Tales From Us, Villa And The Cup

Posted on January 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 26 January 2024.

After a League Cup tie on the Tuesday, we now had an FA Cup tie on the Friday. Two cup games within four days, both at Stamford Bridge, 460 miles for me to navigate, it’s tough at the top.

Of course I enjoyed the 6-1 triumph over Middlesbrough on Tuesday, but I was certainly not getting carried away with the amount of goals that we scored. It was, after all, only Middlesbrough, a mid-table Championship team.

I was sure that if we managed to score against a far more formidable side in the FA Fourth Round tie, I would be celebrating more wildly.

But halfway through Friday morning I was struggling. After finishing the blog for the Middlesbrough game at 10pm on Thursday night, I was up at 4.45am on Friday in order to work an early 6am to 2pm shift in the twin worlds of logistics and office furniture. At about 9.30am, I was bloody hanging, stifling yawns and finding it hard to concentrate. I was dreading the drive to and from London. I would not be home again around 1am in the small hours of Friday / Saturday night. Thankfully the arrival of some pods for our office coffee-maker breathed new life into me.

I picked-up the chaps outside the pub opposite work and set off, feeling fine, feeling happy that work was over for the week, a Chelsea game a reward for my sleep-starved existence. The clear blue skies and bright sunshine invigorated me further and I was actually able to drive to London with a deep sense of contentment.

Alas, mind-numbing traffic congestion as I approached the Hammersmith roundabout halted our swift progress. I eventually dropped two of my passengers at “The Eight Bells” at 4.45pm and the remaining one outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge at just before 5pm. After parking up in virtually the same spot as on Tuesday, I dropped into “The Anchor” take-away for an unplanned saveloy and chips. It warmed me up, and gave me some fuel on a cold night in SW6.

I walked to West Brompton tube and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I spent from 6pm to 7pm in the company of PD, Glenn, Salisbury Steve and London Luke. Rich, from St. Albans – we go back to The Benches in 1984 – was there with his daughter Amber, nineteen, and James, fourteen. It would be James’ first-ever game. I had picked up tickets for the three of them from friends in the US who had bought them to raise their loyalty points for a game later in the season. The tickets came from Jacksonville to Axonville.

Boom boom.

Appearing at “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at the Bridge was a first for us. The place was full of regulars. On the tube up to Fulham Broadway, it was no surprise to see Villa fans in our carriage.

“Yippy-aye-ay, yippy-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

The weather was bitter, much colder than Tuesday.

There was a welcoming tune that greeted me as I reached the seats.

“Blue Monday” by New Order.

I was behind the goal in the Matthew Harding Upper again, but a few rows nearer the front and a few yards closer to the goal than on Tuesday. It honestly felt like only five minutes ago since I was last at Stamford Bridge.

In the match programme, Rick Glanville had written a very interesting article about Chelsea Football Club’s early desire for Stamford Bridge to host FA Cup Finals after it became apparent that Crystal Palace was not an appropriate venue. Lo and behold, we almost played in the first FA Cup Final – in 1920 – to take place at Stamford Bridge. Sadly, we lost 1-3 to Aston Villa in a semi-final that took place at Bramall Lane in Sheffield. That year, Villa defeated Huddersfield Town 1-0 in the final, a game in which my grandfather may have attended. I penned a few pieces about this in the 2019/20 and 2020/21 FA Cup campaigns.

My first viewing of an Aston Villa FA Cup tie against Chelsea took place in early 1987, an away game that ended 2-2. We won the replay 2-1.

The next FA Cup tie against Villa was of much more importance.

The 2000 FA Cup Final was always going to be a very special occasion. The final tie of the 1999-2000 competition was to be held at the original Wembley Stadium – chosen for Cup Finals after Stamford Bridge’s little run from 1920 to 1922 – for the very last time. The venerable old stadium, dating back to 1923, had hosted so many important and memorable football games in its eight decades. In its latter years, it was showing its age, but the thrill, for me anyway, of seeing the famous twin towers on FA Cup Final days evoked wonderful memories of past games and past glories. However, I totally understood the need to update the national stadium. As the season developed, I hoped that we would end up there for one final hurrah.

Season 1999/2000 was an eventful season for Chelsea Football Club. For the first time ever, we embarked on our first every Champions League journey. After winning a qualifier against Skonta Riga – I went to the home leg, not the away game – we were drawn in a group with Milan, Galatasaray and Hertha Berlin. I went to all home games, but no away games.

At the time, my job involved shift work and so I could not always get time off work to follow the boys. I still went to thirty-eight games, my highest-ever total, beating the thirty-five games of 1997/98.

In the league, despite walloping the then European Champions Manchester United 5-0 at Stamford Bridge, we flattered to deceive, finishing in fifth place and a hefty twenty-six points behind United who romped home. In the League Cup, we were sent packing in our first tie, a 0-1 home defeat by Huddersfield Town.

We qualified for the second Group Phase of the Champions League and were grouped with Lazio, Marseille and Feyenoord. I went to the game in Rome, a dour 0-0 draw. Winning that second group set us up for a semi-final with Barcelona. I was lucky enough to go to both games; sadly, a mad 3-1 victory at home was matched by a 1-5 reverse in Catalonia.

As the latter stages of the season were played out, Chelsea made solid progress in the FA Cup. We won 6-1 at Hull City – old Boothferry Park – then enjoyed a run of home games, and victories, against Nottingham Forest, Leicester City and Gillingham. This set us up for a semi-final against Newcastle United at Wembley. Two Gus Poyet goals sent us into the FA Cup Final in a very fine game that would have graced the final itself. Our opponents on 20 May 2000 would be Aston Villa who had beaten Bolton Wanderers on penalties in their semi-final at Wembley.

However, the FA Cup wasn’t all plain sailing that season. For the first time that I could remember, the all-important Round Three was played in early December, though I forget the reasoning, and this was met with a formidable backlash. Also, Manchester United were forced to compete in the inaugural FIFA World Club Championships in Brazil in January 2000 by the FA and so withdrew from the 1999/2000 competition. United drew a lot of flak for withdrawing but, in reality, their hands were tied. In hindsight, one wonders why United could not have entered a youth team in the FA Cup to give the competition some dignity. In my mind, the 1999/2000 FA Cup was played out with an asterisk against it.

It had been a decent campaign for Chelsea and I just wanted us to win the FA Cup against Aston Villa to give us some sort of reward for the season. Unfortunately, I found myself coming off a week of nights, finishing mid-morning on the Friday, and was rather tired as we assembled for a pre-match drink or two at “The Princess Royal” – no longer there – near St. Johns Wood tube station and Lords Cricket Ground. There were probably more Villa fans in the pub than us.

“Ugly bunch, aren’t they?” whispered Daryl.

We had our usual pre-match chat and I think I wasn’t the only one who was a mite nervous. In 1997, it felt that fate – Matthew Harding – was on our side, but this one was too tight to call. Villa, playing in their first FA Cup Final since 1957, had finished just one place below us in the league table.

We caught the tube up to Wembley and posed for photos in front of the gleaming white Twin Towers. We had the same end as in 1997. That would hopefully count for something. FA Cup Finals are always linked to odd superstitions.

Our team?

Ed De Goey

Mario Melchiot – Frank Leboeuf – Marcel Desailly – Celestine Babayaro

Roberto di Matteo – Didier Deschamps – Gus Poyet – Dennis Wise

George Weah – Gianfranco Zola

The normal right backs Albert Ferrer and Graeme Le Saux were both injured. The Aston Villa team – playing in peculiar broad stripes – included David James, Gareth Southgate, Dion Dublin, Benito Carbone and Paul Merson. Merson, the Chelsea fan, was making his second Wembley appearance against Chelsea in barely over two years. Of course, the much-loved Gianluca Vialli was our smart-dressed manager at the time. Note George Weah’s white boots.

In truth, this was a poor game. The first-half was very mundane with precious few strikes on goal. Chances increased after the break with Chelsea enjoying more of them. Midway through the second-half, Dennis Wise scored for us with a close-in prod after a James fumble and the place erupted, limbs everywhere. Sadly, after the euphoria there was misery as we saw that the goal had been disallowed for off-side. From a Gianfranco Zola free-kick on our left, there was another James fumble. Roberto di Matteo was on hand to quickly hook the ball into the roof of the net from close range. We celebrated again but it always felt like it wasn’t with the same intensity of the first disallowed goal. It seemed that all of our energy had been expelled when that Wise effort went in.

Strange game football.

God knows what we would have made of the spectre of VAR in 2000.

After the game, we witnessed some marvellous celebrations from the Chelsea players, who were as relieved as the supporters that the long season had harvested some silverware. For some reason, we all assembled at a pub near Paddington Station after the game. I think that the idea was to give the lads who were not staying up in London for the parade on the Sunday a little send-off before they caught the train west. We saw a few lads from Frome off. Glenn and I went back to stay at Alan’s flat in South London.

This FA Cup lark was alright, wasn’t it?

We had won in 1997 and again in 2000.

These were great times to be Chelsea supporters. I just tried not to think about that bloody asterisk in 2000.

Oh, one last remark about the two centre forwards from 2000.

George Weah was President of Liberia from 2018 until earlier this week.

Dion Dublin currently presents “Homes Under The Hammer” on the BBC.

Weah won that battle, no asterisk required.

We met Villa in one more FA Cup tie, the 2010 semi-final at Wembley. We used to drink in “The Duke Of York” for Wembley games in those days and seven of us memorably showed up in Lacoste polos. Snappy dressers, eh?

The game was an easy 3-0 win with us watching way above the halfway line, with all of the goals coming in the second-half. Thankyou Didier Drogba, Florent Malouda and Frank Lampard. It was a vital step in our march to the domestic double in 2010.

I am not sure how many Villa fans were in the 50,018 crowd at the 1920 FA Cup Final, but there were six thousand Villa fans at Stamford Bridge in 2024. They had the usual smattering of flags, but were not wearing quite so many colours as ‘Boro on Tuesday.

I was seated at 7.30pm.

“Disco 2000” by Pulp.

If this was a deliberate dig by the Chelsea DJ at Villa regarding the 2000 FA Cup Final, then fair play. I remember that in the late ‘nineties, in the car to and from Somerset to Chelsea, we changed the words.

“We’ll win the league by the Year 2000.”

It later became “we won the Cup in the Year 2000.”

We had seen the line-up, but Levi Colwill was injured pre-match. It resulted in a last minute change.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Silva – Badiashile

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sterling

The pitch was watered right up until the last minute. Water gave way to flames. The players entered the pitch. Chelsea in royal blue and navy tracky tops, Villa in claret ones.

The game began.

We began OK, but then Villa had a little spell. A really well-worked free-kick (memories of John Sheridan in 1991) was played by the Villa captain John McGinn out to Alex Moreno out on the Villa left. His cross was met with a “down and up” header by Youri Tielemans (our nemesis in the 2021 FA Cup Final), but Djordje Petrovic palmed it over as the ball bounced up off the deck.

Phew.

Soon after, a short corner was worked inside and Moussa Diaby unleashed a shot at goal. The ball was deflected by Alfie Gilchrist into the path of Douglas Luiz, who tapped in from a few feet out. The Villa players ran off to celebrate down below PD, Parky and Co., and their fans roared.

However, after what seemed an absolute age, VAR chimed in. A handball? No idea. No clue.

We waited.

And waited.

No goal.

Phew.

No celebrations from me though.

This seemed to spark some life into us and we improved. At around the twenty-minute mark we had a lovely little spell. We admired a great move from Raheem Sterling to Enzo to Cole Palmer – a beautiful flick – and a pass that set up Noni Madueke. However, his studied low shot was met with a fine save by Emilio Martinez. A Villa defender made a balls-up of passing to his team mate after good pressure from the lively Conor Gallagher. The ball ended up at the feet of Palmer, but he was found wanting with a tame shot at goal, again cleared by Martinez.

Ugh. Martinez. The memory of that “non-Final” on the first day of August in 2020.

On thirty minutes, Sterling set up Palmer who reached the by-line but the incoming cross was somehow blocked. Raheem was having a mixed game. Sometimes you just feel that he often dribbles at players as his first thought rather than looking up to assess other options. He seems obsessed in beating opponents. On the other side, Madueke was full of flicks, turns, spins, but they didn’t always work out to the greater good.

It looked odd to see the central Palmer playing adrift of the others. He looked like he was sweeping up behind the Villa paring of Ezri Konsa and Clement Lenglet. A few years back, supporters would have wondered what on earth he was doing.

It was an intriguing half and I was enjoying it. After the disallowed goal, Villa seemed to go into their shell. We, however grew stronger and more confident.

Good work from Madueke in front of Parkyville and the ball was rolled back to Sterling, finding himself on the right flank, but his cross was headed by Benoit Badiashile straight at Martinez.

At the break, I was happy with our performance against a decent team. At times our passing was a little too slow for our liking. I couldn’t help think about that old adage about any move having a crucial moment when the ball has to be played. That moment was reached, and ignored, too many times for my liking. Our slow passing – at times, not always – seemed to allow the momentum to be lost. In the middle, Enzo and Moises Caicedo solid and involved, while Gallagher must have covered almost ever blade of grass on the pitch.

The Villa fans began loudly but soon quietened. Our noise wasn’t bad, especially the first twenty minutes.

There was music at half-time.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division.

“There She Goes” by The La’s.

The second-half began. More decent stuff from us. Down the left, Enzo slid in Gallagher and the ball fell to Palmer on his favoured left foot. He guided the ball towards goal but it was always drifting past the far stick. A long cross from Matty Cash on the right was headed over by Moreno, unhindered, at the far post.

Midway through the half, Martinez’ clearance hit Palmer’s heels but he was unable to connect with the ball as it dropped back down to Earth. Groans from everyone. A huge chance had been missed.

In the first-half, Villa’s play seemed to drop away after their goal was disallowed. In this second-half, our performance seemed to lack lustre after this miss. Perhaps it was tiredness.

On 65 minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced the steady Gilchrist. The back four was realigned with Disasi moved to right back, Badiashile in the middle with Silva and Chilwell out left.

Cash was proving to be a handful and the full back was then set up by Ollie Watkins but, thankfully, his low shot was saved well, down low, a Petrovic speciality. The save was warmly applauded. From a corner, Konsa slashed wide of the framework. Villa were enjoying a good spell, but I was pleased that the home crowd noted their ascendency and dug in and provided the loudest support of the night.

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

I could hardly believe my eyes as I saw Petrovic going long at goal kicks as the second-half continued, a sure sign that players were tiring.

On 77 minutes, Armando Broja replaced Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Madueke.

We seemed to be shot as an attacking force and neither of these latest two subs were able to make their mark. We defended resolutely.

A late sub, on 89 minutes, saw Carney Chukwuemeka replace Enzo.

It stayed 0-0.

We would have to reconvene at Villa Park in a week and a half’s time. So be it. At least we will be in the draw for Round Five.

As I left, the final song of my night rang out.

“Brimful Of Asha” by Cornershop.

Ah – a nice bit of symmetry. One of my friends from Wembley 2010 – Simon, pictured in the white polo, third from the right – directed the video of that song, a hit from 1997.

On the drive back in the car – a decent finishing time of 12.50am for me – we wondered how many we would get for Villa Park.

“More than the usual 3,000 no doubt.”

“Wonder if we will have enough time to pop into ‘The Vine’ too?”

Next up, back to the league and an away game at Anfield on Wednesday.

See you there.

2000

2010

2024

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

Posted on January 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 23 January 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We Built the World.”

“You Make Me Happy When Skies Are Grey.”

“We Are Boro.”

My Middlesbrough mate Chris texted me :

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

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

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

The Chelsea team that day was :

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

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

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

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

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

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

I scanned our team.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Chilwell

Palmer – Caicedo – Fernandez

Sterling – Broja – Mudryk

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

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

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

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

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

Djordje Petrovic got down well to save to his right.

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

Phew.

The tie was tied.

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

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

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

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

It was all Chelsea now.

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

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

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

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

Chelsea 4 Middlesbrough.

Now I could join in…

“Que Sera Sera.”

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

But we were happy at the break.

Fackinell.

At half-time, Nonu Madueke replaced Mudryk.

“It’s probably for the best.”

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

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

“CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

Some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chilwell.

Conor Gallagher for Broja.

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

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

Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 0.

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

There was even time for a late debut.

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

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

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

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

At the whistle, Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 1.

I quickly gathered my stuff and headed out.

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

I then got it.

“Que sera sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

We’re going to Wem-ber-lee.

Que sera, sera.”

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

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

Well, I had never heard that one before.

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

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

See you there.

Postscript 1 :

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

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

Postscript 2 :

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

Tales From Forty-Four Years And Counting

Posted on January 16, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 13 January 2024.

On the long drive home from Middlesbrough last Wednesday, with the Semi-Final first leg defeat still fresh in my mind, I am not sure if I was overly brutal or just pragmatic about the rest of our campaign.

“Listen, we are a tenth place team. We’ll beat Middlesbrough in the second leg and get to the final but lose to Liverpool once we get there. We’ll lose to Villa in the FA Cup. And that’s our season done.”

However, by the time I had picked up the others – PD, Glenn, Parky, Ron – on the Saturday for the drive to London for the Fulham game at Stamford Bridge, my viewpoint had noticeably softened.

“Well, I saw the highlights on “YouTube” and let’s be honest, Cole Palmer should have scored two. It could so easily have been one of those games where we didn’t play particularly well but squeaked a narrow win. New manager, new players, let’s give it some time. We have seen worse.”

Thoughts turned towards Fulham. We have a bloody marvellous record against this lot and at Stamford Bridge especially. However, although I had recently read that our last defeat at home to Fulham was forty-four years ago, there was absolutely no chance of me mentioning this to the lads in the car, bearing in mind how they had chastised me for talking about my unbeaten record against ‘Boro.

The last home defeat?

Saturday 27 October 1979, a 0-2 loss in front of a very healthy 30,567 gate in the old Second Division.

44 years.

21 games.

13 wins.

8 draws.

0 defeats.

It’s a very decent record indeed. Going back further, to our first home game against Fulham in 1911, the total stats are equally impressive.

113 years.

45 games.

25 wins.

18 draws.

2 defeats.

The only other home defeat?

Saturday 7 March 1964, a 1-2 defeat in front of a disappointing 26,219 in the old First Division.

With the kick-off for the 2023/24 version of the “SW6 Derby” taking place at 12.30pm, the pre-match routine took on a different guise. When I had dropped into “The Old Oak” last week, Alan had informed me that its doors would be opening at 9am for the Fulham game. This news was met with nods of approval from my fellow passengers. So, at about 9.20am I dropped Parky and PD outside the pub, which is just over the border to the north of Fulham in Hammersmith. I then drove down the North End Road and the Fulham Road to deposit Ron at the main gates bang on 9.30am. I was parked up on Normand Road a few minutes after. We bumped into Liz and Pete just as they were parking up. Glenn and I soon disappeared into a packed “Café Delight” for a quick breakfast, a first-ever visit. There were a couple of familiar faces in there. The clientele then moved south to “The Clarence” or “The Old Oak.”

PD and Parky were supping pints of lager and we joined them at about 10.15am. More familiar faces were dotted around. I soon spotted Stu, a fellow season-ticket holder, who only lives four miles away from me. He sadly lost his wife Sue not so long ago – I went to Sue’s sixtieth birthday four years ago – and so I gave him a hug and offered words of sympathy. I spoke to Jonesy and Jocka, two lovely lads from the Nuneaton area, and we spoke a little about life – and Chelsea.

Jonesy pulled up a seat.

We mentioned the photos that I shared from the 1998 League Cup Final. We spoke about how quickly the time has gone since then.

“Twenty-six years ago.”

Jonesy stated the unbelievable truth that in another twenty-six years some of us won’t be around.

“Yeah. I’ll be eighty-four.”

And yet 1998 seems fresh in my mind.

“Life is accelerating away these days, mate.”

“Don’t worry, Jonesy. The way we are playing at the moment, the next ten years will drag like fuck.”

We laughed.

I met Mick from Hemel Hempstead for the first time and it was a pleasure. Mick has been reading these ramblings of mine for a while. He spotted me and came over to chat with the lads. It’s always nice to get positive feedback. I chuckled when he dropped one of my catchphrases in to the conversation.

At 11.45am we set off down the North End Road. A little mob of Fulham were – in football parlance – “giving it large” on their walk past outside the West Stand.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

I just chuckled.

I took my place in The Sleepy Hollow. Two of the usual four – Alan and Clive – were unable to attend. Glenn had Clive’s ticket and a young lad called Dan from way up in Carlisle had taken Alan’s ticket.

“You’ve got some big boots to fill, mate.”

But Carlisle. Phew, that’s some train ride. Respect.

There was pre-match chat with Oxford Frank and we were both hoping for another three points to maybe edge closer, or even past, Manchester United and Newcastle United.

Our team? It was the same as against ‘Boro apart from one change. Armando Broja was in to the lead the line, with Cole Palmer shifted to the wing in place of Noni Madueke.

27 – 6 – 2 – 26

8 – 25

20 – 23 – 7

In the Fulham team, one man stood out.

It was a cold winter day; a time for warm jackets, hats and caps.

Big Brother vs. Little Brother.

SW6 1HS vs. SW6 6HH.

Blues vs. Whites.

Pensioners vs. Cottagers.

Chelstam vs. Fulhamish.

There has always been a very special relationship between the two clubs. It was always said that for the local populations in and around Fulham, Hammersmith, Chelsea, Putney and Battersea, football fans would go to Stamford Bridge one week and Craven Cottage the next.

As payment for taking wedding photos at a Chelsea wedding back in 2020, I was gifted a huge case of football programmes, including some lovely Wembley Cup Finals and England internationals from the ‘fifties. They all belonged to one man, a friend of Mick, the groom. But of special note here is that among many Chelsea home programmes were hundreds of Fulham programmes, from the ‘fifties onwards, too. It illustrates how the support was shared between the two clubs.

However, they hate us these days.

On the other hand, we can’t be bothered about them.

Oh well.

The game began and for the first five minutes it felt like a continuation of the Middlesbrough game the previous Tuesday; tons of foreplay and no penetration.

We needed to get dirty.

The Fulham fans were bellowing about “One team in Fulham” and we responded, half-heartedly, with the usual “Come on Chelsea.”

It was all pretty timid stuff.

As the game began to get going, a shot from Enzo was blocked, and then the best move of the match resulted in a shot from Conor Gallagher rising over the bar at The Shed End.

We soon all admitted that we could see Willian – 20 for them, not 22 for us – drifting inside, down below us in familiar territory, dropping a shoulder and curling one in under the bar.

Shudder.

On twenty minutes, Armando Broja made a fine move towards the near post and flashed a header just wide of the goal. Until then, his lack of movement and lack of a physical threat was starting to wind me up.

Midway through the half, there were two Fulham efforts on the Chelsea goal to my left. The second came after a fine move had found Harry Wilson and it needed an excellent save from Djordje Petrovic at his near post.

Chelsea were unsurprisingly dominant, but there were only glimpses of decent play, of players combining well, of coherent patterns. Not for the first time I lamented the movement off the ball. On two occasions, if only Broja had realised it, he was in acres of space if he had feinted one way and then spun the other. A pass or two from Silva would have released him.

Willian came over to take part in a short corner. I rose to applaud him. As did many. I don’t go for singing songs about former players, but I certainly felt fine with applauding him just the once. The noise was loud. He clapped us too. I see nothing wrong with any of that. It shows us all in a good light, I think.

Two efforts from us; one from Cole Palmer, not at his best thus far, and a riser from Enzo, who was starting to show a lot more spirit to his performance.

A crunching tackle from Malo Gusto left Willian rolling in pain, but I was too far away to see the detail.

We were treated to a ridiculous turn and dummy from Moises Caicedo on Wilson. The look of pain on the Fulham player’s face was – er – a picture.

In the last moments of the first-half, Palmer advanced and was thankfully aware of Raheem Sterling screaming for the ball to be played into him. A lovely reverse ball set him up. It seems that the Football Gods have decreed that Fulham must always have a towering player called Diop in their team, and it was the 2024 version – Issa – who took an ungainly chop at Sterling just as he cut past him. From one hundred yards away it looked a penalty.

…in my mind : “either a penalty or a booking for a dive.”

The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

Phew.

Cole Palmer took the ball. His record with penalties is perfect for us.

He slotted it home.

GET IN.

The goal came at a perfect time. It meant that there were no boos at half-time. In truth, although not a vintage performance, I was quietly content with some of our play. In my mind, Enzo Fernandez and Levi Colwill were enjoying their best games for a while.

Baby steps and all that malarkey.

The second half began. There was a noticeable increase in intensity from the players, and the crowd, certainly in the Matthew Harding, responded well. In the first few minutes of the second period, Broja found himself in a central area of the box, but could not get a shot away. He was ridiculously marked but took an extra touch, as is his wont.

On fifty minutes, a bender from Palmer whizzed over. Two minutes later, Sterling rose so well and headed down and against a post, but was flagged for offside.

At the other end, a deflected Fulham cross from in front of their fans, but a resulting header flew over.

A couple of pacey Chelsea attacks, the fleet-footed Gusto involved on both occasions, but blocks from the Fulham rear-guard kept us at bay. This was an excellent spell from us.

On sixty-six minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Broja.

Palmer moved centrally as a false nine. From here, there were a few tricks and spins. I like him in a central role.

Just after, Colwill curled a shot over from the edge of the box.

We longed for a second goal.

Enzo continued his little resurgence. He showed a lot more spirit, fight, intensity, and drive. We need that. We need him creating from deep. We need Palmer creating further up field. Amongst everything, Conor Gallagher was on his game, closing down space, winning fifty-fifties, setting the tempo. Thiago Silva was magnificent as the second-half developed.

Madueke was often involved. I like the way that he uses his body, how he forces himself across defenders, using his upper body to barge past.

However, a rare Fulham chance caused palpitations. Andres Pereira found space in the box and passed to Raul Jimenez. The low shot was thankfully saved by Petrovic, who dropped to his right and threw out an arm. It was a really fine save.

On seventy-seven minutes, a roar as Ben Chilwell replaced Sterling. I spent a few minutes working out if our shape had changed. Chilwell for Sterling seemed to be a straight swap.

On eighty-two minutes, a nice run from Madueke set up Gallagher, who was rather hemmed in, but beautifully curled a shot at goal with the outside of his right boot. The ball curved and smacked the left upright.

Fackinell.

Colwill continued to impress. One ball out to the wing was immaculate, with just the right amount of fade for it to drop into the path of our player.

On eighty-four minutes, Enzo gave the ball up cheaply and it lead to a free-kick being rewarded by Taylor. It was central, right on the edge of the box. Who else but Willian took the ball. I hoped that it was too central for him to get a good angle.

I turned around to the blokes behind me.

“Here we go then. We have all been fearing this.”

He clipped the ball over the wall, but over the bar too.

I turned to them again.

“He has gone downhill, that Willian.”

We laughed.

Madueke forced a low save from Leno.

…inside my head : “shouldn’t we be closing this game out rather than chasing a second?”

Two late substitutions.

Nice applause for Carney Chukwuemeka, replacing Palmer.

Warm applause for Alfie Gilchrist, replacing Gusto.

It was all very fraught in the final moments of the game. A couple of Fulham free-kicks out on their right were slung into the box. The first one was sent deep, but after penalty-box pinball, the ball was hoofed clear. The second resulted in head tennis, but again our goal remained intact.

Taylor blew up.

Relief.

Back in the car, we were happy. It wasn’t a bad outing and we had marked our third consecutive league win in a row. We had beaten Fulham at Stamford Bridge yet again. We had risen slightly in the table. I headed back to the West Country a contented Chelsea supporter.

I stopped at Reading Services to hear that Frome Town were drawing 0-0 at home to Paulton Rovers. As I dropped off Parky, just after 5pm, I was to learn that my home town team had edged it 1-0. Lovely stuff.

I dropped off Ron. I often say to him, as I collect him to take him up to Stamford Bridge, “have you brought your boots?”

His stock reply to this is always “they couldn’t afford my wages, Chris.”

Well, on this occasion, perhaps it was just as well that Chopper had left his boots at home. The reason? Ron was playing for us on Saturday 7 March 1964 and also on Saturday 27 October 1979.

I didn’t like to mention it.

I dropped off Glenn, I dropped off PD. I reached home at just after 6pm.

It had been a good day.

Next up, that second leg against ‘Boro. Let’s make some bloody noise. See you there.

Tales From Ironopolis

Posted on January 12, 2024 by Chris Axon

Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea : 9 January 2024.

In the build up to our League Cup semi-final first leg at the Riverside Stadium, I had read somewhere that Chelsea had won every single one of the previous nine games against Middlesbrough, encompassing both venues and across all competitions. From February 2007 to March 2022, Chelsea had won them all.

Gulp.

In this most fragile of seasons, this is surely an an expected reaction.

Gulp.

Surely if there was a record waiting to be broken, here it was. This would be a misfiring Chelsea team playing at a hostile venue on a midweek night in the North-East against a team looking for revenge after fifteen years of hurt.

I did a little more research, but of a more personal nature. From May 1988 to March 2022, I had seen Chelsea play twenty-three times against Middlesbrough and – yes, you have surely guessed it – I was yet to see us lose against them across all venues and competitions.

Played : 23

Won : 20

Drew : 3

Lost : 0

Another gulp.

Should I even bother going to Teesside?

The ironic thing here is that the very first of these twenty-three matches on Saturday 28 May 1988, even though we won the game 1-0, still feels like a loss to this day; we had lost the Football League Division One Play-Off first leg 2-0 and so were relegated after the second leg. It was, undoubtedly, one of the worst days in our history and probably my worst Chelsea day of them all.

In the immediate aftermath of that day, however, Chelsea wreaked havoc on the fortunes of Middlesbrough Football Club with revenge in many forms; a Zenith Data Systems Cup win at Wembley in 1990, an FA Cup victory at Wembley in 1997 and a League Cup win at Wembley in 1998.

The game in 1998, when the League Cup was called the Coca-Cola Cup, was our last game against ‘Boro in the competition that now carries the title the Carabao Cup. Middlesbrough had been relegated to the second tier at the end of the previous season, but still had some decent enough players such as Paul Merson, Mark Schwarzer, Paul Gascoigne, Gianluca Festa, Nigel Pearson and Andy Townsend.

Pre-match was spent in The Globe on Baker Street. I remember being nervous before the game. I feared that Middlesbrough would be driven by revenge for the 1997 FA Cup Final loss against us. I need not have worried. We watched the game in the same corner of Wembley as the previous year’s FA Cup Final against the same opponents, though in a higher position in the enclosure. The Chelsea team, managed by Gianluca Vialli in a cool light grey suit with a big-knotted tie, lined up as below.

De Goey

Sinclair – Duberry – Leboeuf – Le Saux

Petrescu – Newton – Wise – Di Matteo

Hughes – Zola

Chelsea dominated the game, but Middlesbrough held on to a 0-0 score line in the regular ninety minutes. Thankfully, in the first period of extra time, Frank Sinclair became an unlikely Wembley hero, heading home a cross that Gianfranco Zola hooked back from the bye-line. In the second period of extra-time, I caught Zola’s low corner on film just before it was tucked home by Roberto di Matteo.

It always felt odd that after waiting twenty-seven years for a domestic trophy, we won at Wembley twice within ten months but against the same opponent and with the same score line.

That day at Wembley, almost twenty-six years ago now, is sometimes lost amongst our plethora of trophy wins but it was another important stepping stone as we continued to chip away at other clubs in that era.

Great times.

And well-loved players too.

I loved the team from that era.

Didn’t we look young. Not a grey hair in sight. And get this; six-year old Ed is now a father.

Gulp.

With a place in this season’s League Cup Final up for grabs, we soon made the conscious decision to stay the night once we had been drawn against Middlesbrough. I haven’t always attended the away legs of League Cup semi-finals due to various reasons, but there was no way I was going to miss this one. This competition probably represented our only realistic chance of silverware in 2023/24. I booked two days off work and then sorted out some accommodation in nearby Stockton-on-Tees.

I collected PD at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am. This was going to be a long old day. We stopped off a few times en route. Thankfully the clouds overhead did not result in much rain. I was happy to see clear blue skies after we drove past Sheffield. I arrived on Teesside at 2.15pm.

Our check-in time on Sheraton Park was at 3pm. There was just time for the first beer of the day at “The Horse & Jockey” on the Durham Road. We dropped our bags off and took a cab into Stockton-on-Tees. As luck would have it, our friend Simon – and my work colleague – was up in Stockton-on-Tees with work, overseeing the installation of some office furniture for a few days. He was able to nab a ticket in the away end. He joined us in “The Thomas Sheraton” pub in the centre of the town, which was once a courthouse but has now been “Wetherspooned”.

Sheraton Park. Thomas Sheraton. What is it with Thomas Sheraton in Stockton-on-Tees? It turns out that he was a famous eighteenth century furniture designer. How apt. We spent a couple of hours in this second pub and then popped around the corner into “The Hoptimist” – another apt setting, we were nothing but optimists on this cold night in Smoggy Land – before getting a cab into Middlesbrough. We joined up with Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Simon and Salisbury Sam in “Barracuda” for our fourth port of call of the evening. We didn’t stay too long here. There were a few Chelsea supporters dotted around. A few songs of defiance.

At 7.15pm, jackets were fastened and we set off. The walk, we hoped, would not take too long. The stadium was about a mile away. We marched under a railway bridge, then took a turn past some swish new buildings – Middlesbrough College – with the wind biting as it skimmed off the nearby River Tees. The blue of the Transporter Bridge was just a few hundred yards away. Signs to inspire the students were dotted around.

“Great ideas begin in Middlesbrough.”

I hoped that this was one of them. I needed convincing.

“Where alchemists were born below Cleveland’s hills. A giant blue dragonfly across the Tees reminds us every night. We built the world. Every metropolis came from Ironopolis.”

The local steelworks was once huge. The ICI plant towards the North Sea was huge too. Those days are gone now. The local Smoggies can only imagine the times when heavy industry in Ironopolis was the norm.

The stadium appeared across one final void of water. Time was ticking.

We all got in with about five minutes to go. It would appear that we had just missed the pre-game mosaics, no doubt resplendent with matching “Pigbag” soundtrack.

I took my place in the stand alongside Ian, a lad that I have got to know over the past few years and who is my “go-to” source for any extra tickets that I might need. I am sure many of you know him. He is soon off to the Ivory Coast for the Africa Cup of Nations. It would be the first time that we would be watching a game side-by-side.

The first thing that caught my eye was our colours.

“Fucking Tottenham kit.”

Chelsea in navy blue.

Sigh.

Our 2024 team to play Middlesbrough?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Gallagher – Sterling

Palmer

This was only my sixth visit to the Riverside Stadium. It is a big regret that I never saw us play at Ayresome Park. This was an unwelcoming a place as any according to most reports, snuggled alongside terraced houses and with ambushes aplenty from streets and alleys alike. But I wish I had gone. Ian told me that his first visit was the 2-7 loss in early 1979, a game that marked the return of Peter Osgood from Philadelphia Fury.

The game began. We attacked the end to our right. The home fans were immediately loud and hostile. We were all stood, of course, but after a flurry of Chelsea songs and chants, we soon quietened down.

I thought that our shape was often a 4/3/3 with Gallagher alongside Enzo and Caicedo.

An early mistake by Levi Colwill on the far side let in a ‘Boro attacker but thankfully Djordje Petrovic easily gathered.

Ian and I had a side-conversation about the way football is going these days and we briefly touched on the almost inevitable moment when we might be forced to give it all up. We admitted that I was lucky in that I have Frome Town.

“You seem to enjoy it more” said Ian.

Gulp.

The game struggled to find any pattern and despite dominating possession, we struggled to link our play. There was little invention, nor penetration. Everything was so damned sluggish. At last a chance for Cole Palmer, playing as a false-nine, but his low effort from just outside the box did not really bother the home ‘keeper.

The home fans to our left roared at us.

“Your support is fucking shit.”

The noise in our section was indeed embarrassingly quiet.

More of the same followed. Lots of ineffectual Chelsea keep-ball, resolute Middlesbrough defending, an occasional break from them. Our noise still didn’t materialise. I sang more than some, but less than others. I think the poor show on the pitch sucked the life out of us. And yet that is no real excuse. We should have been much more involved.

A chance! An errant back-pass was intercepted by Palmer but he slid the ball inches wide when we were all expecting a goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, a long ball from Middlesbrough caught us sleeping. Isaiah Jones, who I remember from the FA Cup game in 2022 at the same stadium, won the race to slide a ball back from the goal-line and Hayden Hackney prodded the ball in from close range.

The home support boomed.

Both Ian and I noticed that the PA guy described Hackney’s goal as “Middlesbrough’s first goal” – the cheeky blighter.

A long shot from Moises Caicedo went just wide. A shot from outside the box from Enzo was spilled by the ‘Boro ‘keeper, but to our absolute horror, Palmer knocked the ball over from right under the bar. There was still time for another Palmer miss; a fine ball in from Caicedo, but after turning inside, Palmer finished tamely at the ‘keeper.

There were virtually no pluses points from that awful first half. Middlesbrough were compact and aggressively ate up any space that we might have hit. Our play was ponderous and poor.

Many many grumbles at half-time.

PD did not like that we played with no physical focus in attack; I wonder why Mauricio Pochettino chose to leave Armando Broja on our bench?

That said, I was still hopeful – if not too confident – that we would get a goal in the second-half.

It was virtually all one-way traffic in the second period. The Chelsea choir were still waiting for inspiration. A cross from Enzo, a tame header from Noni Madueke but an easy save for Glover.

On the hour, I noted our first really loud and coherent chant of the entire game.

“Hello, hello – we are the Chelsea boys.”

I snapped to capture a low effort from an off-balance Conor Gallagher.

A double substitution soon after.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Armando Broja for Madueke.

I grew frustrated with Mudryk, too easily sucked in to the middle when his true value is to surely stay out wide to either stretch the defence out or to exploit the space. We had almost constant possession in the final half-an-hour. But our play kept going around in ever-decreasing circles. We lacked a cutting edge as we have done for what seems like years.

A shot from the disappointing Sterling curled high and wide.

In the last minute, Alfie Gilchrist replaced Disasi.

At the final whistle, boos from many in our section, but I was just numb.

I posted on Facebook that “I walked in merry. I am sober now.”

It was a terrible performance, on and off the pitch. It was, if I am truthful, the quietest Chelsea away support that I can ever remember being part of. That’s rotten. That it was for a cup semi-final makes it even more horrible.

We mumbled and grumbled to a few mates as we made our way outside.

“Blame me lads. I knew that my unbeaten run against this lot would end tonight.”

The night was cold, but a bacon cheeseburger – with onions – soon warmed me up. I liked it so much that I bought a second one.

We met up with Simon and caught a cab back to our respective digs and called it a night.

At least Frome won.

1998.

2024.

In memory of David Dicken, father of Chris, grandfather of Michael, who sadly passed away in 2023.

This photograph is from the Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea game on 20 October 2007.

Rest In Peace.

Tales From The North End Road

Posted on January 7, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Preston North End : 6 January 2024.

With the Christmas period over, our first match of 2024 saw us paired in a home FA Cup tie against Preston North End. Our paths do not cross much these days; this only would be our ninth head-to-head since 1963.

I recollected the previous two, both FA Cup ties, from 2002 and 2010. These have been my only sightings of the lilywhites from Lancashire.

On 17 February 2002, we played Preston at Stamford Bridge in the fifth round of the FA Cup. I remembered the visitors going ahead with an early goal – which I happened to capture on film – but my memory was of it being scored by Jon Macken, but it was actually scored by Richard Cresswell. Thankfully, we recovered well and triumphed 3-1 with goals from Eidur Gudjohnsen, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Mikael Forssell. The gate was just 28,133, possibly a result of the club not getting the pricing structure correct back in those days.

On 23 January 2010, on a cold and misty day, Parky and I travelled up to Deepdale and watched us beat the home team 2-0 with goals from Nicolas Anelka and Daniel Sturridge. The gate was 23,119. Before the game, there was time for a quick photograph of the lovely statue of Sir Tom Finney, the Preston plumber, outside the stadium. This statue, nicknamed “The Splash”, is based on the famous photograph taken at Stamford Bridge in 1956 of Finney evading a tackle by Chelsea defender Walter Bennet, and captures the sun hitting the water as it is splashing up from a water-sodden pitch. In 2010, the National Football Museum was based at Deepdale, but it has since moved to Manchester. I remember being impressed by Deepdale, a neat and clean modern stadium. However, there is nothing much left of note in Preston these days, except perhaps its bus station, a brutalist gem.

There are a few other Preston “moments” in Chelsea’s history and social history.

During the FA Cup run of 1968/69, we drew 0-0 at Deepdale and reconvened at Stamford Bridge on the following Wednesday. We were 2-0 up in front of 44,000 but after seventy-five minutes the floodlights failed. Lo and behold, the game was replayed on the following Monday when 36,000 showed up to see us win 2-1.

An episode of “Minder” was filmed at Stamford Bridge on the afternoon of 20 September 1980 during our game against Preston. The segment shows actor Denis Waterman watching at the bottom of The Shed terrace with some friends interspersed with some actual game footage, including a great little cameo by Mike Fillery, before he walks along the gangway at the back of The Benches.

On 28 February 1981, Chelsea fan Gary Lee was tragically killed after being chased, with some friends, by locals before our away game at Preston when he slipped and fell from a multi-story car park. At the game in 2010, supporters close to where I watched the game raised a banner in his memory. His mother, the well-loved Breda, was always on the Chelsea Specials. I remember seeing her around Stamford Bridge and at our away games on many occasions.

Gary Lee RIP

I dropped my fellow travellers at “The Eight Bells” and at Stamford Bridge and I parked up just off Lillee Road at about 11.15am. I had a little time to kill. I would eventually meet up with the lads in the pub, but wanted a bite to eat. Lillee Road is the site of the 1873 FA Cup Final, just as it nears West Brompton tube station.

As I started walking down the North End Road, I spotted that the “Norbros” pizzeria next to “The Goose” had been re-opened as “Koka” and so as it was lunchtime I popped in for some food. Midway through my pizza I spotted Alan walk past, no doubt on his way up to “The Oak” further along the North End Road. In an instant, I decided to join him for a drink and the title of this “Tales” was immediately decided upon.

I walked north, past “The Elm” which looked like it was being refurbished. Just as I was about to pop my head inside inside “The Old Oak”, I saw a Chelsea face pass by. He was heading a hundred yards further north to “The Clarence”. These little run of pubs are decidedly old school. No tourists make it up to these parts, away from the match day buzz and shiny attractions around Stamford bridge. Opposite “The Old Oak” is the site of “The Seven Stars”, a lovely old art deco pub that we popped into once or twice back in the mid-‘nineties, once after the 1997 FA Cup parade at Fulham Broadway. It is now flats but the façade has remained. I wondered if any North End supporters would be drinking anywhere along the North End Road. Maybe up at “The Famous Three Kings”, where we used to drink a few years back? I remembered some Sheffield Wednesday fans in there in 2019.

Alan and Gal were inside “The Old Oak” and I joined them for a while. I hadn’t visited this particular pub since early 2019/20. My friendship with Alan goes back to 1984. My friendship with Gary goes back to around 1988.

I then did myself proud. Rather than take the tube or bus, I walked the 1.6 miles from “The Old Oak” to “The Eight Bells” and got some steps in. It is pretty much a classic match day walk, deep in the heart of Fulham; down the North End Road, onto Fulham Road, onto Fulham High Street. I spotted a family of PNE fans opposite “The Temperance” but I was surprised that neither “The Temperance” nor “The King’s Arms” was full of away fans. Where the bloody hell were they? With six thousand of them in town, they couldn’t all be drinking at Earl’s Court surely?

When I had set off from “The Oak”, at 2.25pm, I texted PD to say that I would be about thirty-five minutes. At 3pm exactly, I walked into “The Eight Bells.”

I work in logistics.

It was a rather shortened drink-up in there. The pub was quiet. Still no away fans anywhere. With the tubes knackered, we caught a bus to Fulham Broadway.

As expected, Preston had the entire Shed End, some six-thousand strong. Again, I had swapped out with Parky to allow him to sit next to PD and Alan. I took up my “Cup” position in the MHU.

The team?

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Colwill – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Broja

So, a full start for Alfie, soon becoming a Chelsea cult-hero.

The usual darkened arena, lights flashing, flames.

Once normal lighting had been resumed, there was a moment of reflection on the one-year anniversary of the passing of Gianluca Vialli. A banner was passed below in the MHL. This struck me as being a “first”. I do not recollect us acknowledging anniversaries of the passing of past players ever before. I think this exemplifies how much the great man was truly adored in SW6. Well done Chelsea.

Gianluca Vialli RIP

At kick-off, there was a ridiculous “shift” from Preston. Four players were lined-up on the half-way line between the centre circle and the East Stand touchline. Here was a variance on the way to start a match. I liked that. A deviation. Something out of the ordinary. One of the hideous buzzwords in popular football parlance these days is “overload” but here was a fine example of it. The ball was played back to Freddie Woodman, the ‘keeper, who pumped into the air. Chelsea won the first header and the resulting second ball.

Oh well. Next time Preston.

The first-half was shite, eh?

I am not going to waste too much time writing about it.

As expected, the six thousand in The Shed were suitably energised and full of noise.

“Jump around if you hate Blackpool.”

Ah yes, the rivalries in Lancashire are alive and kicking; Blackburn and Burnley, Preston and Blackpool, lovely.

“PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE PNE – PNE – PNE!”

Ah, good old Paeonia lactiflora.

Perhaps we should have replied with a song about Apium graveolens.

Our first attempt on goal came after fifteen minutes. Then the visitors had a dig at our goal. But this was lukewarm stuff. On twenty minutes, Raheem Sterling unleashed a stinger at Woodman.

I was sat next to strangers, and both were ridiculously quiet. I found myself commentating at times in the way that many football fans do.

“Second ball!”

“Don’t let it drop.”

“Into them, Chels,”

I felt a bit odd. I needed to engage with someone. Thankfully John and his son were sat right behind me, so I was grateful for an outlet.

I could not but help notice that Alfie was wearing black boots. It seemed like he was trying to “out JT” John Terry.

A beautiful ball from Enzo was lofted into space but Cole Palmer was quickly closed down by the Preston ‘keeper and the ball bounced wide. This remained virtually the sole moment of unscripted innovation from the whole team in that turgid first-half.

There was angled shot by a Preston attacker, but easily saved by Djordje Petrovic.

The half-hour was reached and it was so dull. I was getting so perplexed with the continued lack of movement from those in advanced positions. Armando Broja, like Nicolas Jackson, needs to move their markers more often. Everywhere I looked, we had players who were ball-watching, mesmerized into a state of inertia. There were hardly any runners looking to exploit space.

We would have been no match for Tony Hancock’s mother’s gravy which “at least moved about.”

Palmer was a meagre plus point. Enzo showed a very occasional hint that he might be able to unlock things, but this was a terrible game. As the end of the first-half approached, even the away fans had almost given up on it, their noise decreasing with each passing minute. There were even a few muted boos as the referee signalled the end of the first forty-five minutes. I was mentally preparing for two more days off work to attend the replay at Deepdale in ten days’ time.

At the start of the half-time break, just before I trotted off to turn my bike around, I joked with John that I was leaving my camera at my seat so I would be forced to return for the second-half.

Chelsea attacked us in the Matthew Harding in the second-half. Early on, a lovely ball from Enzo was dropped towards Palmer but the ball fell short and he could not get a touch as it bounced above his leap.

A Moises Caicedo error allowed a Preston attack but the effort from Alan Browne was always curing over.

Throughout the game, the away team chose the currently out-of-favour style of goal kicks; all players huddled either side of the half-way line and a boot up field from the ‘keeper.

Just after a booming shout of “Fuck The Tories” from the away supporters, Malo Gusto sent over a pacey cross down below me. A leap from Broja, a flick, and the ball ripped into the goal.

Oh how we love the sight of footballs nestling against the white mesh of goal nets.

The crowd was now alive at last.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

CFC 1 PNE 0.

GET IN.

In The Sleepy Hollow, Alan sent me a text that I soon reciprocated.

You know how it goes.

Broja charged down a poor clearance but could not convert. Soon after, almost a copy of the first goal. A great cross from Mudryk, another leap from Broja, but the ball scraped the bar this time.

Ooooh.

Some substitutions on sixty-one minutes.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Noni Madueke for Mydruk.

Silva slotted alongside Disasi, Colwill moved to left-back, Gusto moved to right-back.

On sixty-six minutes, a Palmer corner kick from my left and our right zipped towards the near post. Silva rose and headed it convincingly past Woodman.

CFC 2 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught Silva’s celebrations on film, if not the goal. He was certainly pumped full of passion. He roared. I spotted him place a clenched fist beneath his shirt to signify his heart.

An iconic image.

Shortly after, John and I were completely bemused and befuddled as to why VAR had been consulted.

The. Goal. Came. Direct. From. A. Corner.

VAR – do fuck off.

An air horn had been surreptitiously smuggled into the East Lower and every time that it sounded, I could not help but notice the predominantly young voices that responded “CHELSEA!”

A very odd sensation. It sounded like every single voice had yet to brake; a choir of pre-pubescent young’uns. I looked around. There were, indeed, many more families with kids in attendance than for normal league games.

Three minutes later, Palmer was fouled centrally and Sterling took aim. I caught his approach and strike on film. The ball spun and dipped over the wall. I could hardly believe it had beaten everyone.

Another roar.

CFC 3 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught his run and leap too.

Three goals in just ten minutes. And the floodlights stayed on.

Broja came close again, but an effort was cleared off the line.

On seventy-six minutes, more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Palmer.

Deivid Washington for Broja.

There were shots on goal from Gusto and Gallagher.

On eighty-eight minutes, a ridiculous scramble inside the Preston box, but the ball eventually presented itself for Enzo to prod home.

We celebrated but we soon saw a flag for offside. To be fair, it looked offside. Oh well. Then, the elongated pain of VAR. The players all tracked back to the half-way line. The wait seemed to go too long. Maybe ninety seconds? Ridiculous.

The sign from the referee : goal.

I did not celebrate.

CFC 4 PNE 0.

I hate VAR.

A very late substitution.

Michael Golding for Enzo.

The substitute almost prodded home a debut goal. There was still time for a rousing “Zigger Zagger” from Cathy down below the lads in The Sleepy Hollow, a merry dance into the box by Madueke but a blocked shot and an effort from Sterling that zipped wide.

It finished 4-0.

I am not sure what Mauricio Pochettino had dropped into the players’ cocoa at half-time but it certainly worked.

We made our way home and into the next round. Who do I fancy in Round Four?

An away game at any of these please –

Coventry City

Ipswich Town

Maidstone United

Newport County or Eastleigh

Plymouth Argyle

Sheffield Wednesday

Wrexham

Now that we are not actively involved in the league’s top placings nor in European competitions, the two domestic cup competitions really are the focus of our attention this season.

Next up, more days off work and another cup tie.

Middlesbrough away, Tuesday night, a League Cup semi-final, a Chicken Parmo,I can’t wait.

See you there.

2002.

2010.

THE NORTH END ROAD.

2024 PART ONE.

MYKHAILO MUDRYK.

THIAGO SILVA.

RAHEEM STERLING.

2024 PART TWO.

Tales From Bedfordshire

Posted on January 1, 2024 by Chris Axon

Luton Town vs. Chelsea : 30 December 2023.

Luton Town, eh? What’s the back-story here then?

“They’ve come a long way, baby.”

Those idiots that think some sort of “closed shop” European Super League is the rightful and logical next step in the evolution of football really miss the point. My plain and simple objection, shared by many, is that it would end the natural and organic progression of teams, such as Luton Town, through national pyramid structures across Europe.

Let us not forget that in season 2008/9, Bournemouth, Brentford and Luton Town were all plying their trade in the old Fourth Division. Fifteen years later, all three clubs are playing in the Premier League, the top table, alongside more established and historically successful outfits. This is to be heartily applauded. Luton Town were even relegated that season and spent the next one in the National League. Their rise through five divisions is a magnificent yet humbling story.

As some sort of comparison, this is the equivalent of Stockport County, Salford City and Forest Green Rovers playing in the Premier League in fifteen years’ time. And here’s the thing; Chelsea playing Stockport County in a regular league fixture thrills me a lot more than us playing Barcelona (again and again and again, ad infinitum, ad nauseam…). I love the way that our football has given rise to a good number of teams that have spent many years in nether regions of the Football League and seen them reach the top division. Since 2010, Chelsea have played regular league games against Blackpool, Wigan Athletic, Bolton Wanderers, Reading, Cardiff City, Swansea City and Huddersfield Town not to mention the three teams already mentioned. These names are not powerhouses. They are small to mid-sized clubs that occasionally have a run of form and get a chance to tilt at giants. I think this is wonderful.

Our game at Luton’s cramped Kenilworth Road would be our third and final game over the Christmas period. The hosts had enjoyed a mini-revival of sorts, winning two games in a row against the two Uniteds of Sheffield and Newcastle, whereas our last two games had resulted in a loss and a win.

We set off from Frome at 7.30am. On the drive up to Bedfordshire, we discussed the game but I was not particularly swayed one way or the other. A win would be lovely, a draw would be bearable, a loss would be disappointing if not totally unexpected.

There were mixed feelings about our last encounter at Kenilworth Road; it came in the FA Cup in March 2022 and although I was excited to be able to tick off a new ground, the news that Roman Abramovich would be forced to sell the club hit the headlines that very evening and dampened the mood. With hindsight, a narrow 3-2 win seemed almost irrelevant that night, despite us all enjoying the win at the time.

The weather was pretty miserable during our three-hour journey. Alongside me were the usual ones this Christmas; PD, Parky and Glenn. A ridiculous amount of time during the morning was spent trying to sort out a ticket for the game for Sir Les from Melksham. There was a spare, but it was stuck in Newport in South Wales. We tried to solve the conundrum. The first thought was for Les to drive over to collect it but there was not enough time. Grabbing at straws, I then sent a photographic image of the ticket, its bar code and also its QR code to Les and left it to him to try to scan it at the turnstiles. I didn’t hold out much of a hope.

I had booked a “JustPark” space outside a nearby house from 11am and I arrived with a quarter of an hour to spare. The weather was still rotten; overcast and drizzly, grey. Luton was grey too. It is not a town to easily admire. Luckily, the ground was only a fifteen-minute walk away. We soon found ourselves outside the away turnstiles on Oak Road. I chatted to a few familiar faces.

I spoke to Andy, who I first got to know almost thirty years ago.

“In our time, in those Second Division seasons, teams like Luton, plus Watford, QPR and teams like that were our main rivals for promotion. And we always seemed to struggle against Luton.”

One Chelsea win in ten Second Division games in the period from 1975/76 to 1981/82 would back that up. In the two seasons that we were in the top flight – 1977/78 and 1978/79 – during those years, they were still in Division Two. They seemed to be perpetual foes. I never liked playing them.

There was no news from Les. I wondered where he was.

I met up with Alan and Gary, alongside Terry Wine Gums, and a few other faces walked past.

I was waiting in the light drizzle for one person in particular. Back in the mid-‘eighties when a whole gang of us used to assemble centrally on the back row of The Benches – Alan, Glenn, Paul, Simon, Dave, Rich, Mark, Swan and little old me – there was another lad who was in our group. Leggo was from Bedford and used to go home and away. He was part of my match-day routine. We were a tight little set. I remember that while he was on duty with Chelsea down in Devon for a pre-season game at Plymouth in 1985 or 1986, he was set upon by local thugs and his leg was broken. He stopped going for a while and then our paths didn’t cross quite so often. I think I stopped seeing him when I went back into The Shed around 1988. I eventually presumed that he had given up going.

Then, in “The Goose” before a game against BATE Borisov in 2018, I happened to spot Leggo. I couldn’t believe it was him. It took a while but we connected on “Facebook” and chatted a little. Like me, he watches his local non-league team. He watches Bedford Town and I watch Frome Town and both teams play at the same level within the Southern League structure. Hopefully we might both get promoted this season and end up playing each other in the Southern League Premier in 2024/25. We were in that division together in 2011/12 to 2013/14.

I was lucky enough to get hold of a spare ticket for the Luton game and, since Leggo lives in Bedford, I offered it to him. He was so happy. I was pretty sure that Glenn had not seen him since around 1986, and Alan a few years later. I sincerely hoped that this reunion of sorts would be a lovely end to 2023.

I saw Leggo slowly walk up Oak Road. Alan greeted him and they gave each other a lovely big hug. It was a very special moment.

I darted inside, keen to start snapping away, but I was well aware that I didn’t really want to replicate every photo that I had taken on my one and only previous visit almost two years ago. I made my way through the security and bag check, then through the turnstiles. The gate was manned and I had to show my ticket rather than scan it. I quickly messaged Sir Les to tell him. This would not be an easy manoeuvre for him at all. I feared the worst.

I made my way down to the unreserved seats. I caught up with PD, Parky and Glenn. They were a little more centrally positioned than for the FA Cup game in 2022. Alan, Gary and Leggo joined us. Five of us in a row, with Alan and Leggo stood behind.

The Magnificent Seven.

I had a chat with a few others. All the usual faces were here. How many tickets did we have? Around one thousand I believe. We took up two thirds of the Oak Road Stand.

At midday, with half-an hour to go, the pre-match PA started. “I Predict A Riot” by the Kaiser Chiefs was first up. I raised my eyebrows. Mention Luton Town to many football fans and a few key words roll off the tongue.

“Millwall riot, plastic pitch, all-ticket, David Evans.”

For a while, Luton Town – despite their fine football under David Pleat – were a very disliked football club. The Millwall riot pushed them into a corner and their chairman David Evans instigated a “members only” scheme, which did not sit well with the football public at the time. There were claims of an unfair advantage, especially when this home-only support was combined with a plastic pitch that suited Luton more than their visitors.

In light of all this, “I Predict A Riot” was a rather tongue-in-cheek start to the day’s events. We were then treated to twenty minutes of standard stadium / dance music crossover, from “Freed From Desire” to “Insomnia.”

Still no news from Sir Les. I wondered if he was near.

“In the pub, leaving now.”

Our team seemed half-decent.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Madueke – Palmer – Jackson

Broja

Ross Barkley was playing for the home team.

As he walked over to take his place on the subs’ bench, Alfie Gilchrist was serenaded.

“He’s one of our own.”

Then came the entrance of the teams. Unlike in 2022 there was not an overly raucous atmosphere. Two years ago, Luton’s game with us in the FA Cup was a high-water mark for them, but there are high-water marks every month at Kenilworth Road this season. Maybe their poor season, until of late, has drained some of the buzz out of them.

Their tight stadium, hemmed in on all sides by terraced streets, has been altered since our last visit. To our left, a decent new stand, but only five or six rows deep. There was a small section of fifty away fans closest to the Oak Road Stand. I recognised a few of them.

Cathy, Dog, Pete, Nick, Robbie, Donna, Colby, Robert, Pam, Sam.

The main stand to my right was a very odd structure. It is cranked at each end, giving the impression of three separate sections. The end seats, tight above each corner flag, must be excellent places to watch the action. They reminded me of old bandbox baseball stadia like Ebbets Field where spectators could hear the cursing of the batter or the thud of the ball in a catcher’s mitt. Those seats overlooking the away end were festooned with many flags of St. George and I expected some noise from the locals within.

The Luton home shirt now has a vertical white stripe, harking back to their much-loved kit from the mid-‘seventies. This year’s kit has black shorts, not navy, though and I am not sure why there is that misfire. Unlike in 2022, we had decided against our home colours and were kitted out in the mint green away colours.

At 12.29pm, a message from Sir Les.

“In mate.”

Bloody hell.

Before the game, with every team having played nineteen games – the half-way stage – we were in tenth position. A win would keep us locked in that position. There is no punchline.

The game began.

We started brightly, attacking the other end, and we began noisily.

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away…”

Noni Madueke, after his fine cameo against Palace, wriggled on the right and set up Conor Gallagher but his shot was blocked by the Luton ‘keeper Thomas Kaminski.

Despite an early kick-off, the floodlights were on, and the sky was Tupperware grey. The noise from the thousand strong away support continued nicely. At the FA Cup game in 2022, bodies were crammed everywhere. This time it wasn’t so bad.

Cole Palmer launched an early sighter at the Luton goal but cleared the target.

With Nicolas Jackson employed on the left-wing, at times not so far away from us, I sensed that he seemed a little more effective. In those early exchanges he seemed to be playing with a little more nous. On twelve minutes, a searching ball from Palmer set Jackson free and he was allowed to advance down the left. His shot from an angle was saved easily but the Luton defence did not clear the ball. It ended up at the feet of Palmer who did not need much time to drill it low and in at the far post.

GET IN.

The Chelsea support screamed and shouted.

Phew.

Alan and I were stood around four yards apart and so our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine took on a new look. We improvised a rather nifty mime and we had a proper giggle.

Ross Barkley, already showing that he was the main playmaker for Luton, blasted over from a free-kick.

After twenty minutes of play, the home support was still quiet. It came as a shock. I had expected more from them.

Thiago Silva inadvertently flicked on a cross from the Luton right but there was nobody gambling to take advantage. Luton had a little spell, but we kept them out. I lost count of the number of times that Barkley rolled his studs over the top of the ball before shimmying and losing a marker. Glenn shouted over :

“Barkley is running their show.”

Andros Townsend was coming in for a bit of stick from the Chelsea support but he took it well.

Gallagher ran off an injury to his leg after seeing his shot blocked. Moises Caicedo gave away a brainless free-kick but thankfully Barkley misfired again.

A chant from the travelling support :

“You have to stay here. We get to go home.”

On thirty-seven minutes, we purred at a really fine counter-attack down our left. Colwill to Jackson to Caicedo – one touch football – who then released Colwill down the wing. His first-time pass was hit square to Palmer. He took a touch but moved it on intelligently to Madueke in the inside-right channel. He danced and shimmied a little, knocking his marker off balance, before slamming the ball into the roof of the net.

You beauty.

The rest of the half was a little scrappy and with lots of free-kicks. A Chelsea effort seemed to be cleared off the line.

At half-time, we were happy.

“All players 7/10.”

At half-time, I saw Liz, Pete, Margaret and Roy appear in the side seats.

An exciting early break from Malo Gusto down the right looked like causing a threat. However, with four team mates in decent positions, the right back took it too deep and a defender blocked the final ball. Tahith Chong – with the Cucarella locks – ran unhindered at us and played the ball out wide. Townsend was unmarked but thankfully Silva was able to block when the ball eventually dropped at the far post. Those in the away end began tensing up a little.

The home team had more of the ball in the second-half and we were not as potent on our rare breaks.

I noticed planes ascending through gaps in the cloud and waited for a perfect shot of Djordje Petrovic taking a goal-kick just as one flew overhead.

The Chelsea support were a little quieter.

We watched as a whipped-in Luton cross from their left rolled tantalisingly through the six-yard box but missed everybody.

Phew.

On the hour, Christopher Nkunku replaced Broja who had not really been too involved. I would later comment on the drive home that he had spent a lot of his time on his arse. Jackson stayed out wide. There was a decent run and shot from him.

With twenty minutes remaining, a super move. I often want early balls played centrally by the defenders and Axel Disasi, taking a free-kick, spotted Jackson spare and so drilled the ball to him. He did well to spin away from his marker and played in Palmer. I saw him advance, roll his studs over the ball to glide past the ‘keeper, but could not see the finish.

I heard the roar.

Luton Town Chelsea 3.

The players celebrated wildly with the fans in the front row just yards away. Great scenes. At least one of the several photos that I took paid off.

“Sign him up for eight more years. Chelsea boys are on the beers.”

And then it all got a bit crap.

Another cross from their right and Elijah Adebayo headed home. Groan. But then VAR was consulted and the goal was cancelled. No cheering from me.

Madueke hit over.

I got my “up, up and away photo” at last as Petrovic launched one.

A cross from the Luton right now, and a header from Adebayo that rattled the bar. It rattled us too.

“Come on Chels!”

Alas, from a corner that quickly followed, Barkley glanced a header in.

Game on? Maybe.

With ten minutes to go, Enzo replaced Madueke. I thought to myself “if only Enzo could dominate the Chelsea midfield in the same way that Barkley dominates the Luton midfield.”

There was yet another cross that caused us worry. This time it came from the left foot of Alfie Doughty from a free-kick. Carlton Morris connected but his header came back off the bar, though I suspected that Petrovic had managed the slightest of touches. Our goal seemed to be living a very charmed life. A two-on-one down our left and a low cross was cleared. Then, Chelsea defending so deep now, the ball was crossed from the Luton right. It was dinked up. A header at the far post from Doughty. I expected a goal. Petrovic scrambled over to save but the ball was knocked in at the far post by Adebayo.

Fackinell.

Game on? Yes.

Luton had scored goals in the eightieth and eighty-seventh minute. This was quite ridiculous.

“Come On Lu’-on, Come On Lu’-on, Come On Lu’-on, Come On Lu’-on.”

Six minutes of injury time were signalled. Our nerves were being stretched out of shape. This was a tough final few minutes.

Alfie Gilchrist replaced Palmer.

The minutes ticked by. Alan showed me “five minutes” on his stop-watch. The game continued. One final punt up field and it came down to a battle of the two Alfies. Their Alfie dallied and our Alfie pounced. The ball was won and then hacked away. There was a roar from the thousand. And there was another roar when the referee blew up just after.

Phew.

Next up, a good old-fashioned FA Cup tie against another of the lowly teams that float up and down the Football League.

Chelsea vs. Preston North End.

See you there.

Tales From Memory Lane Café

Posted on December 28, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 27 December 2023.

The drive up to London had been horrible. Due to traffic congestion throughout the journey, and not helped by persistent rain, it took four hours rather than the usual three. I had set off from my house at 10.30am, then collected the three others, but wasn’t parked up on Mulgrave Road until 2.30pm.

We were in town for the delayed Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game, pushed forward a further day from Boxing Day. As I battled the rain and spray I was able to tell the chaps all about the game that I had seen on Boxing Day, the local derby between Frome Town and Melksham Town. It was a mad but deeply enjoyable encounter that resulted in two players from each side being sent off, plus the visiting Melksham manager too, and a 2-2 draw in front an attendance of 696, the highest home league gate of the[i] season. It had it all. I was breathless at the end of it. Proper football.

I made my way down the North End Road, the rain almost stopped, and decided to call in for an all-day breakfast at “Café Olé” for the second time this season. As I sat at the table, I tuned in to the café’s wi-fi to put out a post on “Facebook.” I wanted to detail what was happening exactly forty years ago to the day.

On 27 December 1983, we played a game against Portsmouth at Stamford Bridge. I uploaded a couple of photos with a little narrative. I then realised that it was in this same café back in November before the Manchester City game, in the exact same café, the exact same table even, that I had detailed a similar “forty years ago” moment on “Facebook.”

So, 1983/84.

For my generation it’s everybody’s favourite season, and I will be dipping in to its reach seam of memories occasionally during this campaign. I originally wrote about that season in greater depth during my 2008/9 match reports on its silver anniversary. There will be a few more “memory dips” this season. Let’s go back in time…

I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst the boisterous and noisy supporters in The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted and with Mark Hateley and Alan Biley upfront, would bring a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought fully up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had been developing, unbeknown to us, in the main football cities since 1977.

Since then, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture; ”the thing with no name” one Manc has called it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983 had many; there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around from 1977, there were those into heavy metal with their long hair and denim, the Goths were around, there was rockabilly, psychobilly, soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon )…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, with girls – and boys – who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…hip hop was making inroads from across the Atlantic too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years.

The season was fermenting most beautifully; not only were Chelsea playing some great football, I was also going to more games – and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue, though Glenn had met some casuals on an away day to Carlisle I believe. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with my two Italian pals Tullio and Mario with me wearing a polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that…get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits over their trainers? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers. They’re either “Pringle” ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea ) or “Lyle & Scott” ( yellow eagle ). I had only ever heard of “Slazenger. Why are all the trainers either “Nike” or “Puma” or “Adidas”? Wait, what are they? “Diadora”? Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s “Sergio Tacchini” and Bjorn Borg’s “Fila”. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies” depending where you were in the UK.

And here’s the thing – it was all about football; the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and has almost gone down in casual folklore. Pompey always seemed to have a photographer in their 6.57 firm and there are a few from the north terrace that day in circulation. Kerry Dixon infamously missed two penalties during the match but the one abiding memory is of a lone Pompey fan sauntering in, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below and wearing a pink pullover.

My diary from that day records our words to him as ”who’s the poser in the pink?” but this has since changed in popular culture to “the wanker in the pink”, as featured in a line within John King’s “The Football Factory.”

Several years ago, I chanced finding a photo from the game – both teams were wearing exquisite Le Coq Sportif kits – showing Kerry going up for a header with the West Stand in the background. I wondered if I might be spotted in the crowd. I zoomed in and found myself, way right, almost out of shot. I loved seeing myself from all those years ago, complete with floppy wedge. I include it here. I don’t like including photos on this site that aren’t mine but I make exception on this occasion. I include a few photos from Fulham Broadway of the Pompey mob, the North Stand – which, alas, I never stepped foot on – and the game.

Ah the memories.

Back to 2023.

I soon found myself catching a train from that same southbound platform at Fulham Broadway to join up with the lads at “The Eight Bells.” There was just time to take a couple of photos of the old station exits, including the ancillary one that was only used on match days. It bypassed the booking hall and went straight from platform to street level in a steep ascent. I had taken an outside shot too, to complete the picture. It’s an almost forgotten and un-noticed feature of the old station that I am sure 90% of current match-goers simply do not notice. That and the old Shed wall; that’s all that’s left from my first visit to Chelsea in 1974.

I reached the pub at about 3.45pm. Glenn, my mate from beside me on The Benches in 1983, was with Parky, PD and Salisbury Steve in “The Eight Bells” with some German lads who have featured in these tales before. Ben used to work for a company on the Swiss border that I used to contact for onward shipping of our furniture. He has visited Chelsea a number of times; the last time in 2019. He was with Jens and Walt, who we had met before, plus another chap called Michael. Everyone was getting on famously, despite the barmaid mischievously putting a couple of “WW2” films on the pub TV for their viewing pleasure. They were howling with laughter. Kyden originally from Kent, but now living in Florida called by for a drink and a chat. The pub wasn’t too busy. We rarely, if ever, visit this pub for an evening game. Top marks to Salisbury Steve who was first in at 11.30am. That’s pretty keen for a 7.30pm kick-off, eh?

I was shocked, and saddened, to see a huge poster advertising a PSG club shop in London on the northbound platform as I alighted at Fulham Broadway. There are no words.

I was inside Stamford Bridge very early at about 6.30pm. I waited for the troops to arrive. For a team that has seemed to have had our number on occasion recently, I was staggered to read that we had won our last dozen games against the Stripey Nigels in all competitions; I hoped it would be unlucky thirteen for them.

Nobody, though, seemed confident.

Our team was announced, and there was a full first team debut for Christopher Nkunku.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Maatsen – Nkunku – Mudryk

Jackson

…”or something like that.”

Ben, Jens and Michael were around fifteen yards away to my right but Walt was down in The Shed. There was the usual “lightshow and flames bollocks” before the teams entered the pitch.

At 7.30pm, the game started and Crystal Palace began brightly attacking the Matthew Harding. They enjoyed a couple of efforts on our goal.

“Colwill is too tall for a full-back.”

On eight minutes, we were treated to a magnificent turn of pace from Mykhailo Mudryk who slotted a perfect pass through for Ian Maatsen. It ran away from him a little but he poked a toe at it as the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson raced out. Sadly, a Palace defender recovered to clear from just a few yards out.

On thirteen minutes, a very fine move carved Palace open. A majestic turn / drag-back from Malo Gusto had the crowd purring and the right-back then set off up field. A little fortune saw the ball continue to Nkunku, who had two stabs at getting the ball between two defenders into Gusto, who had ridiculously continued his run from the inside-right channel to the inside-left channel. His perfect low cross was pushed home by Mudryk.

GET IN.

We roared but he seemed subdued. There was no trademark Chelsea run to the corners. The central celebration seemed odd.

Not long after, a terrible pass from Nicolas Jackson – intended for Nkunku I think, but it hit a Palace player – did his cause no good whatsoever, but thankfully the move that followed fizzled out.

On twenty-one minutes, Mudryk was in on goal after good passing from Caicedo and Jackson but Henderson saved well. There was a roller from Jackson across the goal but wide of the far post. Next, at last some consierable styrength and doggedness from the currently maligned Jackson who battled off the challenges of two Palace defenders and set up Nkunku, who was not able to get a shot away.

This was decent stuff from Chelsea.

Pass the smelling salts, nurse.

And it was reassuring to hear genuinely positive reactions from the crowd. Stamford Bridge was clearly not a riot of noise, but there was warm applause from our surprisingly intricate and pleasing passing movements.

A pass from Gusto to Maatsen, but wide.

In the last ten minutes of the half, the game died a little. The frustrations from the crowd returned. Nkunku seemed peripheral now. Maatsen looked out of place out wide, often afraid to take his man on, too often happy to play the ball back. I spotted how slow Moises Caicedo is with the ball.

“Seen treacle move quicker.”

For all of Conor Gallagher’s energy, we missed a playmaker.

“Oh please exploit the spaces out wide.”

What I’d give for someone to loft a ball into those wide open spaces for a willing wide man to attack.

A sturdy tackle on Maatsen by Chris Richards released the ball for Palace. A deep cross towards the far post from Jordan Ayew always looked like causing us grief. Michael Olise, lively in the half-thus far, was scandalously unmarked and he had time to chest the ball down and smack past Djordje Petrovic at the near post. Caicedo had lost his concentration. Terrible defending.

It was 1-1 at the break.

So, moans at half-time. The relative positivity from the first half-hour had evaporated. It seemed to be the same old Chelsea of 2023/24.

One step forward, several steps back – and sideways.

In the first minute of the second period, I spotted how easy it was for the Palace attackers to roll off our defenders.

After a few more minutes of toil, I said to PD “there is nothing unexpected about our play.” All of it was without invention, without a spark, all of it in front of the defensive lines.

On fifty-three minutes, a Palace free-kick went just wide.

“We could lose this, boys.”

I looked over at the Germans; at least they were still awake.

Benoit Badiashile – he had impressed me at the end of last season, but has played poorly of late – allowed Jean-Philippe Mateta to roll off him and break. Badiashile and also Disasi raced after him but could not stop a shot on goal. Petrovic saved well at the near post.

A debut for Romeo Lavia on the hour, replacing the really poor Maatsen. Thiago Silva replaced Colwill at the same time.

Gallagher pushed up, Lavia sat alongside Caicedo and immediately looked more mobile and interested than his new midfield partner.

On sixty-six minutes, Gusto was so tenacious to stop a rapid break. Whisper it, but a few of us would not be unhappy if Gusto replaced Reece James in the long-term. We love Reece but his play has stalled for a while. He is so injury-prone and is too quiet for a captain. Gusto was enjoying a really excellent game.

More substitutions with twenty to go.

Noni Madueke for Nkunku.

Armando Broja for Mydryk.

More than a few supporters : “how is Jackson still on the pitch?”

Jackson then missed a one-on-one. Gallagher prodded the ball centrally – a great ball actually, one we had been missing – but the young striker fluffed his lines and his shot faded wide. Jackson fell into the netting and probably wished that the goal would swallow him up. Shortly after, we thought there was redemption.

A cross from Silva was deflected but Jackson pounced at the far post.

A roar.

We celebrated wildly.

He celebrated wildly down below.

He slid.

He crossed himself.

He closed his eyes.

He pointed to the sky.

He was mobbed by team mates.

I took some half-decent photos.

Then, after about a minute or so, to my disbelieving eyes : VAR.

Silence in my brain, sadness in my heart.

I was still stood, but slumped back against my seat.

No goal.

Oh do fuck off.

A save from Olise by Petrovic after an error by Silva.

Broja rippled the side-netting.

Late on, Madueke – who had looked lively – fell just inside the box after a corner. There had been a challenge, but I did not really see it. I could not judge its severity. With Madueke down, Palace broke with four against one. The referee played on. I screamed expletives. I’m good at that. That chance thankfully passed, but then VAR was signalled. I am tired of VAR now. I didn’t applaud nor cheer.

Eventually, a penalty was given.

Again, no cheer from me.

Jackson took the ball. Gallagher took the ball. Then Madueke, the fouled, took the ball. He looked confident. A staggered run-up. I clicked.

Goal.

I cheered now alright.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Eighty-nine minutes had passed.

Bloody hell.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

One last substitution.

Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

The young lad certainly made a strong impression in his first fleeting minutes as a first-team player. There was the “gee-ing up” of team mates, at least one crunching tackle, and much running around like a man possessed.

Alfie. Alf. Welcome to the show, son.

There was just time for one last save from Petrovic, again down low at the near post, again from Olise.

It finished 2-1, a well-won victory if not an easy one.

We rose to tenth place. It is, I think, where we will be come May.

Next up, an away game at Luton Town and a visit to the Oak Road End once again. I will see some of the lucky ones there.

1983

2023

Tales From Christmas Eve

Posted on December 26, 2023 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 24 December 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please don’t rain.”

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

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

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

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

Yes, Christmas 1973 was lovely.

Fifty years ago.

Oh to be eight again.

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

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

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

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

I whispered to the bloke next to me –

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

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

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton!”

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

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

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

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

“Looks too Tottenham to me” I thought.

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

“One for the nerds” I thought to myself.

Our team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Jackson

Broja

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

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

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

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

“What the fookin’ hell was that?”

And then, I was just able to decipher this –

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

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

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

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

The Chelsea fans backed him :

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

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

Er.

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

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

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

Sorry.

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

The Chelsea support bellowed their anger towards Sterling.

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

I hate modern football.

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

It had been a pretty dire half.

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

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

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

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

Bollocks.

Approaching the hour, Mauricio Pochettino shuffled the pack.

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

Expletive. Expletive. Expletive.

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

More substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Colwill.

Benoit Badiashile for Gusto.

Noni Madueke for Jackson.

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

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

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A crazy extra eleven minutes were signalled.

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

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

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

Goal.

People left.

Fackinell.

The South Bank seized the moment.

“Take your hats and fuck off home.”

I inwardly smiled.

Gits.

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

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

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

See you there.

Tales From Chelsea World

Posted on December 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 December 2023.

The League Cup Quarter-Final at home to Newcastle United was positioned just before the rush of football games over Christmas and the New Year. In this heady period – from Friday 22 December to Monday 1 January – there would be three Chelsea games and three Frome Town games for me to attend. It’s what Christmas is for, right?

The visiting Geordies would be backed by a strong following of around 5,500 in The Shed but their team were beset with injuries. Chelsea, too, were missing several first-teamers. It was a match that intrigued me. It was a game that we could win. It was a game that could propel us into an unlikely Semi-Final. But Newcastle United would be a tough opponent despite their missing players.

An early shift behind me, I deposited my three passengers off at two different locations at Chelsea World; the first-two were dropped-off on Bramber Road, just a short hop to the evening’s base of “The Rylston” on Lillee Road and the third one was deposited right outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge. As I slowly drove back along the Fulham Road, I snapped the view of the West Stand, its forecourt and the milieu of Christmas lights falling like snow from the stand’s facade, the neon lights and the club crest, the milling crowds, a bright Christmas tree, and the Peter Osgood statue.

It felt like I was driving home for Christmas.

SW6 may not be my home, but sometimes it feels like it must be.

Not wanting to collect an unwanted parking ticket I drove around for twenty minutes and then parked up on Mulgrave Road bang on five o’clock. I met up with PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve in “The Rylston” just after 5pm.

The kick-off was at 8pm. We had three hours to relax. By an odd quirk, this pub – nestled under the flats of the Clem Atlee Estate – is run by the same pub management company as our usual haunt “The Eight Bells” further south. The Yellow Panda Pub Company has just these two in their portfolio. The lads worked their way through a few lagers, while I had the usual non-alcoholic offerings that accompany my match days. Food was a third off between 3pm and 6pm so a decent picante pizza was less than a tenner. It went down well.

I looked around at the clientele and it was very different from “The Eight Bells.” Our usual domicile, right down the bottom end of Fulham, is full of what could quite rightly be termed “old school” Chelsea support; virtually all blokes, decidedly working class, hardly any Chelsea colours on show, ribald laughter booming. In contrast, “The Rylston” attracted a more varied demographic; more couples, a few Chelsea shirts on show, a more middle-class vibe, hushed tones.

I could not help feel that these two pubs had swapped their clientele. Once an estate pub – I remember it as looking pretty rough, at least from the outside, “The Rylston” still has one of the poorest estates in London on its doorstep. It has, however, undergone a tidy re-vamp over the last decade. I like it a lot. By contrast, “The Eight Bells” is located, to my eyes, in a more affluent adjacent area.

I can almost hear the “compare and contrast” instruction from a social geography course at poly in the ‘eighties.

As we left the pub at about 6.45pm – a mild night – I took a few photos of the lads. I could not help but notice the black and white pub sign. I remembered the Panda from the pub company. Was I tempting fate ahead of the tie against the black and white hordes. At least a single magpie didn’t ominously appear. We made our way along Lillee Road, a red London bus drove past, the Clem Atlee to our right, the towering Empress State Building ahead. Another London bus flew by. We were deep in Chelsea World. I smiled.

Driving home for Christmas.

We were all in at about 7.15pm.

As the away fans were encamped in The Shed, Parky had been transplanted to the Matthew Harding. As against Brighton and Blackburn Rovers, I took his ticket and he took mine so that he could sit alongside PD and Alan in “The Sleepy”; my seat was centrally towards the goal. I spotted Luke, another Shed End regular – who used to sit very close to Lord Parsnips until last season – and so I took a snap of them being reunited at the other end of the stadium.

There were the Newcastle fans, set up in two tiers, at The Shed, and a decent showing on a Tuesday night in London. They brought a few flags, including a very odd one that featured the letters “NUFC” and an image of a woman with a tooth missing.

At 7.50pm, “London Calling”, “Parklife” and “Liquidator.”

The usual – kinda cringe worthy by now – light show and accompanying flames welcomed the teams onto the pitch.

Our Chelsea eleven?

Djordje Petrovic.

Axel Disasi – Thiago Silva – Benoit Badiashile – Levi Colwill

Moises Caicedo – Conor Gallagher

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Raheem Sterling

Nicolas Jackson

In the Newcastle United team was Tino Livramento but not Lewis Hall. Despite some players missing, they still boasted Miguel Amiron, Callum Wilson and Anthony Gordon, all undoubted threats.

It was a lively start. An unmarked Gordon managed to get a shot in on the goal that we were defending down below us but it was deflected for a corner. On six minutes, Gallagher saw his curling effort bounce against the Shed End crossbar. We began well. There was a Newcastle cross from their right that didn’t drop for an attacker to pounce but it had me worried.

Not long after, calamity. From a cross from the bye-line from Disasi, we gave up possession and Newcastle broke with pace. Callum Wilson, however, had Caceido chasing him and the twin pillars of Silva and Badiashile closing in on him. This pincer movement failed. He ghosted past Silva. Badiashile then seemed to get his legs tangled. I watched in horror as the ball was adeptly curled with the outside of his foot past the forlorn dive of Petrovic.

Fackinell.

It seemed the unluckiest of goals to concede, but now we were up against it.

We were immediately treated to an absolutely magnificent sliding tackle from Silva, and if I was to say that it was worth the admission money alone I would stand by my comment. Pure class.

A twist and a shot at the near post from Palmer. There was a nice “one-two” between Sterling and Caicedo on twenty-seven minutes but his roller just evaded the goal frame. Just after, another shot from Sterling was blocked after a decent break down the right.

These chances were few and far between though. I was again frustrated to see Sterling in acres of space but criminally under-utilised. Our build-up play lacked guile. The two centre-backs seemed to be touching the ball every five seconds.

“Slow, slow, quick, quick, slower.”

At least the Newcastle threat had dwindled; they were quite content to defend deep.

“LOW BLOCK” shout the FIFA nerds.

Yeah, low bock, whatever.

Fernandez was surprisingly substituted on thirty-two minutes and was replaced by Armando Broja. There was a shifting of personnel and Sterling popped up on the right, taking over from Palmer. Jackson was shunted out towards the East Stand. I speculated if he would be better positioned behind the East Stand.

The noise from us wasn’t great. There were a few attempts at getting something started. I couldn’t decipher much of it, but the away fans were making a fair old racket.

“Noo-cassel You-nited. We’ll nevah be defeated.”

As the first-half continued, I moaned to the chap next to me “one-hundred and ten passes and its going nowhere.”

Jackson was having a minimal impact, aside from getting caught offside. There had been one, just one, excellent run from him – that both the bloke next to me and I had spotted – but which was not spotted by the man on the ball. We longed for the movement of Crespo or Vialli.

“Proper strikers” he murmured.

It was so noticeable that, even with Broja on the pitch, we were loath to send crosses into the Geordie box. I wondered that we would need Zaphod Beeblebrox loitering at the far post before we started crossing high balls into the mixer.

At the end of the first-half, Broja’s goal was called back for offside, Newcastle had two efforts on our goal, and Palmer supplied, probably, one of the highest ever crosses seen at Stamford Bridge, only for Jackson to head it over at the far stick. Perhaps if he had two heads he would have fared better.

At half-time, there were moans.

“We aren’t hitting our front players quick enough. By the time we play the bloody ball, they are fully marked.”

At the break, Malo Gusto replaced Colwill at left-back.

The chap next to me said that if Reece James was to be out for an extended stay, as is likely, Gusto would be an able replacement. I could not disagree. He has been a good addition this season.

Soon into the first-half, there was nothing but praise and applause for the much-maligned Jackson who chased a Newcastle break from Gordon and put in a timely tackle way inside our own half. Fair play to him. I was not upset when Gordon would soon be substituted.

Bursting down the right, that man Gusto played in Broja who set up Jackson. He swivelled nicely but his GPS let him down, the shot missing the near post by a yard or so. A minute after, Jackson prodded the ball through to the rampaging Sterling, but his low shot was pushed – low down – past the far post by Dubravka.

There was noise now.

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

You know the tune.

Stamford Bridge was alive and it felt like a proper game, a proper cup tie.

On the hour, another magnificently-timed sliding tackle from Silva. More glorious applause.

“Come on, keep up the intensity Chels.”

By now, Newcastle’s attack had virtually ceased.

The noise continued. At last Christopher Nkunku made his Chelsea debut, replacing Jackson.

A big roar.

It seemed like the second coming of Christ.

I turned to the chap to my right.

“No pressure.”

Ten minutes later, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling and Ian Maatsen replaced Disasi. Gusto moved to the right. Mudryk was soon attempting to dance down the left. Was I confident of us getting an equaliser? Maybe. Only maybe.

Into the last ten minutes, the atmosphere had noticeably quietened. Perhaps the Chelsea faithful were not confident of that equaliser. Mudryk found himself our main threat. A teasing cross was headed, almost disastrously, into his own goal by Livramento.

On eighty-nine minutes, a wriggle from Gallagher – our best player, he was everywhere – and a coming together of bodies but no penalty.

There were four minutes of injury time but I had hoped for more.

Four minutes? Fackinell.

The bloke next to me couldn’t hold it in any longer, and excused himself. He got up, we shook hands, and off he went. I like these temporary friendships that we make at football. I’ll probably never see him again, but it is always nice not to be sat next to a dickhead, of which there are many, at Chelsea. At away games, those temporary friendships always tend to solidify over the years.

Into injury time, a deep cross from the nimble and mobile Gusto was aimed at the far post. For some reason that only he knows, Keiran Trippier reacted oddly to the ball as it bounced up in front of him. He seemed to be shocked that the ball would take its trajectory. Mudryk, just behind him, reacted quickly.

My heart-beat increased. I gulped some air. I stood.

The ball sat up nicely.

The Ukrainian walloped it in.

Fackinell.

GET IN.

The Bridge boomed.

The scorer ran past the lucky ones in the front row at pitch side and continued his run over to the West Stand, not usually the place to aim for. Shades of Micky Thomas against Sheffield Wednesday in 1984.

Stay still my beating heart.

Fackinell indeed.

Ninety-three minutes had elapsed. This was indeed a late-late show. I immediately thought back to a Les Ferdinand equaliser for the Toon Army, equally late, in an FA Cup tie in January 1996. Revenge for that, maybe?

Before we could breath, the final whistle sounded. I hoped for the penalties to be taken down our end. There seemed to be a longer-than-usual delay.

The players walked to the half-way line and faced the Newcastle followers in The Shed.

Ugh.

I remembered an FA Cup loss on penalties at The Shed against Everton in 2011.

I prepared my camera for its big moments.

Cole Palmer – a confident strike low to the right, tucked just inside the post.

1-0.

Callum Wilson – down the middle, git.

1-1.

Conor Gallagher – a short run up but a smash high, phew.

2-1.

Keiran Trippier – “you little prick” might have out him off, a drive wide of the left-hand post.

2-1.

Christopher Nkunku – a confident smack high left, welcome to Chelsea my son.

3-1.

Bruno Guimaraes – a stop/start run up, but struck just inside the right-hand post.

3-2.

Mykhailo Mudryk – a brief approach, stroked to the left, surely evoking Didier in Munich for us all.

4-2.

Matt Ritchie – confidently struck, but flamboyantly saved by Petrovic, magnificent stuff.

Yes!

Within the space of sixteen minutes, we had come back from the dead. Into the League Cup semis we went. Thousands of puns simultaneously erupted all over Chelsea World about Djordje and the Geordies.

This was a stunning turnaround. But it was a reward for our dominance in an increasingly noisy and enthralling second-half.

“Freed From Desire” boomed around Stamford Bridge and there was a lot of untidy body movements in the Matthew Harding Upper. Then “One Step Beyond” and even more shocking behaviour.

But I didn’t mind.

Outside, there were so many Chelsea smiles and a massive sense of release.

“Freed” indeed. Maybe the DJ was right.

Fackinell.

Our team and our club continue to confuse us all, but this win seemed so important. I am not going to naively suggest it might save our season but stranger things have happened. It might just get the positivity flowing again.

As I drove home, we learned that Middlesbrough had beaten Port Vale and Fulham had edged out Everton.

We often underplay the importance of the League Cup these days, but surely no Chelsea fan currently does. I can’t wait for the semi-final.

See you there.

Postscript 1.

In preparing for this write-up, I stumbled across the realisation that in September 2010, we came from 1-3 down to get to 3-3 in a League Cup game against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge only for Shola Ameobi to score on ninety minutes to give the visitors a 4-3 triumph. Shockingly, I have no recollection of this game.

Postscript 2.

As I reached my car on Mulgrave Road, I had opened up my boot and threw my jacket in. There, in a corner, I spotted a black and white bobble hat – a free-gift from a visit to see Queens Park at Hampden a year ago – and I smiled. I need not have worried about me tempting the Footballing Gods with those black and white references pre-match. I had already committed a cardinal sin, but thankfully I had not been punished.

Tales From The Weekend That Wasn’t

Posted on December 15, 2023 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 10 December 2023.

Despite the feeling of desolation after that terrible performance at Old Trafford, my spirits were raised as the weekend approached. I sincerely hoped that it would be one of the nicest footballing weekends of recent memory.

First up, on the Saturday, my nineteenth Frome Town match of the season, and the biggest game that I will have seen the team play in over fifty-three years of attending games at Badgers Hill. My local team were to play former Football League outfit Torquay United in the Third Round of the FA Trophy. I had been looking forward to this since the draw was made and I was hoping that an attendance of over 1,500 would be reached.

Then, on the Sunday, my nineteenth Chelsea game of the season and a visit to my favourite away ground for the Everton game at Goodison Park. This looked likely to be my last ever visit, my twenty-third, as the home club were looking to move into their swish new riverside apartment next season. However, with both clubs in the last eight of the League Cup, there was a small chance that Chelsea could be back in the New Year for a semi-final, and an even smaller chance that we would draw Everton away in the FA Cup. However, I have been keeping tabs on the new build at Bramley Moore Dock over the past year and there have been rumours of the stadium not being ready for the start of the 2024/25 season. There has been some debate within the Evertonian ranks about moving in as soon as the stadium is ready, even if it is in the middle of the 2024/25, making use of the extra match-day income as soon as possible. The other view is to delay and move in at the start of the 2025/26 campaign, thus ensuring a grand, and planned, send off for the Grand Old Lady, as Goodison is affectionately known, rather than being unsure when the actual last game would be. I would imagine that would be a nightmare for most Evertonians; not knowing when “the last goodbye” would be.

On the Saturday, I met up with a few pals at “The Vine Tree” pub near the Frome Town ground. This pub used to be run by former Frome Town and Portsmouth player Willie “Farmer” Haines, though my father knew him as “Wyndy” Haines, in the ‘forties. He scored 119 goals in 164 games for Pompey. I mention this in passing as my school friend Richard, who met me and some other Frome mates at this pub, is currently one of two poets in residence at Fratton Park. We joked how he has come a long way from when the two of us used to contribute semi-satirical and semi-humorous pieces to a sixth-form journal forty years ago.

I was buzzing as I walked up the hill to the ground. I could see that the Devon club had brought around three-hundred fans, most of whom were nestled under the roof of the side terrace. Despite an even start, the visitors went 2-0 up in the first-half. Frome Town were then awarded a penalty but Jon Davies saw his low effort saved. In the first few moments of the second-half, Alex Monks hit the post, and we then watched in horror as Torquay scored two more in quick succession. Sam Meakes pulled one back to make it 1-4 and we had a goal disallowed too. It was not to be. The gate was a healthy 1,305 but fell short of my hoped-for target. At times, the atmosphere was a little subdued. In truth, I felt a little underwhelmed. It could have been so much better. Frome failed to score in key moments and paid the price against a far fitter team. But the club are well placed, and could go top of the league very soon.

On the Sunday, I collected PD at 7am and we headed up to Merseyside. Despite the slight chances of further games at Goodison Park, this felt like my last-ever visit, and I promised myself to spend some time circumnavigating the tight streets around the famous old ground – those who mock it shamefully call it Woodison – before taking my place in the Bullens Road Upper. As I drove north, I could not stop myself from humming the “Z Cars” tune to myself.

I also found myself humming the tune of a song that some Evertonian fans taught me in a cab in Manhattan a few years back, after having met them at a Yankees game.

“Oh we hate Bill Shankly and we hate St. John, but most of all we hate Big Ron.

And we’ll hang the Kopites one by one on the banks of the royal blue Mersey.

To hell with Liverpool and Rangers too, throw them all in the Mersey.

And we’ll fight fight fight with all our might for the boys in the royal blue jersey,”

We were parked up at Stanley Park, for the last time perhaps, at around 11.30am. Thankfully, the rain had held off. We walked to the ground with our friends Michelle and Dane who were parked close by. PD went straight in, but I absolutely wanted to linger a while. I began an hour long walk around the stadium, and took – ahem – a few photos. I soon bumped into a chap who would later take his position behind the Park End goal as an official game photographer, and he took a few shots of me outside the Bullens Road. I told him of how these visits resonate for me due to the fact that my father visited Goodison Park in around 1943 while taking part in his RAF training on The Wirral. I walked over and stood under the “Welcome To Goodison” sign and I said that it felt like I was waiting for Dad to walk past.

I was happy with the selection of images that I took. Again the rain held off for the most part. Walking down Goodison Road, the sun came out a lit up the sky. It fired some life into the dark brooding clouds to the north, past the Trinity Statue of Ball, Kendall and Harvey and the red brick of the church of St. Luke’s on the corner of Gwladys Street and Goodison Road.

Goodison is ridiculously photogenic. I think the fact that it is so different to the old sprawling – and huge – Stamford Bridge is a reason that attracts me to it. It absolutely nestles perfectly within the tight terraced houses of Walton. It bleeds history.

Ah, I will miss it.

The rain came and it was time to get inside. As I walked past a bus stop on Walton Lane, I felt an immediate tinge of sadness for the couple of people who were under its roof. I felt sad for them because it meant that they weren’t going to the game. This felt like something of a “eureka” moment for me. Despite my concerns about us getting anything, even a point, from this game, I still felt the absolute need to be here, to be at Goodison, at the game, cheering on the team.

I had a little moment to myself, a second of self-awareness.

“Mark of a true fan, that, Chris lad” I thought to myself.

I inwardly smiled.

My anticlockwise perambulation complete, I headed inside. The security check was easy, no issues with my SLR, and I was in. I asked the second person of the day – a tourist I am sure – to take a photo of me at the bottom of the old stairs leading to the cramped upper concourse. The vast majority of my games at Goodison have been watched from the upper tier. We used to have a decent record at this historic venue, but not of late. It has been a real bogey ground. The game in the latter stages of 2021/22, with Frank Lampard in charge of Everton, almost felt like it would turn out to be my last visit since the home team were in such dire straits. My camera had gone into overdrive on that day, as it had on this visit too.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

I joined PD, Gary and John in the front row of the upper tier. For once, a decent seat; usually we are shunted way to the left, way past the goal-line.

It dawned on me that I have watched us on three of the stadium’s four sides. In fact, I have watched us from five distinct areas.

Park End terrace.

Park End seats.

Main Stand top balcony.

Bullens Road paddock.

Bullens Road upper.

All those memories.

I waited for “Z Cars.”

The team were just finishing off their pre-match shuttles, wearing another ridiculous and busy set of training gear. At least I saw the light green shorts being worn. We have worn black too many times at away games; surely the hardest colour to pick out at pitch level.

The minutes ticked by.

I thought back to my first visit, the cramped subterranean view from the Park End terrace, us in all red, me getting chased around Lime Street by some scallies. I thought back to the last visit, that dire 1-0 win, with Tuchel in charge of us and Lampard in charge of them.

“I’d settle for a draw, Gal.”

The time was ready.

“Z Cars.”

Magnificent. Gets me every time.

The team? Definitely a 4-3-3.

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

It felt really odd to see us attacking our end in the first-half at Goodison. I am not so sure that I have ever seen this before. My first thoughts were centered on a potentially decent battle that might be played out between Armando Broja and the rather lanky and gangly Everton defender Jarrad Branthwaite, a kid with a surname out of the nineteenth century and a first name out of the twenty-first century. In truth, after a few early runs, our centre-forward had a quiet first-half. That battle-royale never really materialised.

It says so much of our recent form that, genuinely, it seemed that we were playing more cohesively than at Old Trafford on the previous Wednesday. We were keeping the ball, and Enzo seemed to be linking things together. He was having a more influential game. I was worryingly content. But then as I watched, I realised that our chances were hardly causing Jordan Pickford – the same name discrepancy as Jarrad Branthwaite – any issues. There were two identikit shots, curling up and away, from Cole Palmer, who was also booked for taking a dive inside the Everton box. Another shot from Palmer tested Pickford but the ‘keeper saved well.

Mudryk, down below us in the area where Eden Hazard once toyed with Everton full-backs, was an exasperating mix of speed and indecision.

The Everton fans were ridiculously quiet, especially in the Park End to our left. There had been multi-banner displays in the Gwladys Street before the game condemning the Premier League’s decision to dock the club ten points, and I expected a feverish hotbed of support, maybe like that game in May 2022, with the fans galvanised together in defiance. What I saw, and heard, was nothing of the sort.

The entire Park End was seated and silent.

Halfway through the half, an Everton volley whistled past the post and we heard them for the first time.

“We forgot that you were here…”

On the half-hour, a calamity for James, replaced by Levi Colwill. Marc Cucarella switched to the right flank. We quickly discussed Reece James and the views were not favourable. In short, he has been way off his form of even two years ago of late. Sigh.

On thirty-seven minutes, Mudryk was super-fast but Broja could not finish, his shot going over from a tight angle.

And that was it.

As the second-half began, I said to Gary that I couldn’t see either side scoring. With that, Sanchez got down remarkably well to turn an effort from Dwight McNeil around the post. The home fans were warmed by some more adventurous play from their team.

On fifty-four minutes, a quick break. McNeil to Dominic Calvert Lewin, well saved by Sanchez, but Abdoulaye Doucoure slotted home the rebound.

Noise now.

Fackinell.

“E – ver – ton, E – ver – ton.”

We replied with a loud “Carefree”.

Game on? Maybe.

We dominated possession, but yet again had no cutting edge. A free-kick from Palmer just outside the box did not trouble Pickford.

On sixty-six minutes, a double substitution.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Broja.

God knows what the formation was now, but Sterling was wide right. Our final ball was always poor, but our movement off the ball was far worse.

We were treated to the king of shoulder charges by Cucarella down below us. His quality might not always be there, but his commitment this season is much much better.

A new song from the Park End, presumably aimed at their noisy neighbours at the top of the hill, and a line about “sticking your trophies up your arse” was followed by a rendition of a rejuvenated song from the ‘sixties…

“We are the Goodison Gang.”

The Chelsea support was quieter now. The mood was grey.

On eighty-four minutes, more substitutions.

The injured Sanchez was replaced by Djordje Petrovic, a debut. Ian Maatsen for Cucarella.

In injury time, a corner from down below us was punched out by the debutant ‘keeper but as the ball broke to an Everton player, I uttered the words “here we go.”

I must have had a sixth sense.

Substitute Lewis Dobbin rifled the ball home.

Fackinell.

I felt desolate. I stood silent. Many Chelsea drifted away.

The whistle blew and I was left with a dull ache inside.

I let the crowds leave. A few more final photos.

So, Goodison, is that it then?

Well, it would seem not. Just before I began typing this up, it was announced that Everton will remain at Goodison next season and move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025. It looks like I have one more tale from the Grand Old Lady to compose next year after all.

It had been an ultimately unrewarding weekend.

Frome Town FA Trophy glory on Saturday? No.

A win at my last visit to Goodison Park on Sunday? No.

So much for those two game nineteens.

See you at Stamford Bridge against Sheffield United.

Saturday