the road and who should be walking alone in the other direction but my great friend Alan, who has been sitting next to me at Chelsea since 1984.
I shouted over to Alan and he looked around to see who was calling his name.
“Al!”
I crossed the road and we chatted.
“I’m off to the ‘Clarence’ to see Gal, you off down the ‘Eight Bells’ mate?”
“Yes mate. What time did you get back from your game yesterday?”
“About 8.30pm.”
While I was at Frome Town, Alan was up in Lancashire watching his other team Bromley eke out a 0-0 draw against Fleetwood Town in League Two. He had left his house in South London at 4.30am for that expedition, making my departure at 6.45am for the Forest game seem much more comfortable.
We chatted about both Saturday games and then went on our way.
“The only place to be every other Sunday is strolling down the North End Road.”
“Meet your mates, have a drink…”
A Chelsea song had just sprung to life.
I dropped into the café at the bottom end of the North End Road.
It’s as good as any a time to talk about the next match from our 1984/85 season, which had taken place exactly forty years ago to this very day. On Saturday 6 October 1984, we travelled to Carrow Road in Norfolk, the home of Norwich City. Unlike Alan, who attended this match, I spent the day up in Manchester, visiting a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly. I spent the afternoon nervously awaiting the score updates on radio and TV. It’s weird how some stadia evaded me long periods over the past fifty years. I never made it to Carrow Road until the momentous 2004/5 season. Whisper it, but I am still to visit Portman Road in Ipswich.
On that autumn day forty years ago, there is not much to tell. We drew 0-0. The gate was just 16,871.
I took the tube down to Putney Bridge where I spent a decent two hours crowded around our usual table in the “Eight Bells”. Our two guests on this particular day of Chelsea football were Jimmy from Southgate in North London and his pal Paul from Doncaster in South Yorkshire, and we all shared plenty of laughs alongside PD, LP and Salisbury Steve.
I was inside Stamford Bridge at 1.30pm, in plenty of time for the 2pm kick-off. Enzo Maresca had changed the team 100% from the game against the gentlemen of Gent. This absolutely felt like our “A Team”.
Sanchez
Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
I remembered the 0-1 home defeat against Forest just over a year ago. I remembered the tight game at the City Ground in May. This lot had just won at Anfield. A win, any win, please.
Chelsea in blue / blue / white.
Forest in red / white / red.
A game between the European Cup Winners of 2012 and 2021 and the European Cup Winners of 1979 and 1980 began.
We attacked The Shed and it was a bright enough start. In the initial period, Enzo Fernandez and Jadon Sancho were seen to be developing a little relationship on the left, while as the game developed there was also some nice understanding between Cole Palmer and Noni Madueke on the right.
I soon photographed a twisting run from Sancho on the left that ended up being guided out of the Forest penalty area by their defenders. Soon after I caught a more direct run from Madueke that resulted in a shot being drilled wide of the near post.
It was an open game. Down at our end, Robert Sanchez saved easily from a Ryan Yates header. I sensed that Palmer wasn’t enjoying the best of starts, and others in the Chelsea team caught the eye. All of a sudden the twin pillars at the back Levi Colwill and Wesley Fofana resembled a partnership, and even the often-maligned Enzo buzzed around brightly.
Malo Gusto crashed a shot goal wards but it was routinely blocked. Another shot from Madueke curled over the bar as it was swung in towards the far post. Another shot from Gusto, but another shot that was high of the goal frame.
While Clive got us some hot chocolates, we continued to dominate and I thought that we were playing the ball quicker with fewer dawdling touches than in previous games.
Then, a Forest break but a shot right at Sanchez. Another easy save.
With the end of the first half approaching, Madueke – the biggest threat – raced away down the right and set up Enzo, whose shot was saved by Matz Sels in the Shed End goal.
Madueke, again driving deep into the box, set up Palmer but his shot was blocked by former blue Ola Aina. The ball rebounded off the post, and just as we were all expecting it to be prodded home, Sels recovered just in time to scoop the ball off the line.
At the other end, we had to thank Colwill for blocking an effort by Yates.
I had enjoyed the first-half. There were hints of some progressive football. The full backs Cucarella and Gusto were nicely involved in our attacking play.
At some point in the first-half, Palmer had exhibited a piece of skill that left me dumb-founded, and it was worth the admission money alone and other clichés.
At half-time, I bumped into Suk. Back in 2015, Alan and I spent a day with Suk out in Israel as we went on a never-to-be-forgotten trip to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. We remembered that I had bumped into Suk strolling down the North End Road – that place again – around five years ago. Alan last saw him at a bar in Tel Aviv as we devoured some Lowenbrau lagers some nine years ago. It was a pleasure to see him once more.
What of the second half then?
With Chelsea attacking the Matthew Harding, Moises Caicedo had the first chance of the second period but his daisy cutter was well wide of the goal.
On the forty-ninth minute, there was a deep free-kick from the Forest right. As soon as Nicola Milenkovic got a downward nod, I just knew that we were in trouble. Just as I correctly sensed danger when Havant & Waterlooville broke away on the Saturday, my sixth-sense was correct on Sunday. A poke of a leg from the journeyman Chris Wood was just enough to push the ball into the net.
Chelsea 0 Forest 1.
“Bollocks.”
The place hadn’t been too noisy, but I was proud with the way that the home support responded.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
On fifty-seven minutes, Palmer found Madueke. He advanced and cut inside his marker and beautifully struck a shot that just crept inside the far post. I caught the strike on film, celebrated with a fist pump, and then shot away as the scorer ran towards the Chelsea bench, some of whom looked pleased that he had scored. There had been mutterings around me about Madueke needing to pass the ball rather than always look to shoot, but this is Football 2024 and this is what inverted wingers are supposed to do.
Chelsea 1 Forest 1.
The home support was engaged now, and the noise increased. This in turn seemed to invigorate the team. We hit a purple patch. Enzo to Madueke and a header but right at the Forest ‘keeper. Nicolas Jackson – the quietest attacker thus far – sped forward and played the ball to Sancho. His excellent cross was perfection but Madueke relaxed a little too much and the ball ballooned over the bar.
On sixty-three minutes, craziness in the Forest penalty area as a host of Chelsea strikers found it impossible to apply a finish as the ball ricocheted around bodies and legs.
Enzo then sent over two horrible – and pathetic – corners from down below us in The Sleepy that failed to beat the first defender. After a decent enough first half, the Argentinian was enduring a horrific second half, and watching him was just as horrific.
We had to wait around seven minutes for a Forest player to receive attention at a free-kick and it was not the first time that the away side were roundly booed for their time wasting.
With twelve minutes to go, with Jackson looking to burst ahead into space, James Ward-Prowse combined our three national sports of football, rugby and cricket and thwarted the Chelsea attacker by bizarrely grabbing the ball from under his feet.
It looked a red, it was a yellow, but a second yellow.
Off he went.
On eighty-one minutes, the first two Chelsea changes of the game.
Joao Felix for Enzo.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
I liked the applause when Our Callum was substituted just after.
A pause to remember that initial Lampard ensemble that caused us so much joy, but which was then taken away from us in a COVID-related hurry; Tomori, Christensen, James, Mount, Gilmour, Abraham, Hudson-Odoi, it was lovely while it lasted.
With three minutes to go, a ridiculous touch from Palmer – it defies description – on the edge of the Forest box set himself up for a shot which was lashed at Sels. The ball came back out to Palmer and Sels saved again.
Stamford Bridge was rocking.
The next drama was the uproar at the side of the pitch, though I did not really see what had ignited the melee. I saw Palmer slump to the floor and initially presumed that he was injured. I shot a series of photos that show a lot of irritated millionaires.
Thirteen minutes of extra time were signalled.
“Come on Chelsea.”
The stadium roared again.
Some late substitutions.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.
Pedro Neto for Madueke.
Tosin for Colwill.
On the right, Pedro Neto sent over a cross that Felix headed down but wide. Then, at the other end, a venomous shot from Neco Williams that Sanchez palmed away magnificently.
This game, suddenly, was up for grabs.
Next, a gut-bursting run along the left touchline from Mudryk and an inch-perfect cross for Nkunku. We were up celebrating a late winner but we watched a brilliant save at full stretch from Sels. Nkunku was motionless on the Stamford Bridge turf. We knew how he felt.
Fackinell.
The rain was falling now, Stamford Bridge a misty dream.
Then a short corner, and Gusto lashed at goal, but Sels lept and touched the wicked strike over the bar.
Phew.
Breathless stuff indeed.
A long-range shot from Palmer narrowly missed the frame of the goal.
At the other end, a shot right at Sanchez.
“This could go either way.”
From a Forest short corner, a cross from Aina, and Jota Silva was completely unmarked at the near post. His header was at goal, but Sanchez threw himself down to his right in a movement that reminded me of the Banks save from Pele in Guadalajara in 1970. This save was the best of the lot.
It was an absolute stunner.
The last twenty minutes of this game was just ridiculous. It was as entertaining a period – without goals – that I had witnessed for some time.
Alas, it ended as a 1-1 draw.
We go into the second International Break in a very pleasing fourth place, but we have some very tough games ahead over the next period.
For those of us that live miles away from Stamford Bridge, travelling to and from games can be tiresome affairs, especially those that take place during the week. But I always love the fact that no matter how late games finish on Thursday nights – shall we talk about extra-time and penalties that might extend the night even further, shall I mention the penalties against Eintracht Frankfurt in 2019? – there is the lovely knowledge that I only have to struggle with work on Friday, for one day only. Then, the glorious respite of the weekend, especially since there are no games on Saturdays after European games these days.
Contrast this with a Monday night league game, and the sure knowledge that my sleeping patterns won’t recover for a few days. On a personal level, Monday night games are just horrible.
On this particular Thursday night, Chelsea were to embark on a new European journey, but it wasn’t one that I was completely happy with. Not only were we to take part in the fourth edition of UEFA’s newest baby the “Conference League”, but this was to be the first season that all UEFA competitions were to take the form of a “league” format in the autumn period.
The common view among football fanciers was that this was all an attempt to see off the continued rumours about certain European heavyweights – “Super Clubs”, their words not mine – needing a Super League for them to guarantee huge revenue streams. However, I haven’t met a single football supporter who is in favour of this new format. I know we are often seen as misty-eyed sentimental traditionalists, but the old system seemed to be a decent way to approach pan-European competitions.
The three UEFA competitions are basically three divisions of thirty-two teams.
More. More. More.
Before I continue with the events of this particular Thursday night, a quick mention of a Saturday in 1984 in my retrospective from forty years ago.
On Saturday 28 September 1984, Chelsea were at home to Leicester City in the old First Division. I was newly-arrived in Stoke and had survived “Freshers’ Week”. Originally, my first visit to Stamford Bridge was going to be the Watford match on 13 October, but as I walked past Stoke train station late on the Friday night, I decided there and then to get up early on the Saturday and get myself down to Stamford Bridge. I had attended the “Freshers Ball” that night – the main band was H2O, hit song “I Dream To Sleep” – but a planned liaison with Gill, an Everton fan, never materialised and so I needed to cheer myself up.
A Saturday in London with Chelsea was a quick and easy remedy.
This trip was a new experience for me, but the journey would be repeated on many occasions over the next three seasons. I was happily surprised that the fare was just £8. This felt knew and exciting. The route took me through Tamworth, Rugby, Milton Keynes and Watford. I made my way across London from Euston – “spotted a load of casuals, probably Arsenal going to Coventry” – to Stamford Bridge and took my position alongside new mates Alan, Mark and Leggo. I didn’t take my camera to this game, but I remember a nasty green away kit being worn by Leicester City. Chelsea easily won 3-0 with two goals from Kerry Dixon and one from Pat Nevin. The gate was just 18,521. I caught the 6.10pm train back to Stoke from Euston and got back to Stoke at 8.30pm, this time via Birmingham and Wolverhampton.
A new pattern to my football life had emerged.
Fast forward to 2024 and just PD and travelled up from the west of England for this game. After I demolished a pizza on the North End Road I joined up with him at “Simmons” just after 6pm. We were joined by Rob from Hersham, Luke from Ruislip and Andy from Los Angeles, who was en route to Munich for the Oktoberfest.
There was time to reminisce about Munich in 2012 – I kipped in Andy’s hotel room for a few hours after that most momentous of Saturday nights – but we also chatted a little about this new UEFA competition. I must admit that it was derided when it first started in 2021 – “a ridiculous competition for also-rans” – and even more so after West Ham won it in 2023, and ludicrously declared themselves “Champions of Europe” for a while, without the merest hint of irony, but the view of us Chelsea fans back in May when United won the FA Cup, thus pushing into this competition, was to embrace it, to enjoy some foreign travel again and to bloody well win it.
Wroclaw here we come? Hopefully.
With Andy in town there was also talk of the FIFA World Club Cup competition which is set to take place in twelve stadia in the US in June and July next summer. I am keen to go, as is my mate Glenn; it would be my twentieth visit to the US and it would celebrate my sixtieth birthday – a nice present to myself, no?
The strong rumour was that all games would be held on the East Coast, to satisfy European TV audiences and to keep travel, both by players and supporters, to a minimum. Alas, last week, the full list of venues was announced and only eight venues could really be classed as East Coast. In addition to games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, DC, North Carolina, Georgia and Florida, there are also games in Tennessee, Ohio, Washington and California.
I just hope that FIFA does the right thing and keeps each of the first stage groups to as tight a geographical area as possible. As an example, I would be more than happy with three games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and DC, or Tennessee, North Carolina and Georgia. At a push, three games in Florida, but God help us all in those stratospheric temperatures.
But I am not confident. There is no doubt that FIFA will want to ensure that fans all over the US will get a chance to see as many teams as possible, so I fully expect a taxing and expensive three-game set that might even see us play in Seattle, then Orlando, then Los Angeles. In such circumstances, I might just go for two games rather than all three.
The two West Coast venues, it seems, have been included for the benefit of the US’ sole team, thus far, from Seattle, who have been promised three home games, which seems unfair. Why should they be given home advantage? Well, it’s not too hard to work out.
Thirty of the thirty-two teams have qualified through debatable selection criteria and are awaiting the final two competitors. I see that the 2024 Coppa Libertadores winner is one of the final two places up for grabs along with a second US team. The draw is in December. Glenn and I will be on tenterhooks awaiting news.
There are some cracking teams from South America lined-up to attend; Chelsea vs. Boca Juniors or Chelsea vs. Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, anyone?
Of course, many are mocking this expanded competition and I can understand why. Extra games for an already-exhausted set of players and the risk of injury, plus talk of a money grab by FIFA and all of its murky corporate partners.
More football. More games. More sponsors. More TV. More money. More everything.
More. More More.
Back in my youth, this competition was a plain and simple one; European Cup Winner vs. Coppa Libertadores winner, one match in Tokyo, and that was that. It was then expanded to eight teams when it was held in Brazil in 2000. It then didn’t take place again until 2005, and since then has been held in Japan, the Arabian Peninsula and Morocco. Bizarrely, and I cannot understand this, there is still going to be an annual FIFA Intercontinental Cup held annually too.
More. More. More.
When will it stop?
I had seen a few Gent fans, dressed in blue and white, pottering down the North End Road earlier, and we saw more on the walk to the ground. I was inside at about 7.30pm ahead of the 8pm kick-off. We had seen the team in the pub. It was a completely different team that had played so well against Brighton on Saturday.
Jorgensen.
Disasi – Badiashile – Tosin – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
A B Team? Yes, evidently so, and a pretty decent one, we hoped.
The lights soon dimmed and the players appeared. Whereas UEFA has chosen blue as the brand colour of the Champions League and red as the colour of the Europa league, it seems that green is the chosen colour of the Europa Conference. A green and black banner was waved on the centre-circle as the players lined up. The three-thousand fans held their scarves aloft.
The game began.
I spoke to Al about Eidur Dudjohnsen’s son, Andri, who was leading the Gent line.
I also spoke to Al about the possibility of Christopher Nkunku’s blue balloons making an appearance, and we wondered if I could shoehorn the phrase “balloons and Walloons” into this match report.
Soon into the game, it seemed that the entire Gent support was engaged in their version of “the bouncy” and it looked an impressive sight. Their support didn’t seem to have an “ultra” element, but just a noisy support with replica shirts and scarves, and a desire to sing.
Ten minutes in, it was all us. We had enjoyed a couple of early efforts as Al and I caught up with a few things; I had not seen him for a while.
On twelve minutes, Mykailo Mudryk was able to choose his moment in front of Parkyville and dolloped a long cross onto the head of the on-rushing Renato Veiga who finished with aplomb, heading down and past the Gent ‘keeper.
Chelsea 1 Gent 0.
Fifteen minutes in, it was all us.
“Have they even touched the ball in our half yet?”
There was a delightful flick from Joao Felix, in the Cole Palmer “creator” spot, but Nkunku stumbled as he tried to reach the ball.
A Pedro Neto run was captured on film – snap, snap, snap, snap – but the resultant shot from Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was snatched, and my photo was blurred, so it didn’t make the cut.
We dominated still, but it was all a bit laboured. On the half-hour, Gent enjoyed a rare attack and an effort from the Archie Brown, an English export flourishing in Europe. Gent then had a tidy little spell. During one attack, I was fuming that two attackers were let free on our right.
The boy Gudjohnsen shot at goal from an angle after a neat move but it flashed over.
Our play became laboured. I toyed with the notion of this modern type of football – passing to oblivion, waiting for a chink in the deep-lying defence’s armour – being dropped into our football-going experience of twenty-five years ago. I suspect that it would have been booed relentlessly.
But progress is progress, eh?
It became a time for reflection. This actually didn’t seem much like a European game at all. The days of two-legged knock-out ties in the autumn – God, how exciting was Zizkov at home in 1994? – are long gone, but even the closeness of a four-team group of recent times, with home-and-away games, little histories being made, little rivalries developing, back stories, duels, seemed a darned sight better than this. The 2024 version of a European tie lacked intensity and drama and the competition, at least this huge first phase, seemed fuzzy and bloated.
More. More. More.
We felt that this whole first phase lacked a focus, a goal, a point. We were, after all, playing six apparently random teams, and in the biggest division, thirty-two teams, of all time. Both Al and I were struggling with the concept if it all. We kept referring to “our group” but of course there was no group, no group at all. The only common thing linking our six opponents was that two of them have a shamrock on their badge. How soon would this damned league table make any sense at all? Was the common denominator now to simply win as many games as possible? In closed groups, teams could play the system and budget for away draws against teams on the premise of beating them at home. Yet in this competition, there seemed to be no similar strategy.
In a nutshell, there would be no return leg in Gent.
Oh boy.
The “randomness” of the fixtures ate away at me too. One team could get top-ranking teams in each of the six pots, whereas another team could get drawn against low-ranking teams in each of the pots.
That would be a large discrepancy, no?
It just seemed wrong.
The atmosphere around me seemed a little quiet after a noisy start to the game.
Ho hum.
At the end of the half-time break, I disappeared to turn my bike around. While otherwise occupied, I heard a roar.
“Bloody hell, there was only one team on the pitch when I left my seat.”
Neto had blasted one in from close range apparently.
Chelsea 2 Gent 0.
Sadly, on fifty minutes, after a Gent corner, Gudjohnsen’s cross was flung into our box. There were five Chelsea defenders protecting the near post. Sadly, the unmarked Tsuyoshi Watanabe, along with four other Gent players, were at the rear post. He headed into Filip Jorgensen’s net. There were groans. It was a very sloppy goal to concede.
Chelsea 2 Gent 1.
With that, the away fans turned the away section into a Barry Manilow concert by turning on their phone torches. Memories of Napoli in 2012.
“That is embarrassing. That is embarrassing” sang the Matthew Harding.
The game became much more of a spectacle in the second-half, and the Stamford Bridge crowd became noisier.
On sixty-three minutes, the ball was played in from down below us and after the ball was kept alive, it eventually rolled out to Nkunku who smacked it home.
Chelsea 3 Gent 1.
He raced towards me, and was joined by his team mates.
Smiles all around.
He reached into his sock, I think, for the blue balloon and if only Gent was in the southern part of Belgium and not in the Flemish-speaking part, I could have used a geographically precise pun.
Instead, the home areas of Stamford Bridge decided to have a laugh en masse. Out came the mobile phones, out came the torches.
A nice giggle.
This was followed by a booming “CAREFREE.”
That’s more like it.
On seventy minutes, the light-footed Felix played in Nkunku, but a sliding tackle robbed him of a shot. The ball rolled nicely to Dewsbury-Hall, who slammed it in.
Chelsea 4 Gent 1.
A slide into our corner and smiles-aplenty from Dewsbury-Hall.
Time for some substitutions on eighty minutes.
Tyrique George for Neto.
Marc Guiu for Nkunku.
Axel Disasi ended up in the net after both he and Benoit Badiashile could not quite connect from a cross from Neto.
In the last few moments of the game, Gent were given far too much space down our left and the ball was easily played in for Omri Gandelman to smack home.
Chelsea 4 Gent 2.
By this time, orange jacketed stewards had been crowded around the gap between the home and away fans in the Shed Lower. What exactly was going on down there?
There was one last chance for Gent, but the toe-poke from outside the box flew over.
I thought to myself “you’re no Ronaldinho, mate.”
It had been, I think, an odd game, for more than one reason.
I met PD back at the car and I made good time on the drive west. I made it home at 12.45am.
Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2024.
A three o’clock kick-off on a Saturday. It just seems right, doesn’t it?
This just seemed like a normal “back to life, back to reality” game of football. By 7.30am, I had picked up Paul and Parky and we were on our way up to London. Games against Brighton of late have been interesting affairs what with the number of players and personnel that have switched from one club to the other in recent seasons. This would be a tight game, not an easy one to predict, but the actual football was not dominating my mind as I drove East. On this day, there would be meet ups with two people from Nashville in Tennessee and two and a half people from the Czech Republic, and I was looking forward to that as much as the match that would follow.
This was a busy spell for us at Stamford Bridge; four home games in thirteen days, almost a thousand miles of driving for me, some early starts, some late finishes.
First, though, a trip back in time as I continue my retrospective of the events from the 1984/85 season. On Wednesday 26 September, I was newly-arrived in the city of Stoke-on-Trent, and was finding my feet at North Staffs Poly. On that particular day, there was administration stuff to be done, but I also showed up for trials for the college football team. I hadn’t played football of any type for a couple of years – I remember playing for the Lower Sixth at Frome College, but not the Upper Sixth, did 1982/83 totally drain my love of football? – and I remember being over-awed by the numbers that had shown up for the practice. From memory, I played OK, but soon decided that it would be a miracle to break into any of the teams, so I decided there and then to forget it. I was only nineteen, but hanging up my boots meant that I could concentrate on the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club.
That evening, way down in London, Chelsea played Millwall in the first leg of an early round of the League Cup. We won 3-1, with Kerry Dixon getting a brace and the former Chelsea defender Micky Nutton putting into his own net. The gate was only 19,912 but it wasn’t a bad figure for the time. I have no doubt that just as many would have been scared off with the threat of trouble as would have been enticed to the game for trouble. This match did not have the notoriety of the return leg. In fact, I am not sure if any off-the-pitch stuff took place at all on this night in deepest SW6.
I was parked up in deepest SW6 forty years later at around 10am. On the way to meet the lads, there was a points failure further south, so I had to walk the last mile from Parsons Green. At around 10.30am I walked into “The River Café” for the first time this season. A gaggle of Chelsea lads that I know were sat at one table. Behind, in the corner, was my Albion friend Mac, who partly resides in the Czech Republic and partly in Brighton. I first met Mac in a sports bar in Manhattan in 2013 and we have become good friends over the years. I loved hearing about Mac’s travels last season with Brighton in Europe, the club’s first-ever European campaign. I must admit that they had superb cities to visit; Marseille, Amsterdam, Athens in the group phase – two wins and a draw – and then Rome. You never forget your first time; in 1994/95, I had Jablonec via Prague, Vienna and Zaragoza. I devoured a Full English, and we then flitted around the corner to meet up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, and my friends David and Nate from Nashville in “The Eight Bells.”
I have met David before but this was the first time that I would see his son Nate. This was Nate’s second visit to Stamford Bridge; the first time coincided with Rafa Benitez’ first game in charge against Manchester City in 2012. Nate has suffered with a brain tumour for many years and the 2012 visit was arranged by the “Make A Wish Foundation” and he met Roman Abramovich and a few first-team players. There have been worrying relapses over the years, and so it was a real pleasure to finally meet him in person, and to welcome him to the pub. I remember seeing a video message that Levi Colwill sent Nate during the summer. The power of football to bring happiness should not be overlooked.
Our mate Dave – we would sit next to each other on The Benches as 1984/85 developed – showed up for a pint and a chat, and then Mac’s mate Barry arrived too. Barry had recently seen Billy Gilmour’s Napoli debut away to Cagliari. Mac told the lovely story about how he appeared as an extra, playing a footballer, in the 2001 film “Mean Machine” starring ex-Chelsea player Vinnie Jones. Both Brighton fans were a little unsure how their team would fare at Stamford Bridge. I think we all expected a tight one.
David and Nate got the call from someone at Chelsea to make their way to Stamford Bridge and I believe they were to meet the players as they arrived. I wished them well, and they bounced out with smiles on their faces.
Soon to arrive were brother and sister George and Anetta from Zlin in the Czech Republic. I first met George in Vienna for the Rapid friendly in 2016 and we have bumped into each other a few times over the years, the last time in Salzburg two years ago. Anetta is studying law at university in Bratislava, and this was her first visit to the UK, to England, to London, to a game at Chelsea.
We checked the team as it was announced at around 1.45pm.
Sanchez
Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Delayed by an extra round of drinks and crowds on a packed tube, I sadly arrived a minute or so after the game began.
Chelsea in blue, Albion in a rather nice “old school” all-yellow.
I quickly took off two layers of jackets. The weather was magnificent.
I sat alongside Clive and we found ourselves catching-up as the first few minutes of play took place down below us. All of a sudden, a turn of pace from Kaoru Mitoma caused concern. After a poor touch by Moises Caicedo put Levi Colwill under pressure to hack the ball away, the ball ballooned up into the air, and Robert Sanchez raced enthusiastically out to try to punch the ball away. However, a strong leap by Georginio Rutter ensured that it was his touch that counted. The ball was headed towards goal and in.
Marc Cucarella and the scorer lay prone in the box, and I suppose we hoped forlornly for a free-kick against our defender, but there was nothing. Only seven minutes had passed.
Chelsea 0 Brighton 1.
There was a song emanating out from the three-thousand away fans that sounded an awful lot like “There’s only one Morgan Stanley” but I think the heat had got to me. I know football is all about finance these days, but surely the away fans weren’t singing the praises of investment bankers.
There was a fine cross from Noni Madueke just after the Brighton goal but nobody was on hand to tuck the ball in. Then another run and cross from Jadon Sancho, on his home debut, that was easily gathered by the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen. At the other end, a cross from Danny Welbeck was deflected at goal and Sanchez did well to save.
When Colwill went for a header, I had a Thiago Silva flashback. I mentioned his number 6 shirt to Clive, and Clive said that he had experienced a Thiago Silva flashback too. The sun really was getting to us.
On twenty minutes, a fine flowing move; Colwill to Enzo to Cole Palmer. He dragged the ball ahead of himself and advanced. He was one on one with the ‘keeper. He shot low, we were already up to celebrate, but the ball agonisingly hit the base of the right-hand post. Just after, Palmer tucked the ball in past Verbruggen but the flag was raised for an off-side – and although it looked offside, we celebrated that one too.
Drat.
Thankfully, on twenty-one minutes, Adam Webster lost possession and the ball was played unselfishly across the box by Nicolas Jackson to Palmer. The finish was perfect, with Palmer hardly moving a muscle to stroke the ball home in a way that Jimmy Greaves would have admired.
Now I celebrated.
Get in.
Chelsea 1 Brighton 1.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Next, we plundered Brighton’s ridiculously high defensive line as the ball was pushed through by Enzo to Jackson to Madueke. He advanced and squared to Sancho, who finished with aplomb. Alas, a raised flag and VAR was called into action. We presumed Sancho, but it was Madueke who was offside by the smallest margin on the half-way line.
This was manic stuff.
And yet the noise around Stamford Bridge wasn’t boiling over.
On twenty-eight minutes, Palmer sent a high bomb over to Sancho, who drifted in from the left after a neat pass from Enzo and was bundled over in the box. It looked a clear penalty from one hundred yards away, cough, cough.
Cole Palmer, cool-hand Luke, the ball was knocked home.
Chelsea 2 Brighton 1.
Our noses were in front.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Mac and Barry were watching from the front row of the away seats in The Shed and I un-knowingly caught their faces on film as the scorer wheeled away.
In the very next move, another high line was breached as Madueke raced away. He was clipped by Pervis Estupinan and a free-kick was rewarded, some thirty yards out.
We waited. Palmer placed the ball on the turf. I pulled my camera up, and waited some more. Palmer advanced and swung his boot at the ball. I followed the trajectory of the curve. It looked perfect. It was perfect.
Chelsea 3 Brighton 1.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Usually in these circumstances I pump the air with my fist as a bare minimum, and occasionally jump up onto the plinth to my left, shouting wildly. This time I stayed completely still and completely silent. I was in awe. It was, undoubtedly, one of the finest free-kick strikes that I had ever seen live. The rest of Stamford Bridge celebrated wildly. I just smiled, blissful, contented. I had witnessed greatness.
Thankfully for Mac and Barry, Palmer chose to celebrate in Parkyville.
“You’re not singing anymore” bellowed the home support.
At the other end, Jack Hinshelwood went close.
On thirty-four minutes, while I was vigorously tapping some “in game” notes onto my ‘phone, I looked up to see Sanchez play a suicidal pass out to Caicedo, and Carlos Baleba intercepted and struck.
Chelsea 3 Brighton 2.
Bizarrely, the away fans sang “you’re not singing anymore”, even though they were losing. Oh well, it made a change from investment banks.
This was frantic and manic.
Although a different type of game completely, the first-half reminded me a little of the Everton game under Conte in the autumn of 2016, one of the greatest first-halves of all time.
There were chances for both teams. Sanchez saved well from Baleba, another high bomb from Palmer – intuitive, natural – set up Madueke who raced through but hit the side netting.
All of a sudden, the hype about this team seemed centered on fact and not fantasy. Maybe this would be the game that I would fall in love properly with Chelsea again after a few years of worry and concern as the club seemed to drift inexplicably away from me.
Clive and I spoke about Palmer being a real throwback, a ‘seventies maverick, in the guise of Stan Bowles, Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Rodney Marsh. The lad is so loose-limbed, so relaxed, on a different planet, a different pitch, a different level, a different time-zone. Just as we were talking about a couple of other ‘seventies players, Verbruggen copied Sanchez and loosely played a ball out of defence. Enzo capitalised, pushed the ball to Sancho, who rolled in Palmer. As easy as you like, with virtually no back-lift, the ball was dispatched into the net ‘twixt post and ‘keeper.
Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Late on in a ridiculously entertaining half, Sanchez got down well to save from Welbeck.
PD : “It could end up 6-6.”
At half-time, there was a ludicrous feeling of “I don’t believe it” in the seats around me. Admit it, we all wanted a few more goals, right?
The second-half continued with a similar theme. Palmer played a ball in to Jackson who shot at Verbruggen from an angle. Then, another crazy first-time bomb, so high, from Palmer was played perfectly into the path of Jackson, who brought the ball down faultlessly. He rounded Verbruggen but his shot on goal was too central and Adam Webster cleared off the line.
A volley from Palmer flew over.
Palmer set up Madueke, but his low cross was cleared.
More goalkeeping hari-kari, another Verbruggen faux-pas, and the ball fell for Palmer. He settled himself, I prepared to celebrate once again, but the shot rolled past the far post.
What?
Palmer set up Jackson once again – a slide-rule pass into acres of space – but a last minute challenge by Lewis Dunk robbed the striker of a shot on goal.
A headed goal by Cucarella – who had displayed no end of resolute defending all game – was ruled offside.
A substitution.
Pedro Neto for Madueke.
Neto found himself in acres of space in the right and set up Jackson, who again failed.
More substitutions.
Renato Veiga for Cucarella.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
Sadly, the game declined in quality as it continued. However, Brighton never really threatened too much in the second-half but some of our defensive decisions were poor, and there was this lingering doubt about us conceding a third.
At the final whistle, relief, but lots of joy too.
Anetta had loved her first game alongside George, watching in the Matthew Harding Lower. And we were to learn that Nate met up with Levi Colwill at the end of the game, and the defender presented him with his match-worn shirt.
As we drove home, the bright sun ahead, we were very content with the team’s progress. Sadly, Arsenal had dug out a late win, and Liverpool had triumphed too, but Manchester City dropped points.
Whisper it, but we are in the mix.
Next up, KAA Gent at home on Thursday.
See you there.
Chelsea and Brighton & Hove Albion.
Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.
RIP Lee Marskell
Dedicated to the memory of Lee, who lost his brave fight on the day of this game. Back in the days of the Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2006 to 2008, when I first penned ad hoc match reports as VINCI PER NOI, there were a few other English supporters who shared opinions too. Mark Coden, Jon Doyle – “Jon In Slough”- and “mad lee” always brought vivid tales to the party.
I last saw Lee at Tottenham last November. We stood together as our beloved team won 4-1. It is a memory I will always treasure.
The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.
There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.
The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.
I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.
That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.
Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.
I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.
We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.
PD soon called.
“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”
I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.
This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.
My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.
It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.
I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?
Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”
I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.
Barrow, eh?
It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.
Crewe Alexandra.
Sheffield Wednesday.
Aston Villa.
Port Vale.
Halifax Town.
Workington.
Southport.
Stockport County.
Barrow.
Chester.
Chesterfield.
Rochdale.
Bury.
I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.
PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.
It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.
Us?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.
Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.
To their credit, the away team began the livelier.
With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.
Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.
The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.
There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.
Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.
“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”
PD laughed.
It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.
Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.
On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.
“We need Zola here.”
I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.
I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.
Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.
The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.
There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.
At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.
Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.
On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.
Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.
I am sure that more people stood for that one.
We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.
It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.
I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”
For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.
Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.
The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.
“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.
Just after the hour, a double substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Disasi.
Tyrique George for Neto.
This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.
With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.
Just after, more changes.
Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.
Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.
There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.
In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.
Come on Frome!
Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.
At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.
85 minutes : 0-0.
90 minutes : 0-0.
96 minutes : 0-0.
98 minutes : 0-0
With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.
I smiled.
“GET IN.”
It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.
I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?
It seemed odd to have no Chelsea midweek game after the Bournemouth match, especially since many other teams were embroiled in not only UEFA competitions but the Carabao Cup too. However, the away match at West Ham United’s London Stadium was reward enough for a barren week of football.
Although this stadium is undoubtedly my least favourite away venue – terrible sight-lines in addition to no Chelsea wins in all of my previous six visits – I was pretty positive about the day. As my working week ended on Friday, I was absolutely relishing the trip to East London. The malaise of the previous weekend had disappeared. Whisper it, but I could even sense a win. If that was to be the eventual outcome, the four of us were planning to execute a post-game victory ramble around the East End. That was enough to get me chomping at the bit for the day to start.
By some odd twist of fate, some forty years ago, Chelsea and West Ham United met in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I always remember that a chap called Baz who ran the Yeovil Supporters Club used to produce a small bi-monthly magazine, and in the pre-amble to the travel plans for this game, he subtitled it “When Two Tribes Go To War” after the huge Frankie Goes To Hollywood hit from that summer. Well, on Saturday 15 September 1984, the two tribes went to war in a game that is avidly remembered to this day, not least by me.
This would be the first time that I would see West Ham play and, while North London’s two teams had been developing a mutual hatred of each other both on and off the pitch for decades, Chelsea and West Ham had been doing the same, albeit in the Second Division, for a couple of seasons prior to 1984. Those 1979/80 and 1980/81 encounters – two Chelsea wins in the first season and two West Ham wins in the second – must have been lingering in the memories of those who were planning to attend the first match between the two clubs since a 4-0 West Ham win at Upton Park on Valentine’s Day 1981. To say that there were off-the-field scores to be settled would be a massive understatement.
I was up early for this one – some things don’t change – and I caught an early-morning train from Frome train station to Westbury with Glenn, and we then zipped up to Paddington. We made a bee-line for Stamford Bridge, arriving as early as 10am. As I was off to North Staffs Poly in a week’s time, I needed some photos for my NUS card, and so I used the photo booth at Fulham Broadway tube station. We walked down to a café at the bottom of the North End Road and for the first time in my life I sampled some pie, mash and liquor. This seemed ridiculously authentic for a nineteen-year-old lad from deepest Somerset; what a beautiful start to a top flight London derby. On walking up to the main gates at around 11am, we were aware of a large mob of casuals walking past us in the middle of the road; dressed to the nines, no colours on show, full of attitude, full of purpose. Without a doubt, we knew they were West Ham, the ICF. I remember one bloke bumped into me as he brushed past, but with the fear of their notoriety in the forefront of my mind, it was me who apologised.
After they had passed, we looked on as they ran a hundred yards or so towards the tube station and had a set-to with some newly-arrived Chelsea lads.
We waited in the East Stand forecourt as we saw another large mob of around fifty gents line up at a ticket office and attempt to buy tickets. The police had arrived by now and told them that no tickets were on sale and to disperse. The presence of a mob of away fans in the forecourt reminded me of the time in February 1977 when Millwall made an appearance, along with rushes and pushing and punches. As an eleven-year-old, this was all too exciting for words.
At one stage, the police closed the main gates, worried about a further influx of West Ham. Things were bubbling – pardon the pun – along for a while. Glenn and I got in the ground, into the relative safety of The Benches, at 12.30pm. There were some proper bruisers on parade that day, and us two teenagers were in no mood to get walloped, especially after a nasty experience at Bristol City that August.
Our capacity at the time was around 43,000 and I had predicted a gate of 32,000 the day before.
Once inside, it was clear that West Ham had brought the numbers. Our sweeping North Stand held 10,000 at the time and each of the four paddocks were swelling with numbers from an early stage.
At about 1.30pm, we noted that a mob of chaps had arrived en masse in the West Stand seats above us. For what seemed an eternity, they looked at us and we looked at them. At 2pm, they moved towards our right, towards the northern end, and punches were thrown at home fans, although the Chelsea seats were not full at all.
A slow deep song, previously unheard of, boomed out of the West Stand.
“ICF…ICF.”
I can’t deny it. It put the fear of God inside me.
They positioned themselves – maybe a hundred, maybe more – right behind us. I had been sitting in the very back row of The Benches, a few yards away. I looked at their angry faces and became concerned that they might well decide to throw some coins at us.
“Fuck that.”
Leggo, from Bedford, and I moved a few rows down.
On the other side of the pitch, about fifty West Ham showed up in Gate 13 in the East Lower but the police were soon in charge.
The game, played out in front of a very hostile atmosphere, was a cracker.
Us in 1984?
Niedzwiecki
Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie
Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas
Dixon – Speedie
West Ham fielded such stalwarts as Billy Bonds, Alvin Martin, Ray Stewart, Paul Allen and Tony Cottee. They played in all white.
It annoys me, forty years after the event that Trevor Brooking didn’t play in this match in; he had been a great player, one that I respected a little. Sadly, he had just retired at the end of the previous season, along with Kevin Keegan. Oh God, here come the memories of that bloody England vs. Spain game in 1982…I digress.
For some reason we attacked the Shed in the first-half. David Speedie was through but he was taken out by the West Ham ‘keeper Tom McAllister. The Hammers’ ‘keeper saved Colin Lee’s penalty kick, only for Lee to smack home the rebound. For some reason, the penalty had to be retaken. Bizarrely, the same thing happened again. Lee shot, McAllister saved, but Lee adeptly prodded home the rebound.
In the second-half, West Ham improved but a further goal, a lashed strike from Speedie on seventy minutes, made the game safe. With five minutes to go, Doug Rougvie was an unlikely provider of a deep cross that found an even unlikelier leap from Pat Nevin to head the ball in at the far post to give us a 3-0 win.
As this third goal went in, the West Ham mob behind us upped and left. Before we knew it, they had reappeared to our right, marching into the Shed at the Bovril Gate. A few punches were thrown at anyone within reach. It looked pretty indiscriminate. My pal Clive – who I sit alongside at Chelsea these days – took a battering after being pushed to the ground, but Chelsea soon re-grouped and chased them out.
Bizarrely, Glenn and I walked across the pitch – as did many – at the end of the game while the police tried to quell further scraps in The Shed, and we would get back on to the Fulham Road via the main gates. We made it back to Paddington intact and made the 6.05pm train to Bath, then to Westbury, then to Frome. On the way home, we chatted to two Bristol Rovers hooligans who had been lured to the bright lights of London for the game and had been part of the huge number in the away section.
The day had been massive. The gate was given as 32,411, yet we suspected that the Chelsea chairman Ken Bates had fiddled the figures; it felt nearer 35,000, maybe 40,000.
This had been a huge win for us. However, on the day, both Glenn and I always felt that West Ham had certainly made a big impression off the pitch – the buggers were certainly organised, their forte, their strong point – though in the ensuing years, Chelsea have always mocked the fact that they showed up way too early when the West Stand was full of normal fans.
That night, around the pubs of Frome, I bumped into a West Ham fan from school who, on hearing of the day’s events, summed it all up.
“The ICF did their job, then.”
I glumly nodded.
On this Saturday, just over forty years later, it was all about the football now. Hooliganism has almost disappeared from the national game, and it’s the actions of those on the pitch that are the focus of our attentions in 2024, though I am always aware of the symbiotic relationship between supporters and players.
Without supporters, we always say, football – and maybe footballers – are nothing.
After getting up early – 5.30am – I collected PD and Glenn at 7am. I drove past Frome train station, where our trip began in 1984 and onto collect Parky at 7.30am. We soon McBreakfasted at Melksham and we were on our way. While Glenn read my Bournemouth blog – that I had only finished the previous night – on his ‘phone, I updated the others on my December travel plans for Kazakhstan; out via Istanbul, home via Baku, and four nights in Almaty. I can’t wait. On the drive to London, the weather was miserable; full of dark clouds and rain. Thankfully, as we approached London it all brightened up considerably.
I was parked-up at Barons Court at 10.15am and, after our usual changes at Westminster and Canary Wharf, we reached Pudding Mill Lane station at 11.20am.
It’s a short walk to the London Stadium from here, and one which we are all familiar with. Unlike last season – just over a year ago – we were at the ground with tons of time to spare. Four foreign West Ham fans, all wearing various West Ham shirts, breezed past me. I detected accents from the southern US states. As they passed me, I spotted that one chap had “Lampard 26” emblazoned on his jersey.
My brain short-circuited.
“Lampard. Not our Frank surely? They hate him here. Maybe a reference to his father. But number 26?”
This just didn’t compute.
Security Check One : in.
Security Check Two : in, albeit after couple of dicey moments as the guy checked my camera.
I looked up and saw that “Lampard” was just ahead of me. I couldn’t resist a little chat.
“Hi mate. I have to ask why you have Lampard on your shirt?”
“He’s a legend, isn’t he? Like his father!”
I had no words.
Security Check Three : in.
But then a sniffer dog seemed interested in my camera bag. I was asked to accompany a bloke into a small tent where my camera bag, my wallet and my ‘phone were examined. I stood silent, bemused.
“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”
“No.”
I almost expected them to ask if I’d like some.
We chatted to some pals in the large concourse; about the only thing they got right at this horrible stadium. PD and Parky were in the lower tier, I was towards the front of the upper tier, and Glenn was with Clive further back. For the first time, our tickets were sent via email and had to be repositioned inside an app on our ‘phones. It worked OK for me, but as Glenn was using a mate’s ticket, there was an uncertain period a few days ago when it appeared that the ticket – or rather a QR code – belligerently refused to appear on Glenn’s ‘phone. Eventually it was sorted.
With time to spare, I walked to the very top of the upper tier of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand just to see for myself how awful the view is from the rear.
It is, as I suspected, horrific.
The sun was out, blue skies overhead, still positive vibes. I was stood alongside John and Gary in the third row of the upper deck.
Us in 2024?
Sanchez
Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana
Enzo – Caicedo
Sancho – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
I had heard of a few of the opposing players, but not all of them. It’s a sure sign of my waning interest in top level football outside of the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club. After fifty years of going to games, it’s no bloody wonder my brain can’t take much more.
I hear this comment from so many people of my generation : “Teams from my youth roll off my tongue so easily but I really struggle to name many opposing players these days.”
As always at this stadium, we attacked the other end – The Bobby Moore Stand – in the first-half. The home team created the first chance of the game in the opening few minutes, but Roberto Sanchez saved well from Mohammed Kudos, whoever he is.
Then, a lightning break for ourselves. A free-kick was taken early. Chelsea – the cream shirts looking cleaner and whiter in the sun than last week – switched the ball from Jadon Sancho to Nicolas Jackson who sped away in the inside-left channel. He advanced and slotted the ball home, between the keeper Areola’s legs, and we were 1-0 up. He sped away, full of glee, and the home fans looked on despondently.
Snigger.
However, I was reminded of the times that we had gone ahead in this fixture only to concede goals later.
The home team came at us and created a chance for Crysencio Summerville, whoever he is, but we were full of ideas too. A forceful run from Jackson allowed a ball in to Cole Palmer who sadly stroked the ball just past the frame of the goal.
There was much to admire about our play and the home fans were beautifully quiet.
On eighteen minutes, the ball was played by Enzo Fernandez to Moises Caicedo in the middle of the pitch. He immediately saw the breaking Jackson and his pass was weighted to perfection. This was another Jackson versus Areola moment, though central this time, and our young striker clipped the ball past the ‘keeper with the outside of his right foot, thankfully captured on film by yours truly.
Get in.
A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.
A slide.
You beauty.
We were 2-0 up early.
As soon as had I picked up PD at 7am, I was confident we would win on this occasion. Should we do so, we were going to combine a post-match visit to a traditional pie and mash shop and then, probably, a first-ever visit to an infamous East End boozer “The Blind Beggar” where Ronnie Kray shot and murdered George Cornell, of the rival Richardson firm, back in 1966.
Were we safe? Maybe.
Chelsea continued to play well – especially strong through the middle – but the home team had a lot more possession during the final twenty minutes of the first period. I noted that Palmer was strangely quiet, often losing possession cheaply, and how deep he appeared to come for the ball. Often it felt like he was alongside Enzo and Caicedo in a three. I remembered Moises’ Chelsea debut at the same stadium last season, and what a shocker it was. He has progressed so well since and is one of our most admired players of late.
The home team weren’t especially good, but carved open a couple of chances. Jarrod Bowen fired over. A cool finish from Kudos was quickly flagged for offside. Our defence looked on top, but there were still a few jarring mistakes to keep us worried.
We eked out chances too. Sancho linked well with Jackson, but a shot was blocked, while Madueke ran and ran but failed deliver an end product. A lively first-half ended with another fine save from Sanchez.
There were plenty of Chelsea smiles at the break in the vast away end.
I was still sat, fiddling with my camera case, when Chelsea broke early into the second-half. The ball was pushed into the path of Palmer by the advancing Jackson. I hastily pulled the camera up to my eyes and shot. Then Palmer shot. The effort flew in off the near post as I rose to my feet.
Beautiful.
3-0.
Safe now.
I began thinking again of some pie and mash.
The goal signalled the end of whatever noise there was from the home areas. Joe Cole, commentating on the game in an open area to our left, was heavily serenaded. The West Ham crowd must hate that he is now revered as Chelsea and not West Ham, just like another person that we know and love.
Despite some half chances for the home side, the game really was over.
Time for some changes.
Pedro Neto for Sancho.
Axel Disasi for Colwill.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
Joao Felix for Palmer.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.
There was a fantastic crunching tackle from Marc Cucarella on some West Ham player or another that – although resulting in a booking – resulted in a big cheer from the away contingent. It showed, in one moment, the desire in the team. I also loved all of the blocks – players putting their bodies on the line and other clichés – that again showed a desire and commitment that is not always visible.
At last, after six previous visits to the London Stadium, I had at last seen a Chelsea victory on a lucky seventh visit. Our home games often seem nervy affairs at the moment, don’t they? Can we play all our games away from home please? Three out of three in the league now.
Alas, no.
We now play four home games in a row in three competitions.
Barrow.
Brighton & Hove Albion.
Gent.
Nottingham Forest.
Our next away game – Liverpool on Sunday 20 October – seems ages away.
With many of the home fans leaving early, there was virtually no wait at Pudding Mill Lane station after the game. We caught the Docklands Light Railway train to All Saints and soon located “Maureen’s Pie & Mash”, tucked away in a small ‘sixties shopping precinct in Poplar.
Last season, before the corresponding fixture, we called in at the more famous “Manze’s” on London Bridge Road, but I think the pies on offer at “Maureen’s” were even better. Last season, I decided to call the West Ham blog “Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1” but on this day it was a case of “West Ham 0, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 3.”
Who should walk in as we were sitting down to our plates of pie, mash and liquor but our friend Dane who sits just in front of me at Chelsea. He often visits this haven of traditional London fare. What a small world.
None of us were keen to head home, so we caught another train from Poplar to Shadwell, then another one to Whitechapel. The sun was still shining high in the sky and we walked through the bustling street market – all of human life was there – until we reached “The Blind Beggar” pub on a wide pavement at a junction. We were able to relax, despite being the football supporter equivalents of the South London-based Richardsons visiting the heartland of West Ham’s East End support. Glenn had visited this infamous pub years ago – which was once owned by Bobby Moore of all people – and knew where to show me the bullet hole in a picture frame on the wall that was, allegedly, the one that killed Cornell after passing straight through him.
Gulp.
I had to smirk when “Smooth Operator” by Sade – featured in the first blog of this season, Rio de Janeiro, 1984 and all that – was played while we supped on ales. I also laughed at the chalkboard advertising “shots” for sale.
We crossed the road for a pint in a second pub, “The White Hart”, in Bethnal Green now, and we enjoyed a few moments as we reviewed the day’s game, while admiring the considerable scenery, cough, cough.
With no rush to return home, we then decided to head into the city. Alas, we heard that there had been a “jumper” on the line near Earls Court so we would have to return to Barons Court by other means.
We visited five more pubs during a lovey evening ramble around Blackfriars and Fleet Street. The only downer was hearing that Frome Town had been walloped 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville.
“The Blackfriar.”
This narrow pub was packed so we stood outside with the sun reflecting off the towering superstructures on the other side of the River Thames.
“The Albion.”
We saw bits of an entertaining 0-0 game on the big screen between Crystal Palace and Manchester United. Then, outside, the astonishing sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit and magnificent.
“Punch Tavern.”
The first of three pubs on historic Fleet Street and the realisation that this was quickly turning into one of our greatest London away days
“The Old Bell.”
A cramped pub, full of character, a cosy room and recollections of school days, football days and hopes for a reasonable season ahead.
“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”
This pub was rebuilt after the Great Fire Of London in 1666 and I knew that it is one of London’s most famous pubs. I had known of its existence for years but it was a dream to stumble across it on this most magical of pub crawls. The place was swarming with tourists, full of beer, full of wine, full of chat, but thankfully none of them were wearing a Frank Lampard West Ham shirt.
At around 9.15pm, we caught an Uber to take us back to Barons Court and our waiting car. This in itself was a magical trip for us out-of-towners. We drove past The Strand Palace Hotel, where my parents honeymooned in 1957, past Trafalgar Square – a blurred photo of Nelson’s Column – and along Piccadilly, past Hyde Park Corner, into Knightsbridge, past the Natural History Museum, past Harrods, past The Famous Three Kings on the North End Road.
We stopped at Heston for a light snack, then I drove west to Wiltshire and Somerset.
Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.
My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.
Games on!
And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.
I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.
Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.
I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”
Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.
Thanks mate.
I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.
Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.
Or maybe not, eh?
Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.
First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.
“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”
Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.
On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.
In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.
During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.
I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.
Fackinell.
Back to 2024.
Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.
We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.
Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.
We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.
I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.
There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.
Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.
…little did we know.
The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.
“Is that a professional camera?”
“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”
“OK.”
I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.
I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.
Kick-off soon approached.
Flames, flags, smoke.
“Make some noise for the boys.”
Pah.
Us?
Sanchez
Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Veiga
Madueke – Palmer – Neto
Jackson
First thoughts?
“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”
Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.
The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.
The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.
We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.
It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.
Sigh.
Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.
“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.
Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.
The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.
Fackinell.
Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.
A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.
On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.
Penalty.
One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.
“Yeah, right.”
Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.
It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.
Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”
At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.
We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.
On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.
Tosin for Disasi.
Joao Felix for Madueke.
The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.
Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.
Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.
Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.
Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.
The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.
On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”
The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.
“Thank God there is no Game Three.”
Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.
Goal.
We exploded.
Talk about a “fox in the box.”
What a finish.
Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.
“Need to get a photo of this.”
I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.
I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.
Snap.
Phew.
I took the money shot.
There was still time for another Sanchez save.
The Sanchez and Sancho Show.
At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.
But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.
“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”
Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.
I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.
Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.
The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.
Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.
On Bank Holiday Monday, a healthy 738 assembled at Badgers Hill, but the home team unfortunately went down 0-2 to our cross-county rivals Taunton Town. Frome weren’t outclassed but just lacked a killer punch in front of goal. Of note in this game was the return of Jayden Nielsen, who Frome signed from Bristol Manor Farm in the summer – a top signing in my opinion – but who then returned to his former club after only a few friendlies as a Frome player. Lo and behold, the player then quickly signed-for Taunton Town after only a few games for Manor Farm. I can only hope that Jadon Sancho has a bigger impact at Chelsea than Jayden Nielsen at Frome Town.
On the Saturday before the Crystal Palace match, I drove through the shires of Southern England to attend the FA Cup game at Easington Sports, who sound like a Sunday pub team and play in Banbury. They had defeated Bristol Manor Farm, of all teams, in the previous round and so would not be taken lightly. Frome conceded early, but equalised via a nice lob from striker James Ollis. Despite several excellent goal-scoring chances in the second-half, the away team could not put the game to bed. A replay would take place on the Tuesday after the Crystal Palace game.
The new season has been tougher than we had hoped at Frome Town but I am undoubtedly enjoying the games. They bring me great pleasure.
With games in August and September over one weekend, it seemed like I would be taking a footballing journey from summer into autumn. Whereas the Saturday match involved a journey through new pastures, new roads – some of them bumpy – and a new ground, not to mention sightings of detectorists and steam engine enthusiasts, and a few other Bank Holiday oddballs, the Chelsea game at home to Crystal Palace on the Sunday seemed very normal. With a 1.30pm kick-off, there would be another early start for us, but we still love our Chelsea trips even after all these years.
I dropped PD and Parky off at the bottom end of Fulham and then parked up near Normand Park. I darted into the “Memory Lane Café” at the bottom of the North End Road for a quick bite to eat. I have decided to keep my forty-year retrospective look at 1984/85 going throughout this season, but will tend to concentrate on the twenty-two games that I saw in person during that memorable campaign.
By the time of the first day of September in 1984, I had seen Chelsea play three games that season. I have briefly detailed the friendly at Bristol City and I have far-from-briefly mentioned the league opener at Highbury in the last edition. The next game to talk about is our home opener against Sunderland, complete with former Chelsea winger Clive Walker, which took place on 27 August, another Bank Holiday game.
After the tumultuous events of the Saturday game at Arsenal, here was another long-awaited occasion; our first match in England’s top flight since a home game against Arsenal – another 1-1 draw – in May 1979. I travelled up with my parents for this one – my father drove – and I paid for the three West Stand tickets at £6 a pop. I had worked all summer long in my first-ever job – packing yogurt at a local dairy – and so must have been feeling flush. My diary informs me of a couple of things that I have long forgotten. My father evidently bought us a couple of small lagers in the old West Stand bar – that long room at the south-western corner – and our small instamatic camera, that I obviously wanted to use to capture the historic occasion, unfortunately chose not to work, though this was probably because my father had dropped it on at least two occasions during the day. If only I had a photo of my father and I from that moment, supping on lagers, making small talk, having a giggle. It would have been priceless.
Our seats were very close to the sprawling North terrace, half-way down. I popped down to say “hello” to the four lads that we had met on The Benches during the latter part of 1983/84, and it thrills me to say that I am in contact with all of them to this day.
Alan – he sits next to me at all our games, we go everywhere.
Paul – I see him at a couple of times each season.
Mark – I see him at loads of games each season, he goes everywhere.
Leggo – I saw him at Luton last season, and we talk a lot about Frome Town and Bedford Town.
A helicopter – how flash – arrived on the pitch before kick-off with the Second Division Championship trophy, and it was thrilling to see John Neal smiling as he held it. Alas, the gate was only 25,554, and I was expecting at least 30,000. Sunderland had around five-hundred in one pen. Apparently we gave the returning Walker a fine reception.
There is a photo of Stamford Bridge on this day, no doubt from the helicopter, that often appears on the internet and it’s a real beauty, showing the shape of the stadium at that time. We took the lead early in the game when Paul Canoville shook off two defenders and touched the ball past the on-rushing ‘keeper, the ball only just making it over the line. Kerry Dixon had a goal cancelled for offside and Canoville then hit the bar. Our play weakened in the second-half, but I reported that my man of the match was Colin Lee, resolutely defending at right-back. Forty years on there is still a feeling of disappointment that we couldn’t breach the 30,000 barrier for this match.
One thing is for certain; my diary was not full of the myriad of nerdisms that followers of football now earnestly use as they describe modern football. No overloads, no pockets of space, no low blocks, no high lines, no high presses, no patterns of play, no transitions, no turnovers, no re-cycling.
It was a simpler game in 1984, undoubtedly more naïve, but I bloomin’ loved it.
On the return journey, we stopped off for more small beers at “The Pelican” pub on the A4, and another “Axon Family Chelsea Day Out” was in the books. Looking back, with hindsight, there wouldn’t be too many more over the years; a handful, maybe Arsenal at home 1987, Wednesday at home 1987, Swindon away 1988, Charlton 1988, Everton 1991. But these are just lovely memories from forty-years ago. Just to be able to share a lager with my Dad once more…at Chelsea. Bliss.
To complete the 1984 story, on the following Friday, on the last day of summer, Chelsea played Everton in an evening game at Stamford Bridge. I did not attend, but my diary tells me that I travelled in to Frome to watch the game – it was live on TV, a treat – at a mate’s house. Again, I was disappointed by the attendance – just 17,734 – as Everton, playing in swish silver Le Coq Sportif shirts – won 1-0 with a goal from Kevin Richardson. Later that night, in the pubs of Frome, I bumped into Glenn who was wearing a Pierre Cardin roll-neck that he had purchased for £3 “off the back of a lorry.”
Fackinell.
Forty years on from these seminal moments in our lives, we had all assembled in the pubs, bars and cafes around Stamford Bridge once again. I had a little flit around the stadium before going down to the local. Dave – another of The Benches “crew” from 1984 – dropped in to see LP, PD, Salisbury Steve and little old me at “The Eight Bells” and we had a lovely pre-match for a couple of hours. We discussed the Europa Conference draw and especially the three away trips. All of our eyes are locked on an away day to Kazakhstan, with Greece a possibility and Germany unlikely. Dave saw the team and set me up for guessing it.
“It’s the team most of us would pick.”
I guessed it correctly, apart from me forgetting we had signed Pedro Neto and opting for Mykhailo Mudryk instead.
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella
Enzo – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Neto
Jackson
With industrial action taking place, we then had to wait a while to catch a delayed train from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. We got in just before the teams entered the pitch. Before I knew it, I was at my seat alongside PD – alas no Clive nor Alan on this occasion – and the players were soon doing their pre-match huddling.
The game began. Bright sunshine. Yet the floodlights behind both goals were on; answers on a postcard. Three-thousand away fans, one flag – “Whyteleafe Palace” – and not too many empty seats anywhere after the late arrivals finally settled.
The first fifteen minutes all belonged to us. We played some decent progressive stuff. Cole Palmer was the first player to go close, curling a sweet low shot just past the far post that I managed to catch on my pub camera. The appearance of my “reserve camera” was all due to the weather. I have no need for a jacket on hot days like these, so there was no way to smuggle my usual SLR in. Have I told you all how much I adore modern football?
Adam Wharton, who apparently plays for England, forced a save from Robert Sanchez on fifteen minutes.
“Ah, I see Will Hughes, the albino, is playing for them. I remember him at Derby years ago.”
On twenty-one minutes, Wesley Fofana’s long ball – good, let’s switch our ways to attack – found Noni Madueke and he advanced into the box, but with defenders chasing him, he was unable to replicate a successful prod like Paul Canoville’s from forty years ago. The ball skidded past the far post.
Just after, Neto to Enzo and a lovely lofted ball towards Madueke, whose clip on the volley was well-saved by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson. Brilliant football.
Then, twenty-five minutes in, a great move. Levi Colwill won possession deep in his own half and released Madueke on the right. He raced past his man, advanced, and steered the ball inside to Palmer. I shouted “Jackson’s free” and he must have heard me. A pass to our striker and a neat finish at the far post. The linesman kept his flag down. I instantly dismissed the threat of VAR.
I punched the air.
“GET IN.”
Half-way through the half, a drinks break.
Two cold lagers with my Dad would have been lovely.
There was more decent play from us as the first period continued. I noted how Neto was hugging the left touchline, but was probably underused. A lot of our attacks came down the right.
On forty minutes, there was a fine through ball from a Palace player – Hughes I think – that was beautifully cut out by Madueke in his own box. The ball was collected and played inside to Colwill who was striding into the midfield. In a split second I thought of the phrase of “Total Football” and I had visions of Ruud Krol playing right-half while Johann Cruyff covered him. The ball was played from deep right to far left, and the move was a joy to watch. It all ended with a cross from the left and a header from Jackson which was saved by Henderson. Alas, no goal, but the move of the match.
PD was purring; “brilliant.”
It had been a good half of football, no doubt. It warranted more than the one goal.
There were none of the usual moans at half-time in The Sleepy.
These were saved for the opening moments of the second-half when Hughes, already booked, pulled down the advancing Palmer in a central position. No second yellow. The resulting free-kick, on film, drew another fine save from Henderson, arching his back to tip it over. From the corner, Colwill headed down and wide, clawed away by Henderson, also on film.
From that moment, our play fell apart and we looked a poor shadow of ourselves. The away team got going and we looked second best.
Rob, from Melksham, had joined us in the second period, and he commented “we’ll need to score two or three to win this.”
On fifty-three minutes, Wharton shimmied into the box, and the ball rebounded out to Cheick Doucoure. His shot was blocked by Fofana but the ball fell nicely to Eberechi Eze, who immaculately dispatched a curler into the goal, past the despairing dive of Sanchez, who quite possibly was reacting to a shot five minutes earlier. Anyway, he was late for this one too.
It was 1-1.
Bollocks.
The Stamford Bridge crowd – quiet, of course – at least responded with a defiant “CAREFREE” but then went back to our normal noise levels and our normal behavioural patterns.
I have grimly noticed, especially at home games where I am almost always sat, that my watching position at Chelsea games these days is often with my arms semi-crossed, with one arm up to my chin, looking like a prize knobhead, like a connoisseur at an art gallery or museum, or an adjudicator at an intensive interview session, or a chess player awaiting the next move from an opponent.
What a prick.
What have I become?
“Just old, mate.”
At least I wasn’t holding a pair of glasses in my hand and chewing on the tips like an ultimate art gallery wanker.
I wish I was more animated and involved but football these days can invariably be a dull sport and a dull spectator sport.
Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.
Thank God for the odd moments of spontaneity, of intuition, of grace and beauty, those moments that get us agitated and off our seats.
The game grew scrappy. The rangy Palace attacker Jean-Phillipe Mateta was developing quite a battle with either or both of our centre-halves. I like a good old-fashioned battle.
On 58 minutes, a substitution.
Joao Felix for Neto, quieter now.
We were exposed on a couple of occasions as Palace ran at us.
On 74 minutes, a substitution.
Mykhailo Mudryk for the injured Malo Gusto.
This necessitated a shift in personnel that took me too many damn minutes to work out.
“Can you buggers stand still for a minute?”
On seventy-six minutes, another rapid Palace break and the ball was played inside to Daichi Kamara. His powerful shot was hit straight at Sanchez, but it appeared that his butter fingers had lost the ball. Thankfully, there had been enough of a block for the ball to deflect over. Phew.
Felix floated around but flattered to deceive. Palmer was crowded out and forced to come deep for the ball. He would later, in frustration, kick the ball against the hoardings and get booked. It was one of those days.
On 74 minutes, a substitution.
Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.
The game continued on, and we all grew nervous. What had happened to the Chelsea from 1.30pm to 2.15pm? Enzo, who started well, had been a metaphor for our demise.
In the eight minutes of extra-time, the game came to life. Eze went close but Cucarella blocked. Then, Nkunku raced forward centrally and passed to Jackson who smashed the ball against the side netting.
Late on, a beautifully clipped ball from Enzo in his own half was played ahead of Jackson. He raced in on goal but his shot – on film, just – was parried by Henderson.
Bollocks.
So, a weekend of 1-1 draws.
Next up, Bournemouth away at 8pm on a Saturday night, but before that there will be four Frome Town games in 2024 and two Chelsea games in 1984.
Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 25 August 2024.
I was in the midst of a very busy spell of football. After the Chelsea game at home to Servette on Thursday, I drove to the outer reaches of London on Saturday to see Frome Town gain a very creditable 1-1 draw at Chertsey Town. There would be another Frome Town game, a home match with county rivals Taunton Town on Bank Holiday Monday, but sandwiched in between the two Frome games was Chelsea’s first away fixture of the season at Molineux, the home of Wolverhampton Wanderers.
I picked up PD at 9am and I picked up Parky at 9.20am.
However, I cannot lie; my mind had been full of a game that had taken place some forty years ago to the very day. I had woken at 7am, but I soon spotted that two friends – well done Stu, well done JD – had already shared thoughts on the monumental events of Saturday 25 August 1984 on “Facebook.”
On this day, Chelsea played our first game in the top flight of English football in over five years. Adrift in the Second Division, at times it looked like we would never return. But return we did. And how.
My post on “Facebook” ran like this :
“My Dad dropped me off at Bath Spa station. The train to Paddington with lads from Trowbridge. A pink Lacoste polo, light blue Levis, Nike Wimbledon Supremes. Chelsea everywhere on the tube. Lads on parade. Out into the sun at Arsenal. The queue at the turnstiles. Like sardines in a tin on the Clock End terrace. An 11.30am kick-off. The noise. The togetherness. The madness of Kerry’s goal.
The greatest domestic away game in our history.
Chelsea are back. Chelsea are back. Hello. Hello.”
PD and Parky were there too, though their memories were scant. In my pre-amble to this season, I remarked that I might float some memories from previous seasons into this 2024/25 campaign, but there is no way that I could resist some heavy thoughts about the Arsenal game from forty-years ago.
However, this game was so immense, so historic, so huge that a whole book has already been devoted to it. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of the match in 2009, “Chelsea Here, Chelsea There” was published and I was lucky enough to contribute a few words.
Compared to the timid atmosphere at games these days, both PD and I – as we neared Birmingham – both admitted that “modern football is shit.”
Wolves away 2024 may not be Arsenal away 1984, but I was still relishing it all. If I was to methodically rank all of the Premier League stadia that I have visited by various criteria, I am sure that Wolves’ Molineux stadium would be in the upper quartile. If I took into consideration each away stadium’s location, its design, its sense of place – effectively how unique it is – its quirkiness, its atmosphere, its accessibility, its history, I am positive that Molineux would score pretty high. Before the season began I quickly listed my favourite top flight venues and my least liked.
I first visited Wolverhampton while on a train journey to Stoke in the summer of 1984 – the greatest summer ever in case you are not aware – and I am sure I did my best to locate the floodlight pylons of Molineux on that journey, which was a game we all played in those days.
I like that Molineux is close to the city centre, even though it is difficult to find pubs close to the stadium, and I like the old gold colour scheme. I like that it is virtually on the same spot as the old Molineux with its cranked main stand, huge South Bank and the stand with the multi-spanned roof. Now that really was a stadium with a sense of place, like many were in the early years of football stadium construction.
We were parked up at the nearby Broad Street Car Park at 12.30pm and were soon hobbling down to the stadium. The other two shot off for a pre-match drink while I had a look around. I liked the eventual refit of Molineux in the early ‘nineties – it took ages, from 1979 in fact – but I am not too sure that the large and ugly North Stand adds to its charm. For the first time I walked past the Billy Wright statue outside the main entrance and up the steady slope towards the city centre. From here, it’s possible to get a real sense of how the original stadium utilised the natural slope of the land. Even know the North Bank is just built on earth.
I could not help but notice the various shades of yellow / gold / orange that Wolves have used over the years, as evidenced by some of the replica shirts being worn by the home fans. I can’t help but think that the club needs to nail down that old gold variant’s pantone reference and nail it against a brick wall somewhere.
On the same subject, our home kit colour seems to be a little “off” this season. More of that maybe later.
There was a slight “stand-off” with a steward – “a camera?” – but I was in.
Inside, there was talk of “Arsenal 1984” just as much as “Wolves 2024” and I liked that my “Facebook” post elicited some responses regarding the sartorial choices of the day.
Ian : “Ellesse polo, Lois light jeans, Nike Wimbledons.”
Timmy : “Benetton polo, light blue Kappa pullover, blue jeans, Nike Wimbledons.”
Jimmy : “Light blue Tacchini top.”
It is my biggest regret that my camera – I took it to Ashton Gate – was not with me at Highbury in 1984.
Unlike the sun-drenched terraces of Arsenal forty-years ago, it was lukewarm and wet in the moments leading up to kick-off at Molineux. It didn’t seem five minutes ago that I was tut-tutting at the divs wearing blue and white Santa hats on Christmas Eve and the awful signage on the North Bank balcony :
“Our Loving Devotion Guides Our Lifelong Dream.”
Fireworks in front of us. I captured a shot of the flames creating “A Big W” – and the second “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” reference of the new season. Ominous? We’ll see.
Our team?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella
Enzo – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Mydryk
Jackson
Or something like that.
I spotted the number six on the back of Levi Colwill and momentarily thought of Thiago Silva.
If only, eh?
For some reason, Noni Madueke was violently booed during his first touches on the far side. We began well, and Madueke ran deep before forcing a save from Jose Sa. The incoming corner was headed on at the near post – snap! – and Nicolas Jackson was loitering at the far post to head in. Barely two minutes had elapsed.
Alan : “THTCAUN.”
Chris : “COMLD.”
On nine minutes, there was a leap from a Wolves player – Yerson Mosquera – with Colwill beaten, but the ball flew over. That should have levelled it. We played the ball out wide in the opening quarter but Mykhailo Mudryk in front of us in the Steve Bull Lower flattered to deceive. He was full of promise, but not much else.
A fine save from Sanchez on twelve minutes. With both teams attacking at will, this was a lively encounter. At times our midfield was woefully by-passed.
Jackson was looking a handful, but sometimes to himself.
We heard on the terrace grapevine that Madueke had been disparaging towards the city of Wolverhampton on social media, hence the boos from the locals. He obviously wasn’t sharing my placing of Wolverhampton in any upper quartile of anything.
There was a ridiculously delayed offside decision after Matheus Cunha had scored. There were shots on goal at both ends. Madueke was proving to be a real threat on the right unlike Mydruk on the left.
It was breathless stuff.
On twenty-six minutes Mr. Pink arrived next to me with his “lucky away” Pink polo shirt, shades of me at Highbury in 1984. With that, we lost possession, the ball broke to Rayan Ait-Nouri and he crossed for Cunha to sweep the ball past Robert Sanchez.
“So much for your lucky shirt!”
The play continued to go end-to-end. With me placed near the half-way line, my head was moving as quickly as a spectator on Centre-Court at Wimbledon.
On forty-one minutes, a great Wolves move found Cunha but we were indebted to a lunge from Colwill to deflect the shot onto the bar.
On forty-four minutes, a quick kick from Sanchez found the raiding Jackson in the inside-left channel. One touch from him, a beautiful flick with the outside of his foot as the ball bounced up, played in the supporting Cole Palmer. Again, the ball bounced nicely and Palmer expertly lobbed Sa with an exquisite finish. Watching the ball bounce into the goal was a heavenly moment. I love occasional long balls to keep the defenders on their toes and this move was magnificent.
Sanchez – Jackson – Palmer – BOSH.
Amazingly, the home team equalised deep into extra-time when a free-kick was played into our six-yard box and Strand Larsen, who looks sixteen, poked a leg out and steered the ball in.
It was a mad first-half.
At the break, I was sat relaxing when I recognised the intro to one of my favourite songs. I called over to Alan.
“Johnny Marr.”
True enough, here we were, in 2024 and here was a lovely echo of 1984.
“That’s easy money, that’s easy money.”
It had been an eventful first-half, plenty of attacking intent but some dreadful defensive decisions too. I turned to Gal and said “it’ll finish 5-5.”
At the break, Enzo Maresca replaced the lack-lustre Mudryk with Pedro Neto. I was expecting a barrage of boos, but I didn’t detect much animosity.
Very soon into the second period, Jackson passed to Palmer and there was a short pass outside to Madueke got us all excited. I luckily had my camera to my eyes and it suddenly dawned on me how close to goal he was. He shuffled the ball inside onto his left foot – no surprises – and shot at goal. There was a slight deflection off Ait-Nouri but we watched as the ball hit the back of the net.
Madueke’s run to the away support was joyful and I tried my best to take a few shots through a forest of arms and hands.
The game became scrappy and, despite the lead, it is always difficult to orchestrate any chanting and singing in that long elongated lower tier at Wolves.
However, on fifty-eight minutes, we witnessed an almost exact copy of Madueke’s first goal. Caicedo nicked a ball away from a Wolves midfielder and passed to Palmer, who in turn pushed the ball on to that man Noni. This time he chose to shoot, through the legs of Sa, with his right foot.
Get in.
More lovely celebrations, a slide this time.
Palmer himself went close, striking the outside of Sa’s post after breaking into the box after a ball from Jackson.
On sixty-three minutes, again a Palmer to Madueke moment, and an almost exact copy of the fourth goal. Enzo won a loose ball, Jackson prodded it to Palmer. You know the rest. Palmer to Madueke, a right footed thump low into the goal.
Wolves 2 Chelsea 5.
Noni raced away, picked up a spare ball to signify his hat-trick, and wallowed in the warm applause from the away faithful.
I reminded Gal of my 5-5 prediction.
But I also spoke about our memorable 5-2 win in the first month of the Lampard reign in 2019, almost five years ago, and I also remembered a 5-0 win under Claudio Ranieri in my first-ever visit to Molineux in 2003.
A substitution on 68 minutes :
Joao Felix for Jackson.
“Don’t get sent off this time.”
A substitution on 76 minutes :
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.
Wolves thought they had scored with a finely struck volley from Mario Lemina but it was disallowed for an offside in the build-up. It has to be said that the Wolves support was so quiet in that second-half.
I loved the way that Neto hugged the left touch-line. He raced through and smashed a shot against Sa’s post. On eighty minutes, he out-strode his markers beautifully and dragged the ball back for Felix to smash in.
Bloody hell.
Wolves 2 Chelsea 6.
Two substitutions on 83 minutes :
Christopher Nkunku for Palmer.
Renato Veiga for Cucarella.
At the end of the game, I tried to remember how many times I had seen Chelsea score six away from home.
This was only the fourth time :
21 August 2010 : Wigan Athletic 0 Chelsea 6
30 August 2014 : Everton 3 Chelsea 6
9 April 2022 : Southampton 0 Chelsea 6
25 August 2024 : Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 Chelsea 6
On the walk out of the stadium, the younger element was full of noise, and I let them cheer. These are still odd times for us Chelsea fans. I think it helped that all of the starting eleven at Wolverhampton were players from the previous season, not new. I think it helped me get behind the team a little more. The bond between players and supporters is a delicate thing but it was strengthened on this performance.
No European travels for me this week. I am having a rest. See you in the pub on Sunday.
