Tales From West Bridgford

Posted on October 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2025.

For the second time in less than four weeks, I was headed up the Fosseway for an away game.

Then it was Lincoln City, now it was Nottingham Forest.

Due to the lunchtime kick-off, at 12.30pm, the three of us had agreed that this would be an “in and out” mission, with no time to have much of a pre-match – no drinks – nor a post-match. This was football but cut to the most basic of away days. Sometimes it happens like this. Burnley at 12.30pm on another Saturday in the near future is another one.

Everything was dark as I pulled out of my driveway at 6.40am. I quickly sped over to Nunney Catch to top up the car’s petrol tank, and then picked up PD at 7am, and then Parky at 7.30am. After a quick pitstop in Melksham for an early breakfast, we were away.

The journey north-east was pretty decent apart from a slight detour through Cirencester due to an RTA and then a quarter of an hour wait at traffic lights at Moreton-In-Marsh.

Overhead, the skies were light grey. It conjured images of the Chelsea away kit from 2018/19, but – alas – with no orange to sit alongside it. The autumnal colours outside were not at their visual peak simply because the sun was unable to penetrate the thick cloud cover and light up the autumn hues. It was all rather muted.

I hoped that our performance alongside the River Trent would not be something similar.

I was parked up at 11.30am at my JustPark slot on Fleeman Grove, just a fifteen-minute walk from the City Ground. I have used JustPark for Chelsea away games for quite a few years now, and during the week I found out that it began life when the founder asked a friend where he parked at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea home games.

“We just asked someone if we could park in their driveway, and we have been doing it ever since.”

West Bridgford seemed a decent location, full of pre-War semis, with neatly trimmed gardens, and it seemed that there still might be families tucked away behind lace curtains, fathers with Brylcreem, mothers with pinnies, listening to the home service. I almost expected a “Just William” character to appear at a gate, wearing a cap, holding a slingshot catapult, and sporting a cheeky grin.

“Alright, me duck?”

While PD and Parky trotted off to the away turnstiles, I had a little mooch around the rear of the Brian Clough Stand, originally the Executive Stand, that dates from 1980. The lower section of this stand used to house some of the away supporters, and I have a vivid memory of watching a game there in 1987 when taking celery to Chelsea games was at its height. Although I managed to smuggle a bunch of celery in under my voluminous jacket, the police were out in force to search others, and as a result, there were several large piles of celery deposited outside the away turnstiles that day. It was a comical sight.

From celery in 1987 to cameras in 2025, I was at it again.

Alas, my allotted “pat down” steward spotted my camera bag bundled up in my hand-held jacket and for a moment, I was a little agitated.

“On that’s a nice camera. In you go.”

My SLR was in.

If only all grounds, including Stamford Bridge, was as easy.

It was around midday, so the away concourse and the away seats were filling up now.

A steward asked to see my ticket as I approached the top of the aisle that led to my section. I had to chuckle as she advised me that “the rows are alphabetical, and the seats are numbered.”

Shocker.

I caught the players going through their pre-match drills, dressed in subtle green training tops that matched the colour of the shorts.

The skies overhead were still light grey with no hint of the sun breaking through. As kick-off approached, we were treated to the usual assault on the senses with pumped dance music booming around the stadium.

“Freed From Desire” and “Insomnia” are fed to us ad nauseum now and are the modern day equivalents of the more organic and natural supporter-generated classics such as “Chelsea Agro, Chelsea Agro, Hello Hello” and “You’re Gonna Get Your Fuckin’ Heads Kicked In.”

Joking aside, these musical interruptions work against an atmosphere rather than add to it.

The teams entered the pitch, and as they broke, the old Forest anthem of “Mull Of Kintyre” signalled Kop-style scarfing, with the home supports joining in at the allotted time.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent, my desire is always to be here, oh City Ground.”

On the drive up to Nottingham – we were calling it Dottingham in lieu of an old ‘seventies advert for “Tunes” – we rued the fact that our injuries would impact Enzo Maresca’s team selection, and here was the evidence.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Romeo Lavia – Andrey Santos – Malo Gusto

Pedro Neto – Joao Pedro – Alejandro Garnacho

Or something like that.

In truth, it took me all the first half to work out the midfield positions, and after forty-five minutes, only Gusto remained so from then on it didn’t bloody matter anyway.

The game began.

Nottingham Forest – red, white, red.

Chelsea – white, green, white.

There was a very early scare within the first minute as sloppy play from Malo Gusto – probably the most erratic player in the squad – allowed Taiwo Awoniyi, now fully recovered from last season’s health scare, a chance but he sent the ball wide of the goal at our end.

On four minutes, some neat Neto trickery on the right was followed by a cross that pin-balled around for a few seconds but that eventually flew over the bar via Andrey Santos at the Trent End.

Alejandro Garnacho on the left and Neto looked lively, but the midfield trio seemed lost.

On the quarter of an hour, there had been a litany of mis-placed passes from both sides, and I wearily commented to Gary : “gonna be 0-0, this.”

On eighteen minutes, Trevoh Chalobah nervously let in Morgan Gibbs-White, but his effort smashed against the red post that held the netting taut rather than anything more worthwhile.

Then, in the very next minute, the same Forest player jumped high to try to connect to a Douglas Luiz set up but only succeeded in lashing it high and wide.

“Has Santos touched the ball?” bemoaned Gary alongside me.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free kick at the Trent End and Reece James took aim. Sadly, the kick was so poor that it resembled a bloody pass back.

Neto kept applying himself on the right, but Garnacho had faded.

On thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match involving the two Pedros, but Santos walloped over. Then just after, Joao Pedro lost his marker with a lovely shimmy / twist / turn and chipped a decent pass on to Santos. I expected a goal. Sadly, the low shot was struck wide of the right-hand post.

Fackinell.

In truth, it had been a poor first-half.

I turned around and chatted to Richard from Swindon and Jason from Swanage, and to be blunt, the half-time natter was more entertaining than the forty-five minutes of dire football that had preceded it. As the combatants returned to the pitch, Gary amused himself by lampooning the sheer size and length of Forest’s Murillo’s shorts.

Despite the inadequacies of our play thus far, none of us could believe the wholesale changes at the start of the second half.

Moises Caicedo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Santos.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

I was happy to see Caicedo on the pitch but wondered why he had not started.

Just four minutes into the second half, as Neto took hold of the ball on the Chelsea left, and therefore right in front of the support, he touched the ball on.

Showing my uncanny ability to grasp the situation and to impart my quite considerable knowledge of football, I muttered, with disdain, “no you should have played it first time”, but I then watched as he strode on, advancing towards the goal-line in front of me before chipping a cross into the box. I looked across to see the leap of Josh Acheampong and the ball fly into the corner of the net closest to me.

I celebrated wildly and called myself several unsavoury names.

My camera was called into action, but the viewing position is so awful being so low down at Forest that I just blindly shot a few photos.

However, I like the one I took of the players – blurred – celebrating but with the faces of the home supporters – crisp and in focus – sternly watching from the stand behind.

I spotted Neto completely losing himself as he double fisted during a celebratory scream towards the Chelsea faithful.

Soon after, strong play from Guiu won us a free kick. The twin threats of Neto and James stood over the ball. After a wait, James touched it sideways, and Neto struck it home. We celebrated again. This time, there were no photos taken, I was simply lost in the moment.

Neto celebrated with another clenched fist salute and primeval scream.

“You deserve that, matey.”

This two-goal blitz had come out of nowhere, but we didn’t care.

The calls for the Forest manager Ange Postecoglu to be sacked in the morning rang out from the away end.

With Chelsea at ease with the two-goal cushion, this became a lot more pleasing to watch.

However, football is a cruel mistress and Gary warned “next goal is important.”

I replied, “let’s hope there isn’t one.”

Just before the hour, the increasingly impressive Joao Pedro tucked the ball just wide of the near post.

However, not long after, Neco Williams appeared to have the goal at his mercy but blazed a shot wildly over the bar.

From a deep corner, Robert Sanchez managed to get down to smother a goal-bound effort from Nikola Milenkovic and then sprung up to tip over a follow-up effort from Ibrahim Sangare. These were two bloody great saves.

As a shot stopper and claimer of crosses, he is a solid 8/10, but his distribution and footballing intelligence seems to be stuck at 5/10.

I realised that despite our far better showing in the second half, the game could easily have been tied at 2-2.

There was more drama ahead. Callum Hudson-Odoi, who appeared as a second-half substitute when we went 2-0 up, set Igor Jesus up in front of the goal. As he swung at the ball I whispered “goal” and the ball crashed into the back of the net.

Bollocks.

2-1.

But within a nano-second, the ball had come back out and had appeared to hit a post on the way.

No goal.

“How did that not go in?”

From the ensuing break, Guiu blasted way over.

Fackinell.

On seventy-eight minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the tireless Neto, my man of the match.

I wanted us to keep it tight, but I also wanted Estevao to show us some trickery. Very soon after his appearance, he did ever so well to doggedly win a tackle – a great part of his game – and I was hoping for some nice bits of skill too.

I commented to Gary that our lack of players in the centre of defence due to injuries was so bad that John Sitton was un-zipping his tracksuit.

Instead, on eighty-one minutes Tosin Adarabioyo replaced young Josh.

Soon after, a loose ball on the edge of the box, and a Forest defender and Reece James both went for it. At that moment, I thought that the Forest player was going to get to the ball first but might do some damage to our captain in the follow through. The intent was there from both sides. In fact, both players met the ball – fairly and squarely – and the resultant noise boomed around the stadium. Rarely have I heard a louder tackle. It made me shake, well almost.

I said to the bloke next to me that I was happy that Reece didn’t pull out of the challenge. An injury might well have followed.

From the resulting corner, Estevao stroked in a ball that Matz Sels could only flap at, and the ball fell conveniently towards Reece James. The captain slammed it home. I did not see the net ripple; I just heard the roar.

More intense celebrations to my right, but with arms flailing away, I was only able to obtain three decent snaps.

By now the away was booming.

“Cheer up Postecoglu. Oh, what can it mean to a fat Aussie bastard and a shit football team.”

Peter Reid has a lot to answer for.

In the dying moments, a ridiculously poor sliding attempt to get the ball by Gusto gave the referee no option but to hand out a second yellow.

Oh boy.

Well, that was just daft.

But it did illicit a little gallows humour from the travelling faithful.

“Red card again, ole, ole.”

“Ten men again, ole, ole.”

By now, the home fans were flipping up their seats and heading home.

“Is there a fire drill?”

At the final whistle, a roar from us and we waited for the players to walk over. The last to arrive, dramatically, was the captain, and we serenaded him.

He replied with wide smiles.

It had been a very odd game. A poor first-half, but a much better second-half. Despite the 3-0 margin, we were lucky not to concede. Let’s put it behind us and try to iron out some inconsistencies.

We walked back to the car, but before we reached the final few hundred yards, a couple of smiling Forest fans shouted out “he’s sacked”, and – quite frankly, and despite the songs – I was flabbergasted.

It was around 3pm, and my Sat Nav guided me through the city. The return route was not a repeat of my journey to Nottingham. Instead, it took me further west, down the A42, the M42 – a stop at Tamworth Services, a very rare visit – and back home via the M5, the M4 and the A46.

Frome Town were playing at home against Winchester City as I drove home, and a couple of friends flashed-up score updates.

The previous Saturday – the international break weekend – I had watched Frome beat Falmouth Town 2-0 on a perfect afternoon for football with a few good friends. There had been autumn sun, pitch side drinks, chats with mates, a keen game of football, a home win, a decent gate, only £12 to get in, and then Glenn and I treated ourselves to a lovely post-match meal in a cosy local pub. And we were home by 7pm. It was as near perfect a Saturday afternoon as I could imagine.

Later that evening, I texted Glenn “I think we’ve seen the future.”

On this occasion, the footballing Gods were not on our side.

Frome went 1-0 up early on, then conceded an equaliser, then missed a penalty in the second half, and then apparently had a genuinely good goal ruled out in stoppage time. At least the gate was a season-high 525.

I reached home at around 7.30pm.

It had been a decent day.

Next up, two home games in quick succession, against Ajax on Wednesday and Sunderland on Saturday.

Oh, and an away game at Portishead on Tuesday.

See you there.

Tales From A Beautiful Game

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 October 2025.

As with the last time that we played Liverpool at home, on Sunday 4 May, we had decided to forego our usual pre-match in “The Eight Bells” in favour of “The Tommy Tucker” because of logistical reasons. The closure of the District Line was again the cause, but we didn’t mind one iota. This pub is only fifty yards from Fulham Road and serves as a decent enough substitute for our usual boozer a mile or so to the south.

I was hoping that it would prove to be a lucky omen since we defeated the newly crowned champions 3-1 on that sunny day five months ago.

The day had begun in deepest Somerset with the rain lashing down outside, and with low dark clouds above. The outlook looked bleak.

Thankfully, the weather improved as I drove to London with PD and LP, so that by the time I was parked up, the skies were clear. Walking to the pub was a lot easier than I had expected with blustery gusts of wind the only negative. As soon as I reached the bar, I spotted Tommy Langley and we enjoyed a brief chat before he darted off to the stadium to commence his pre-match hospitality routine.

I stayed in the pub from 1pm to 4.30pm, and a few acquaintances joined us at our table, all of whom seemed to be called Steve or Dave.

We semi-watched the Leeds United vs. Tottenham Hotspur game on the TV screen that faced our table.

I was on the “Diet Cokes” of course and occupied myself with occasional peeks at my phone to see how my local team Frome Town were faring at Willand Rovers in Devon. During the week, on the Wednesday, I had enjoyed a cracking game of football between Frome Town and Bristol Manor Farm, our great rivals. My hometown team eventually prevailed 3-2, with a late goal from new fan favourite George Dowling, who rifled home on eighty-eight minutes after seeing an early 2-0 lead collapse. This gave Dodge our fifth win out of five in the league this season. Sadly, Willand won 1-0 and so I was downbeat about that.

With virtually every single Chelsea fan that I had chatted to expecting a loss against Liverpool, but hoping for a draw, I prepared myself for a bleak afternoon.

As I made the short walk from the “The Tommy Tucker” to Stamford Bridge, the wind was still blustery, and I was pleased that I was wearing my light jacket to fend off some surprisingly cold bursts.

I smuggled my SLR in using “Method 9/F” and quickly made my way up to The Sleepy Hollow.

It was 4.45pm. As I took a few photos of the dormant stadium from the very back row above our seats, waiting for things to liven up, I recollected a few things from that Liverpool game last May. It would prove to be dear Albert’s last-ever Chelsea game, and I thought back to him once again.

As friends drifted in, I chatted away, but none of us thought we would get much out of the game.

Enzo Maresca had chosen this starting eleven :

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

With the appearance of the teams from the East Stand tunnel, we were treated to fireworks exploding from both roofs of The Shed and the Matthew Harding. The air turned a hazy blue/grey for quite some time, and the whiff of sulphur permeated our nostrils.

At 5.30pm, the game began.

Liverpool began brightly, and as they attacked our end, it gave the Chelsea supporters the chance to boo the new Liverpool striker Aleksander Isak at close quarters.

Then Chelsea began to make inroads, and there was an opening for Malo Gusto but he fluffed his lines when presented with a chance.

With an extended “sesh” having taken place in the boozers around Stamford Bridge – I had deposited the lads outside the pub at 12.15pm and they didn’t leave much before 5pm – there was a tipsy atmosphere inside the ground, and the noise was excellent, a complete improvement to the horrible Brighton atmosphere.

We had started to move the ball around well, with the two wingers looking mustard.

However, on fifteen minutes, a fluid attack took place in the centre of the pitch, well away from Messrs Garnacho and Neto.

Benoit Badiashle pushed the ball forward to Gusto, supplementing the midfield as is the style these days, and he in turn played the ball forward to Moises Caicedo. There was no shortage of red shirts around him, but he deftly created space and advanced. He pushed the ball on, gave the impression that he was about to let fly, but touched the ball again, possibly putting defenders off balance or of kilter, and let fly with a blast from twenty-five yards. As soon as he had taken that extra touch, the Red Sea had parted, and I was right in line with his thunderbolt as it slammed into debutant Giorgi Mamardashvili’s goal.

Euphoria from me, euphoria from everyone, and I was up and celebrating like a loon, only slightly troubled that I didn’t get a snap of the goal. I followed Caicedo’s triumphant run past Parkyville and into the corner, buzzing all the while.

What a stunner.

Bollocks to the pre-match gloom, we were 1-0 up.

Liverpool had their share of possession in the ensuing half-an-hour, but we did not let them create much at all. We were playing the best football of the season thus far, not allowing the red-shirted players much space, and kept the ball well when in possession. Enzo seemed revigorated in that first-half, but Caicedo was even better. Out on the wings, the tireless Neto kept asking questions of their left back, while Garnacho, right in front of the Scousers, was lighting up his wing with some nice movement.

There was a powerful block by Badiashile from a Dominik Szoboszlai shot. The often-derided defender was surprising us all with an accomplished showing alongside the equally impressive Josh Acheampong.

On thirty-three minutes, Liverpool found themselves in our box, and a shot was hacked away by the ever-reliable Marc Cucurella.

There was a lung-busting, and quite thrilling, run by Neto down his right flank, and he eventually cut the ball back into the box, with Virgil van Dijk beaten, but the chance went begging.

Just after, Garnacho curled an effort just wide.

By this stage, the three-thousand Mickey Mousers in the far corner were as quiet as I could remember.

Garnacho went down inside the box, but after a VAR review, the play resumed.

Isak headed the last chance of a pulsating half over Robert Sanchez’ bar.

We were supremely happy at the break.

Soon into the second half – I timed it as just twenty-one seconds – Chelsea lost possession cheaply and the Liverpool substitute Florian Wirtz set up Mo Salah, who had struggled to get involved in the first period, but the Egyptian striker fired wide.

Sensing a dip in our play, the Chelsea spectators at Stamford Bridge turned into Chelsea supporters and noisily got behind the team with a barrage of noise.

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

This warmed my heart.

The visitors improved and enjoyed a spell on top, and Sanchez saved a long shot from Ryan Gravenberch. Then, a one-on-one race between Salah and Badiashile, but our former striker fired over with his usually trusted left-foot.

Ten minutes into the half, Badiashile was injured and was replaced by Romeo Lavia, with James sliding back alongside Josh in the centre of the defence.

Then, two quick chances down below us. Garnacho took a long ball down to perfection but his intended pass inside to Joao Pedro was poor. Then a lovely flowing move that began with Lavia and ended with Cucurella’s floated cross towards the far post, but Pedro Neto’s header was deflected over.

This was a great game.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t hating modern football quite so much.

A dink from Neto, and Enzo wide.

Sadly, on the hour, Liverpool crossed from our left and it looked like Cucurella’s leg changed the flight of the ball slightly.

I found myself commentating.

“Oh deflection…here we go…goal” as Gakpo rifled it in past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

So, back level, and it felt like we had been hard done by.

There were further changes.

On sixty-seven minutes, Acheampong was injured and was replaced by Jorrel Hato. I found it odd that Hato didn’t come in for Badiashile, but what do I know?

At this rate, Tommy Langley will come on to play in our patched-up defence.

This was a pulsating game, though, and it seemed to be in the balance.

What next?

On seventy-five minutes, I could hardly believe seeing a triple substitution.

Estevao Willian for Garnacho.

Jamie Gittens Pedro Neto.

Marc Guiu for Joao Pedro.

We went on the offensive again. It seemed to be Chelsea attacking at will now.

Gittens to Enzo, a cross that begged to be converted, but the chance passed.

Next up, a sublime long pass from James found Gittens, looking lively, and he brought a decent save from Mamardashvili. Estevao picked up the loose ball, danced towards goal, and floated a shot towards the far post that Mamardashvili managed to get fingertips on, and I managed to snap that exact moment.

With minutes passing by, PD asked for his stick and left early. He needs a good half-an-hour to slowly walk back to where I collect him on Lillee Road.

The Chelsea chances still piled up. A shot from Caicedo – shoot! – and Mamardashvili (I am sick to death of typing out his name) nudged it over the bar.

A corner from the far side, Enzo unable to convert with a difficult header.

I wondered if PD was not too far away from the stadium that he could hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the increasingly mesmerized home support.

Szobososzlai – the hirsute Hungarian henchman, a certain woolyback if his legs are a clue – then shot wide at The Shed End.

The assistant linesman signalled seven minutes of extra time.

PD was surely out of earshot now.

The lively Estevao sent over a magical cross towards Enzo, who contorted his body to fashion a header, but although Mamardashvili was beaten, the ball struck the post.

Ugh.

Ninety-six minutes were on the clock and PD must have reached the North End Road by now.

The last moments of this super game began.

An amazing move from the right of our defence, right through the team, found Cucurella on the left, who passed outside to Gittens, then to Enzo, who now controlled the ball amidst a crowd of opposing players. He waited and chose his moment. He spotted the run of Cucurella. The Spaniard whipped in a cross towards the far post, and I looked up. To my amazement and joy, I saw Estevao arrive, sliding and off-balance, but within a blink of an eye, the young Brazilian had the coolness of mind to push the ball over the line.

Mamardashvili was beaten.

The.

Crowd.

Exploded.

I pumped the air with my fists, bellowed some primaeval roar, lost in the moment. I then tried to remain cool to snap the melee over on the far side. What a scene. What madness. What a goal. What a finish. What a win.

I would later learn that PD had heard the roar along the North End Road.

“Chelsea Dagger” played, and I hated it, and the fans bounced along and I hated it more. But there were crazily mixed emotions, and I loved the buzz of it all. We were all taken to another place.

There was, worryingly, a mere whisper of VAR involvement, and the guy in front of me looked very concerned.

No. They can’t do that to us surely? Was Cucurella off? Surely not.

No.

The goal stood.

The whistle blew.

Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1.

I bloody love you, Chelsea.

Next up, “One Step Beyond” and everyone losing it.

I stayed behind for a few minutes, more than usual, long enough to hear “Blue Is The Colour” begin.

After a chorus or two, we made our way down the stairs in the north-west corner, and one song dominated.

“Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Do do do do – do do do do do.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.”

Out on the Fulham Road, a sea of noise.

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

…like something from the ‘seventies.

Ah, what a beautiful, beautiful feeling.

What a beautiful game.

Tales From A Night Of Chelsea Daggers And Zigger Zaggers

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Benfica : 30 September 2025.

History.

Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.

This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.

Thus far, four games and four wins.

Players.

The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.

There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.

But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.

There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.

We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.

But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.

Managers.

The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.

At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.

Modern Football – Part One.

My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.

The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.

Modern Football – Part Two.

I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.

Modern Football – Part Three.

Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.

If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.

https://www.change.org/p/stop-music-being-played-after-chelsea-score-at-stamford-bridge

Pre-Match.

Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.

At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.

“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.

There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.

It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.

I was in at 7.45pm.

Teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho

Tyique George

Kick-Off.

Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.

“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.

Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.

Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.

The First-Half.

From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.

I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.

The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.

There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.

After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.

On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.

Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.

I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.

GET IN.

And then my night got worse.

“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.

My heart sank.

I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.

Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.

I hate modern football.

The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?

It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.

On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.

Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.

Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.

The Second-Half.

The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.

Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.

On the hour, two more substitutions.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Joao Pedro for George.

This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.

He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.

“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”

“OI OI OI.”

It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.

I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.

If only, eh?

If fucking only.

After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.

We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.

On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.

Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.

We howled.

It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.

Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.

In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.

For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.

At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.

It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,

Let’s Go Home.

It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.

We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.

Ah well, all roads lead to Frome.

2012

2013

2025

Tales From The Usual Suspects And Danny Bloody Wellbeck

Posted on September 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 27 September 2025.

After four consecutive away games, the boys were back in town.

And after driving a total of 768 miles on Saturday and Tuesday, I was bloody happy about it. As PD mentioned, “this will seem like a five-minute flit up the M4.”

Indeed.

We were all pleased that we were back to our first “Saturday 3, o’clock” fixture of the season too.

It was an easy trip east. The 120 miles took me a few minutes shy of three hours and, at the suggestion of Tim from North Bristolshire, I parked at a new location, on Moylan Road, which seems to be as close as I can get to Stamford Bridge to enable me to still park for free on Saturdays.

After a breakfast on the North End Road, there was a rendezvous with the usual suspects at “The Eight Bells” for a couple of hours. Allongside me were Jimmy the Greek, Nick, Salisbury Steve, Ian, Bobby, PD and Parky. My two Brighton mates Mac and Barry called in to see us all and of course I enjoyed seeing them both again. Minnesota Josh called in for a couple of scoops, too. However, the guests of honour were Lorna and Rich, from Edinburgh, on a Chelsea and Oasis weekend. I decided to head off to Stamford Bridge relatively early. I left with Josh at around 1.45pm.

There was a stand-off at the security – “is that a camera? – but I was in at 2.15pm. My SLR, therefore, would thankfully be used at a game for the first time this season. I was determined to take some decent shots, having made do with the inferior Sony “pub camera” in the previous six games.

Elsewhere in the football world, it was the day of the third qualifying round of the FA Cup. Frome Town were to play at AFC Totton, now two levels above my home town team, at the same time that Chelsea were to start in SW6. That would be a very tough match and I never really expected too much.

However, our local neighbours Westbury United, for who my old Chelsea mate Mark is the club chairman, were kicking off at 12.30pm at home to Farnborough, who are from the same division as Totton. There was a great deal of “buzz” locally about this match, as Westbury had been picked by the BBC to show via the red button, and a massive crowd was expected.

I had texted Mark a “good luck” message in the morning.

That game began at 12.30pm, and a workmate was keeping me updated. Farnborough had a player sent off on the hour, and Westbury were holding on. Sadly, at 2.40pm, just as I was getting ready for our game at Stamford Bridge, I saw that Westbury conceded a late goal on ninety-eight minutes.

Ah, bugger.

As I was waiting for a few people to arrive in The Sleepy Hollow, I was able to glance at a friend’s match programme. In the obituary section, I spotted the face of Albert, who used to sit in front of me in the years since 1997, but who sadly passed away last May.

I include it below.

Bless you Albert. You are missed.

The troops rolled in. First was Ollie, a lad from Brighton, who is the son of my long-time mate Andy. We go back to the promotion season of 1988/89 when we used to drink in “The Black Bull” aka “The Pensioner” and now “The Chelsea Gate.” Clive arrived, fresh from a drink with Gary, and then PD.

None of us really knew what to expect from this match. We had walloped Brighton 4-2 at home back in October but had lost 1-2 and 0-3 in a horrible week of away games in February.

“Without Cole Palmer, we’re not much of a team, are we really?”

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Hato – Cucurella

Santos – Caicedo

Estevao– Enzo – Neto

Joao Pedro

This eleven featured no fewer than four Brighton players, with Buonanotte the most recent addition not involved on this day.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

At three o’clock, the game began, as did the one in Totton just outside Southampton.

We began brightly. This is a familiar phrase that I use. To be truthful, I am sick to death of it, especially since it implies that our play often fails to live up to a good start, and the sad fact is that this is true; that our play often then struggles to maintain its momentum.

There was a crisp free-kick from Enzo Fernandez, playing in the hole – or “the ten” in modern parlance – that drew a smart save from Bart Verbruggen, who sounds like the destination of a cross-channel ferry.

“Good save, son.”

Marc Cucurella then flashed a shot wide.

Next up, it was Reece’s turn from a free kick, from a greater angle, but his effort was parried by Verbruggen.

Brighton threatened a little, but nothing too sinister.

There was an impudent nutmeg performed with aplomb by Estevao on Lewis Dunk very close to the half-way line and the pacy wingman raced away down the right-hand side of the pitch. It seemed almost inhuman that the wiry and lithe Brazilian should attempt such a clever dink against Dunk, who has the turning circle of the QE2. Estevao, urged on by us all, neared the goal but was still at an angle and his low shot was blocked.

Soon after, in a very similar position, he tried again but it the outcome was almost the same, an easy parry.

I noted to myself that the stadium, despite some decent football being played before us all, was like a morgue. There had been virtually no singing, not stimulation from the crowd; it was all very dispiriting.

I hate modern football.

The two wingers, like at Lincoln on Tuesday, then swapped flanks.

Halfway through the first-half, I realised that nobody had updated me with score updates from Totton, so I did so myself. It wasn’t good news. Frome were losing 0-2.

Ugh.

A mere two or three seconds after, a brilliant ball from Moises Caicedo was played into the path of Reece James. He took a couple of paces and floated a great ball towards the goal. The cross took a slight deflection off the leg of a Brighton defender, but the ball sat up sweetly for Enzo to rise unhindered at the far post to knock in with the easiest header of his career.

We were 2-0 down one minute and we were 1-0 up the next.

An odd sensation.

And an even odder sentence.

Football, eh?

With us coasting, and on top, playing well, Clive changed direction.

“How old is Boris Becker?”

“How old is Lance Armstrong?”

“What’s this nonsense, Clive? Shall I have a go? What’s Franz Klammer’s shoe size?”

Clive responded with “how old was Larry Grayson when he died?”

It must be noted, here, that Clive visits nursing homes, and provides games, music and quizzes for the residents, hence his odd trio of questions.

Answers :

57
54
Not a clue.
71.

The game continued, and we enjoyed most of the ball. Brighton’s attacks were rare. Their fans were subdued and quiet too. On the balcony between their two tiers of supporters, I spotted a joint Hearts and Brighton flag – “Brothers In Arms” – and I wondered if Rich had spotted it. Hearts are his team in Edinburgh.

We were pretty content at the break at Stamford Bridge. Down in Totton, it was still 0-2.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, and the atmosphere was still deadly dull and quiet. I was tempted to think it was the worst-ever.

The.

Worst.

Ever.

Think about it.

Not long into the second half, there was a heavy touch from Andrey Santos, and this put us under pressure. Trevoh Chalobah raced back alongside Diego Gomez, and there was a coming together of players just outside the box.

It was a shame, because Santos had impressed me in the first-half, alert and well-balanced, doing the simple things effectively.

VAR was called into action. After an age, the referee spoke into his mic.

Off went Chalobah.

Maresca chose to replace Santos with Josh Acheampong.

From the resulting free-kick, Gomez blasted over.

What now?

With around half-an-hour to go, who could possibly say?

At least this sudden adversity stirred the Chelsea supporters into life and a loud “CAREFREE” boomed, momentarily at least, around Stamford Bridge.

On the hour, there was a spritely run from Kaoru Mituma and his shot ricocheted across the box. The ball could have gone anywhere. We were starting to lose control.

On sixty-three minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Estevao.

Shortly after, there was a change from the Brighton bench too, and one of the substitutes was Danny Bloody Welbeck, and thousands of Chelsea fans around the world uttered the immortal lines “he always scores against us.”

On seventy-two minutes, Welbeck screwed a shot just wide.

There was a roller from Enzo that did not threaten. This was a rare threat from us.

Sadly, on seventy-seven minutes, Yankuba Minteh raced past Gusto and pinged a swift cross into the six-yard and that man Welbeck headed home emphatically.

Well, bollocks.

On eighty minutes, Maresca had clearly decided that all of the meaningful action would be taking pace in our half and changed things again.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Hato.

Romeo Lavia replaced Neto.

Thinking to myself : “you know we’re in trouble when Badiashile” comes on as a substitute.”

Sometimes I wished that Todd Boehley’s Lamborghini had broken down near Lyon or somewhere.

Malo Gusto, urged on by everyone, was sent free and as I reached down to pull up my SLR to record a goal, he decided to pass.

The frustrated crowd groaned.

This whole match was drifting away from us.

I thought, as did many, that a very high challenge on Gusto on Minteh would lead to a penalty, but after another VAR delay – how boring – we were let off, somehow.

There was an argy-bargy down at The Shed End but I was too far away to see who was pushing who.

The referee signalled eleven extra minutes and Stamford Bridge collectively sighed.

After two minutes of injury time, Acheampong booted out a ball cheaply for a corner, and from a short corner, a deep cross was hooked in from their left and I was aghast to see two, or even three, Brighton players unmarked at the far post. Mats Weifer was on hand to head the ball back across the box…we all experienced a fear of impending doom…and Maxim De Cuyper was one of two players free who headed home.

The scorer raced over to celebrate in front of Barry, Mac and co, and I felt ill.

In the tenth minute of stoppage time, with us trying to navigate the ball out of the box with Brighton players swarming, the ball was stolen and – guess who? – Wellbeck was sent through and calmly slotted home past Sanchez.

Well, bollocks.

By now, a good three-quarters of the Stamford Bridge crowd had left, some spewing words of anger at the manager and players alike.

Ollie, and Big John, but not many others, remained to the very last whistle.

Down in Totton, Frome had lost 2-4.

It had not been a good day at all.

I felt like saying “would the real Chelsea step forward and make themselves known please?”

You know what, it might take us all season long to discover who the real Chelsea are, and there isn’t a punchline.

Next up, two more home games, Jose Mourinho’s Benfica and champions Liverpool.

Excited?

No, neither am I.

Albert RIP

Tales From Lincolnshire

Posted on September 26, 2025 by Chris Axon

Lincoln City vs. Chelsea : 23 September 2025.

After the long journey to Old Trafford that took up so much of my weekend, I was now faced with another long trip on the following Tuesday. Chelsea were paired with Lincoln City, and instead of hosting them at Stamford Bridge – as is usually the case, it seems – the Footballing Gods had bequeathed upon us a rare gift.

An away game. And a new ground for many.

There was no way I was going to miss this little beauty. I think many felt the same. With the first phase of this season’s Champions League returning us to Munich, Baku and Naples, I noted that Big John was looking forward to Lincoln more. I tended to agree.

With holidays at a premium, I decided to see if I could do this one without using any holiday at all. My plan was to work 6am to 2pm, zip up to Lincoln after work and then return home straight after, but with the added bonus of working a little later on Wednesday and doing a 10am to 6pm shift.

My three passengers were waiting for me in my work car park at 2pm; P-Diddy, Lord Parky and Sir Les, all using a crutch these days.

For one day only, The Chuckle Bus became The Cripple Bus.

My route was simple enough. I would drive over the M4 and soon take the route of the Fosse Way, the old Roman Road that linked Exeter and Lincoln. Its course runs a few miles to the west of my home village, nestled between the Mendip Hills and Salisbury Plain, and it’s always a great pleasure to drive along it. We always use the Fosse Way for away trips to Nottingham and Leicester.

My Sat Nav suggested that the drive from Melksham to Lincoln would be around four hours, but after a slow start getting up to the M4, that time proceeded to increase slowly but surely.

It was a long old slog. It was not helped by a thirty-minute tail-back on the M69 as we neared a short section of the M1. However, once past here, and after by-passing Leicester, it felt that we were finally making progress.

I last drove, for a limited section, along this A46 on the way to Forest last season, but the only other time that I drove in this area was on the way to Hull City in 2008.

My father, however, drove all of the way from Somerset to Grimsby during half-term in the autumn of 1973 to visit some friends, thus preceding my journey on this day by almost fifty-one years. I can vividly remember visiting Lincoln, spotting Sincil Bank stadium as his car drove very close to it, then seeing the impressive cathedral on the horizon.

After Blackpool’s Bloomfield Road – visiting friends in the ‘sixties – Sincil Bank, I think, was only the second football stadium I had ever seen.

I drove past signs of ugly place names like Ratcliffe on the Wreake, Ragdale, Grimston, Stragglethorpe, South Scarle, North Hykeham, Tithby

It’s no surprise that Scunthorpe is in Lincolnshire. Nor Grimsby.

Between 6pm and 7pm, the sun began to fade as we travelled those flat lands of Lincolnshire. To our right, we spotted the new sculpture of a Lancaster Bomber, hovering over a corn field on a slight rise of land. It’s a very impressive structure and commemorates the area’s role as a centrepiece of Bomber Command in the Second World War. Incidentally, my father was a wireless operator in Wellington Bombers, but served in Coastal Command in North Africa in the latter years of the war. He would have loved to see this new piece of public art.

Our route into the city took us around to the west and then in, and we approached Sincil Bank, now LNER stadium, from the north and not the south as in 1973.

The path took us past a very interesting structure, a Victorian grandstand by the side of the road that looked as though it was once allowed spectators to observe military parades or tattoos. The stadium buff inside me sparked to life.

At 7pm, I had found a secure parking spot on the pavement of the aptly named Scorer Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the ground. It was a perfect place, and I was happy.

The trip to Lincoln had taken five hours, but unlike the drive to Manchester, the weather had been nigh perfect, no rain, clear skies, dry roads, and my fellow passengers had provided me with good chat along the way.

As I gathered the troops for a photo with Lincoln Cathedral in the background, none other than Stuart spotted us. He lives three miles from me, and only a mile or so from the Fosse Way itself.

A little canal runs alongside Sincil Bank and oddly gives it the air of a foreign town or city. I half-expected fishermen with those long sturdy poles to suddenly appear.

I managed to get the money shot of the night; the cathedral to the north, so imposing, but with a grafter hawking half-and-half scarves in the foreground. My mission was accomplished; I could relax.

We were ushered along behind the away stand – the Stacey West Stand, named in memory of two Lincoln City fans who sadly perished in the Bradford Fire of 1985 – and as we stood in the queue to get in, there was a gathering of the clans with many familiar faces striding past.

This game really had caught the imagination of the Chelsea populace. Or to be correct, the stadium, if not the game per se.

I had sorted a ticket out for Cookie from Trowbridge, who luckily found himself within driving distance of Lincoln on one of his nights out as a lorry driver, “tramping” from spot to spot. Eventually, his digital ticket was sorted.

In the line to get in, fans were nervously holding their phones, displaying the red digital ticket, nervously hoping that it would not suddenly disappear.

I entered the packed terrace at about 7.20pm with no hint of a security check or bag check. My SLR was back in the car. How annoying.

I took my place in the stand, exactly behind the middle of the goal, row K, seat 73.

For the first ever time, I was able to select an exact seat from a coherent seating plan for this game, as you would do for a flight, and it made me giggle that the first time wasn’t for a game at Wembley, or Stamford Bridge, nor Old Trafford, but little Lincoln City.

Kick-off soon arrived. There was a vibrant atmosphere in the compact stadium which holds around 10,500. There are single-tiered stands on all four sides, but the one to my left, although the highest, was truncated, a little like the main stand at The Valley in days of yore.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Hato

Santos – Fernandez

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

George

I was frankly amazed that Estevao, pulled off so early at Old Trafford, was not starting. And I wasn’t convinced, again, about Tyrique George leading the line. He seems to have very little physicality. He has wiry skills, but no punch.

So here I was. I had just about timed it all to perfection, it had been a decent drive up, but I seemed a little distant. Perhaps I was missing a pre-match of any description. This all seemed a little one-dimensional.

My body was at the LNER Stadium, but my mind wasn’t fully engaged. Need I be worried? Was this the start of the decline? Was I reading too much into it all? I put it down to the pressures of driving. I had no time to decompress. I hadn’t even been able to walk around the stadium, a real sin on a first visit.

The game began, and the intensity and noise from the home fan really surprised me, but enthused and excited me too. This game obviously meant a lot to the locals.

We are, after all, the World Champions.

“You’re only here for the Chelsea.”

And what a bombardment during that opening period of play, with the red and white striped home team getting in our faces from the off. There were a couple of long bombs from both sidelines, the Lincoln players launching massive throw-ins towards our six-yard box. There was a strong shot from an angle that thundered back off our far post, with the home crowd sure of a goal.

We were up against it here.

Next up, the unconvincing Filip Jorgensen came for a high ball but flattened Wesley Fofana in the process.

Fackinell.

During rare moments of attack, Alejandro Garnacho was chopped to pieces, and then roundly booed by the vociferous supporters in the packed stand to our right. Why was Garnacho being singled out for abuse? I wondered if many of the Lincoln City fans were also Manchester United supporters. After all, many fans follow a smaller club too. It just happened that theirs was Manchester United.

Lincoln were excellent in the first part of the game and never let us settle. We looked, most definitely, like the Southern Softies of past times.

There were homophobic shouts at us from the folk to our right.

Yes, very Man United.

Lincoln caused worry with every throw-in, every free kick, every corner, and our attacks, a little more methodical and patient, ended up going nowhere. To his credit Jamie Gittens did show nice pieces of close skill on the right. On eighteen minutes he wriggled clear and met a fine lofted ball from Enzo but shot over down below us.

A header from a corner bounced narrowly wide of Jorgensen’s goal.

Garnacho and Gittens swapped wings.

Despite our middling performance on the pitch, the away support, around 1,800 of us tightly packed together, were making a decent noise, though was there any real need to goad the home fans with “you’ve won fuck all?”.

They’re Lincoln City, for Gawd’s sake.

The home team tested us with an effort close-in when a corner was headed back into the mixer, and Jorgensen punched thin air, but thankfully the ball bounced away.

Another nice set of skills from Gittens, and his run into the box thrilled us, but he only made the side netting ripple.

Soon after, on forty-three minutes, I missed the apparently ludicrous pass across the defence by Enzo, but I saw their player take the ball off Chalobah and set up Rob Street, who calmly slotted home.

Three-quarters of the place erupted.

We fell silent.

Oh boy.

The celebrations from the stand to our right included the Dambusters, and I am sure I also heard the shrill sound of an air raid siren going off.

Fair play.

At the break, I sat to take the weight off my legs and contemplated a tiring trip home, perhaps after penalties if we managed to get a goal from somewhere.

“Town Called Malice” boomed on the PA, and I shouted back to Minnesota Josh.

“A Frome song…”

It had really been a poor show from us. It was typically slow and ponderous, with few plusses. Enzo had produced a litany of misplaced chips and passes, and I was amazed that he started the game too. As many have said, he looks tired, all played out.

The second period began.

After just two minutes of play, a run from Gittens on the left, and after losing possession the ball bobbled back and into the path of George. With virtually no time to think, and with minimal back lift, he swiped at the ball, and we watched as it lasered its way into the goal, maybe clipping the far post on its way.

It was a thunderbolt.

Did it remind anyone else of Jimmy at Old Trafford in 2000?

Previously underwhelmed and a little distanced, I celebrated the goal wildly.

I was back in the game.

GET IN.

Miraculously, just two minutes later, George played in Facundo Buonanotte who danced his way into the box and adeptly placed the ball into the goal. It was a really fine finish, neat and sure.

More celebrations in the Stacey West Stand.

Get in.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”

How would the game go now?

The rest of the match was an odd one. Lincoln City never gave up and we had to be dogged in our defending. Many a robust challenge went in on their players. At times it felt like we thought that we were 3-1 or 4-1 up, as we overplayed it and looked for a fancy move rather than playing it safe.

Changes were made.

59 minutes : Estevao for Garnacho.

71 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo

71 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gittens

71 minutes : Shumaira Mheuka for George

There was an unselfish ball from Estevao to Neto, but the shot was just wide.

We were still singing.

“When the samba rhythm starts to play, dance with me, make me sway, Estevao is running down the wing, scores a goal, makes the Chelsea sing.”

Fackinell, it was like being back on the Copacabana.

Neto passed to Buonanotte but his shot was straight at the ‘keeper.

Then, at the death, on a night that he probably would want to forget, Jorgensen came for a cross, absolutely missed it, but the half-chance was squandered as the ball was knocked over the bar.

Oh boy.

We made it.

At the end, my mate Jason texted to say “Buonanotte has had a good night” and I should really close this match report at this point.

Boo!

Via a rather circuitous route out of the city – due to the partial closure of the A46 – we eventually got away. At one stage, several cars – most undoubtedly Chelsea – were following each other through small Lincolnshire hamlets, villages and country lanes, no doubt following their GPS in the hope of hitting the main road again. On several occasions we found ourselves heading north.

I likened it to those convoys from village churches to wedding receptions when one car takes the lead and others blithely follow on.

Parky piped up “when you turn into your driveway tonight, you’ll have seven cars behind you.”

Thankfully, the A46 was reached, the rain stayed off and I eventually made it home at 2.10am with no cars crawling behind me.

It had been another epic night on the road.

The next round?

We all fancied Port Vale away.

Tales From Weatherfield

Posted on September 22, 2025 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 20 September 2025.

In the short few days of build up to our game at Manchester United, one thought kept bouncing around inside my head.

“Twelve years. We haven’t bloody won at Old Trafford for twelve years.”

That 1-0 win in May 2013 was the last time we had returned south with a full three points. A Juan Mata shot that nutmegged the gurning giant Phil Jones, deflecting slightly off his left kneecap, gave us the three points. I remember that I took a photo of that exact moment. It affected Sir Alex Ferguson so much that he announced his retirement the next day.

It all seems so long ago now. Our team that day reads like a list of Chelsea giants :

Cech, Azpilicueta, Cole, Ivanovic, Luiz, Ramires, Lampard, Oscar, Mata, Ba, Moses.

No Terry, though, jettisoned to the sidelines under Rafael Benitez. Torres and Ake were the two playing substitutes.

My closing paragraphs in my “Tale” from that that day sums up the joy of that moment.

“I glanced at Alan, who was screaming, his cheeks red, his face ecstatic. I spotted Juan Mata sprint down to the corner flag. It was his moment to tease, torment and tantalise. I clicked away. I was surprisingly cool. After taking around ten photos, my time had come. I clambered onto the seat in front and screamed.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! GET IN!

That was it. It was time for some bombastic, triumphant chanting.

“Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming.
Amsterdam. Amsterdam. I Pray.
Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming.
We Are Coming In The Month Of May.”

Our battle song of 2013.

The Chelsea fans around me were full of smiles and joy. I stood on the seat in front for the next few minutes. I was only vaguely aware of the late red card for Raphael as I was still full of song. I felt my throat getting sore, but this was no time to relent.

“Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”

Despite a few last-ditch United chances, we held on. This was my eighteenth visit to Old Trafford with Chelsea and only the fifth victory. It wasn’t comparable to the pivotal win in 2009-2010, but it was a close second.

I raced back to the waiting car with the United fans moaning away all around me. I listened to “606” on the drive through Sale and Altrincham. Dave Johnstone’s voice was the sole Chelsea voice to be heard. Many United fans were phoning in.

They weren’t happy.

How dare “United” lose a match.

To be honest, I could hardly believe my ears at the ruthlessness of some of their fans. They were irate with Ferguson for playing a second-rate team (I hadn’t noticed) and one chap was so fed up with Fergie’s dictatorial nature that he wasn’t renewing his season ticket next year.”

Twelve years on, we had been lured back to Old Trafford once more.

I collected PD at 10am and Parky at 10.30am. I was well aware that this would be my thirtieth visit to Old Trafford to see Chelsea play Manchester United, the most-ever visits to an away stadium, but my record was rather humble.

Played 29

Won 5

Drew 10

Lost 15

To make it worse, two of those paltry five wins were way back in 1986, my first two visits. So, stretched out over almost forty years, just three wins in twenty-seven games tell my own personal story of misery.

For those of a certain age, Chelsea always used to have a decent record at Old Trafford, with our most successful period between 1966 and 1986. In thirteen league visits in that twenty-year span, we were unbeaten. It all came to a crashing end on a hot bank holiday Monday in August 1987, a game that I sadly watched from a cramped away enclosure.

Anyway, enough of the past. This was 2025, and I – worryingly – was travelling north with a smidgeon of optimism. As we all know, Manchester United have been quite awful so far this season under Ruben Amorim. I had no doubts that the four Manchester United supporters that co-exist alongside me in our small office of ten were nervous of the weekend’s game. I had kept my lips tight, not wishing to tempt fate, but was hopeful.

With the game kicking off at 5.30pm, a four-and-a-half journey stretched out in front of me.

The skies darkened as we advanced past Birmingham. We became enmeshed in slow-moving traffic, partly caused I think by teeming rain and copious surface water, and so we had to reappraise our pre-match plans. Rather than stop off at a pub en route, we decided to aim straight for the stadium.

In the last hour or so, the rain didn’t stop, and the clouds were so low that it seemed we had to duck to avoid them.

The Sat Nav sent me towards Old Trafford via a different route than usual, avoiding the M60 Orbital, past Didsbury, through the massive Southern Cemetery, a sombre experience in the Manchester rain, through Chorlton-cum-Hardy – a district that always makes me chuckle like a twelve-year-old – and then on towards Old Trafford. For a few minutes, I found myself driving on Kings Road in Stretford, where Morrissey once lived. In 2004, I saw Morrissey in concert at the Old Trafford cricket ground, a genuine home coming, and he opened with the line –

“Hello, Weatherfield.”

Due to my two co-passengers’ issues in walking, I dropped them off outside The Bishop Blaize pub on the Chester Road at around 4.15pm, then turned around and headed down to my usual parking place near Gorse Hill Park. As they exited my car, the rain lashed against them, my car, the roads and the pavements. I had left my house at 9.45am, and I had dropped the lads off six-and-a-half hours later. It was, despite no end of laughs between the three of us, a real slog.

I paid my £10 – it was £15 last season, are United now worth 66% of their 2024 value? – and zipped up my jacket, donned my baseball cap, and away I went, fearing the worst. The rain still lashed down, and I expected to be drenched by the time I reached the familiar slope of the forecourt underneath the Munich clock.

Thankfully, the weather lightened on my twenty-minute walk to Old Trafford, and I decided to take a few photos from a couple of fresh angles, with the huge steel structure of the stadium looking over the terraced houses below.

I noted the “20 Zone” street sign next to The Bishop Blaize and quizzically wondered if that was a nod towards the local team’s title haul. Maybe I would have been happier if it had said “20 Limit.”

They have won enough, surely.

On the busy corner of Chester Road and Sir Matt Busby Way, there was the usual agglomeration of United fans from many parts of the British Isles and further afield. For a few moments, all I could hear were Irish accents.

After a slight wait at the security check, and with Chelsea fans shouting about flutes, and a lone United fan shouting about rent boys, I finally reached the cramped away concourse.

Phew.

It was just before 5pm.

The rain had recommenced and – my goodness – Old Trafford looked as quintessentially Mancunian as it is ever likely to.

A depressing wash of clouds overhead, the grey steel of the roof, the mesmerising sight of millions of speckles of rain lashing down and across the massive void of the stadium.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that my seat, in row 2 above the corner flag, had just missed the drip, drip, drip from a hole in the stand a hundred feet above me. Even worse was the fact that two of the disabled spectators in the section right in front of me were experiencing the full effect of a leaky roof too. It seemed that their red United rain jackets would be in for a tough assignment during the early evening’s entertainment.

Shocking.

Both the home and away sections took a while to fill.

At 5.25pm, I recognised a song.

“This Is The One” by the Stone Roses started and would welcome the teams onto the pitch. Flags and banners fluttered in The Stretford End, looking like a less colourful Kop, and I took a few photos.

I posted one on “Facebook” with the words “This Is The One.”

And please God, let this be the one, a win at last in rainy dreary Weatherfield.

Manager Enzo Maresca chose these starters :

Sanchez, James, Cucurella, Fofana, Chalobah, Enzo, Caicedo, Estevao, Palmer, Neto, Joao Pedro.

Then, next up, a John Denver / Pete Boyle mash-up.

“Take me home, United Road.

To the place I belong.

To Old Trafford, to see United.

Take me home, United Road.”

I had sensed a quiet nervousness both outside and inside from the home support, and there had been little pre-match jousting on the terraces from either set of fans.

As always, we attacked the Stretford End in the first half.

However, in the first six minutes, we didn’t attack the Stretford End. It was all United in this opening period.

It didn’t take long for the goal at our end to be the central focus. New signing Bryan Mbeumo forced a decent save from Robert Sanchez after only two minutes, and then Reece James was on hand with a timely interception very soon after, saving a likely opener.

This understandably roused the home support, whose noise then stirred the away support into life.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

Around this time, we were treated to two Sanchez miskicks to United players, but very soon there would be an even bigger calamity.

Just as I was reviewing how wet the seats were to my right, and where my away pals Gary and John should have been standing – where were they? – I had momentarily looked away as the United ‘keeper had walloped a ball forward. To be honest, I didn’t see the build-up, only the ill-timed rush out of our penalty area by Sanchez and the catastrophic swipe at Mbeumo.

Oh bollocks.

The referee issued a straight red.

What a mess.

It seemed that those little hopes of success on this miserable day had been immediately washed away.

But then, as the United players crowded around the site of the free kick that would follow, Maresca chose not to make one substitution but two and we all scratched our collective heads.

Filip Jorgensen for Estevao, Tosin Adarabioyo for Neto.

Bloody hell, our two wingers, our two “out balls”, what was the manager thinking?

“That just invites them on” uttered a local Chelsea fan, who I am sure stood in front of me at Old Trafford on a recent visit.

From the free-kick, Bruno Fernandes thankfully wasted the chance to take the lead.

We struggled to put two passes together, and on fourteen minutes, a cross came in, and Patrick Dorgu’s header fell nicely for Fernandes to sweep the ball in. He raced away to the far corner and as the home fans roared, I felt ill.

“Well, that was too easy.”

Here we go again.

Unbeknown to me straight away, there was a VAR review, but that amounted to nothing.

Just after, Gary and John arrived, soaked, the victims of slow-moving traffic on the M6.

We were awful. I had to wonder who on Earth thought that it was a smart move to knock it about nonchalantly at the back when United had a spare man and who could put us under great pressure. It was nonsense tactics. Especially, when we had nobody to hit if we ever managed to play it past this press.

After twenty-one minutes, a further substitution, Andrey Santos for Cole Palmer.

I texted some mates.

“White flags.”

I was utterly perplexed. But then the rumour went out that Palmer was injured.

Down below us, a move developed and Casemiro bundled the ball in from an Amad Diallo cross, but the ball had gone out behind the goal-line in the build-up.

On thirty-four minutes, a very rare excursion into the Stretford End penalty box, and Joao Pedro tumbled. It was too far away for me to judge.

On thirty-seven minutes, a cross to the back post, a header back into the six-yard by Patrick Dorgu wasn’t cleared. James attempted to do so but only added to the panic. A Luke Shaw header then dropped down and Casemiro was on hand to nod in. His race towards our corner was just horrible to witness.

Fackinell.

In injury-time, a coming together of Santos and Casemiro, and they ended up on the floor. The referee took his time, seemed to review what he had just seen, then signalled a yellow.

The Mancunian next to me, bless him, had remembered another yellow.

“Second yellow. Off.”

I roared.

For a few seconds I overdosed on positivity.

“Now we have some space. We’re back in it.”

Or so I thought.

The half-time came and went, with much muttering and moaning from the faithful.

The second half began, and we tried to get at United, but at times we were rather pedestrian.

It took a while for us to build anything of note.

I expected a lot more from Enzo.

Wesley Fofana headed in from a James corner but there was an offside flag.

Soon after, a double substitution.

Tyrique George for Fofana.

Malo Gusto for Cucurella.

The addition of George was a head-scratcher.

Alejandro Garnacho, who had been booed by the Stretford End while he was warming up, would have been many Chelsea fans’ choice for a late appearance. Here was a player that had an extra dimension to his game, and a massive point to prove. A moment like this does not come around too often. The moment was meant for him. Alas, Maresca chose not to gamble, perhaps the story of his managerial life thus far.

God knows what must have gone through Garnacho’s head as he sat down on the bench, overlooked.

For all of the change in personnel, and for all of the possible variations of attack, Reece James stuck with what he knew, out wide, making angles with overlaps, and became our only effective attacking threat.

It was his cross that was ably headed down and in by Trevoh Chalobah with ten minutes to go.

The Mancunian next to me : “3-2, you watch.”

I wished that I shared his optimism.

We kept going, but without much of a clue as to how to get into areas that would hurt United.

At the other end, a flashing shot from Fernandes was ably saved by Filip Jorgensen.

The rain had relented slightly but then came on strong again in the closing minutes.

At the final whistle, I turned and headed up the steps, bracing myself for a long and wet walk back to the car. First, that bloody slope on the forecourt which is always a fun experience, being serenaded by the home fans.

I had to laugh as I walked back in the darkness when I was overtaken by a United couple. Despite the win, they were as morose as we were.

“Ten versus ten, we lost.”

That’s the spirit.

With PD and Parky unable to walk quickly, we did not get back to the car until 8.30pm, and by then I was absolutely soaked.

We hit the M6 at 9.30pm, the road conditions awful.

I stopped at Stafford Services for junk food – Scottish themed, Tunnocks tea cakes and Irn Bru – and we bumped into Allie and Nick from Reading again. There was a final stop at Strensham for some petrol, and at last, nearing Bristol, the rain finally relented.

I made it home eventually at 1.45am.

That win at Old Trafford is as elusive as ever.

At least Frome Town won.

2013

2025

Tales From The Gtech

Posted on September 16, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 13 September 2025.

What did I do in the international break?

Well, I didn’t watch any international football, that’s for sure.

Thankfully, the fortnight was over and Chelsea were back on the agenda. We were due to complete our “London Series” with the fourth match in a row against teams from the capital with a game at Brentford’s Gtech Stadium.

Unfortunately, PD was unable to get hold of a ticket, so it was only Parky who accompanied me up to The Smoke for this one.

“It’ll be just like the old days”, he chirped during the lead up to the weekend, harking back to those days from around 2008 when the Chuckle Bus consisted, in the main, of just the two of us.

With the game in West London not beginning until 8pm, I had decided to give any notion of a long day shuffling around a succession of pubs a miss and picked up Parky at 2.45pm. I am not getting any younger and I am beginning to feel the burden of arduous hours on the road.

Soon after collecting the old rascal, I was well aware that Frome Town were kicking off their FA Cup match at Shaftesbury in Dorset at 3pm. I had toyed for the idea of attending both games but decided that it was all too risky. Chelsea would be the priority on this day.

On the previous Saturday, I had driven down to the cathedral city of Winchester to see Frome meekly exit the FA Trophy. Winchester City, from the same division, had beaten us 2-0. Shaftesbury play in the same division as Frome too and I was hopeful that my hometown club would be victorious in this scene-setter to the evening’s main event.

I stopped at Membury Services near Swindon to check the score; losing 0-1.

I stopped at Heston Services near Heathrow to check the score; losing 0-1.

Bollocks.

It’s a very familiar drive into West London on the elevated section of the M4 and the sights are oh-so familiar. Rising to where John Prescott’s ill-fated “bus and taxi lane” used to terminate, I never fail to get a little shudder of excitement as I see the skyscrapers of the city in the distance. Closer in, the vast expanse of gleaming windows of the now vacated GSK Building occasionally reflects winter sunsets as I drive into London for evening games.

It’s quite a site and quite a sight.

Way to the north, I always peek to see the Wembley Arch, and in previous years I would always look to spot the floodlight pylons at Griffin Park just south of the M4.

I always check for what I call “the Seven Sisters”, a line of tower blocks to my right, a title that is a little off since there are only six of them, but I figure it’s the thought that counts. Also in view is what Parky calls “the pepper pot”, the tall tower that forms the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam.

Then, just a little further along, the expensive car dealerships, perched and overlooking the motorway.

It was at this point that I exited the M4, swung around the roundabout where the North Circular, the M4 and the A4 meet, and then turned back westwards to drop Parky off outside the “Bell & Crown” pub on the banks of the River Thames at Chiswick.

It was 5pm.

I had left my village in Somerset at 2.15pm.

Job done.

I edged further west to park up at Ferry Quays, and just as I did so, a score flash from Shaftesbury made me smile.

In the one-hundred and second minute of play, Sam Meakes had plundered a very late equaliser for Frome Town.

Lovely.

There would be a replay at Badgers Hill on Wednesday evening, and on that occasion, Frome would take precedence over watching Chelsea in Bavaria on the TV.

I met up with Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Minnesota Josh for an hour or so of chuckles, laughs and banter as the sun began its slow dip beyond Kew Bridge.

Within seconds of arriving, a beer was spilled from the low wall, and Josh’s sunglasses were knocked into the murky Thames below. In stepped Parky who hooked them out of the water with his trusty walking stick. I was hopeful that this moment would not be the most exciting few seconds of the entire evening.

We bumped into a smattering of other friends and acquaintances, and it was a gorgeous way to idle away around for an hour and a half.

Not much was said about the upcoming game; no point spoiling the moment, eh?

I left them to it as I fancied taking a few “mood shots” of the stadium. The walk up to the Gtech Stadium took me right along the border between Chiswick and Brentford, which are both covered by the London Borough of Hounslow.

Everything is so cramped at the Gtech Stadium, nestled underneath the M4, shoved between train tracks, narrow roads, and new high-rise flats. There is a splash of red at the box office and at the main entrance, but grey steel, grey windows, and grey cladding otherwise dominate the structure. The box office is recessed underneath offices to generate an extra little space, and the main entrance is inconspicuous. Blink and it will be missed. There is almost a sense of claustrophobia in this intimate part of West London.

I walked back out onto the main road and approached the away entrance, which is tucked away underneath the towering high rises that soon shot up in the void between the stadium and the M4. There was a ticket check, then a cheerful pat-down, and I was through. I had my Sony “pub camera” clasped in my fist and it was not spotted. I will only be able to bring my Canon SLR to games once the weather worsens and I can smuggle it under a jacket.

Down the steps to the away entrance, then into the surprisingly roomy concourse, then up the stairs to the upper concourse. Not a square inch of space is wasted at the Gtech.

I was inside the away seats at around 7.15pm. The Chelsea players were warming up a few yards away. This was a view that would cost the Dugout Club Wankers at Stamford Bridge thousands of pounds, but in the away section at Brentford it cost me just £30.

I was alongside Gary and John in the fourth row from the front and level with the corner flag, an excellent spot.

The team that Enzo Maresca had chosen was a head-shaker alright.

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Chalobah – Hato

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Buonanotte – Gittens

Joao Pedro

The defence seemed ridiculously unfamiliar.

“Have you chaps met each other yet?”

The manager chose a first start of Jorrel Hato, a debut for Facundo Buonanotte, and persevered with Jamie Gittens.

On the bench, sadly, were the more esteemed Cole Palmer, Marc Cucurella, Reece James and Malo Gusto.

Was Maresca over-thinking, being too smart, resting players ahead of Bayern on Wednesday and United on Saturday?

Only time would tell.

There was the usual Premier League intro of “Insomnia”, forced darkness, strobe lights, them mosaics from the slender stand to my right.

Next, a shared “Hey Jude”, with both ends singing along.

The teams appeared to our left.

At 8pm, the referee Stuart Attwell whistled.

Rather than dilly-dally with a methodical pass back to a central defender, a Brentford player sprinted to receive the ball and walloped it forward. All of a sudden we were watching Wimbledon from 1988.

It came to nowt.

The Chelsea choir were in a noisy mood at the start of the game, and there was a particularly loud rendition of “OMWTM” that must have sounded decent on TV. We paraded a few of the old favourites but then fell into the predictable trap of singing about former players from years ago when the players from 2025 needed support. Frank Lampard, Dennis Wise and someone called Solomon Kalou were serenaded.

“It’s Salomon!” I shouted a few times.

On the pitch, there was a brisk start to the game with the debutant Buonanotte looking lively in the central position just behind Joao Pedro, who wasn’t really playing as an out-and-out centre forward because, you know, modern tactics, and all that, and instead played in the half-spaces that seem to exist in managers’ minds, if not on the pitch itself. As the half would progress, Joao Pedro got himself lost in these half spaces, while on the left Jamie Gittens seemed reluctant to exploit even quarter spaces.

But the start was decent enough, and a Joao Pedro shot was blocked, while at our end the lanky frame of Tosin similarly blocked an effort from the home team.

Moises Caicedo was his usual self, blocking, tackling, passing, a dream.

After a quarter of an hour, it was all us, and we were camped inside the Brentford half. However, all of the meaningful attacks were streaming down our right with Pedro Neto always available. On the left, Gittens was lost in the evening murk.

Brentford struggled to piece together much of their own, but then our form dropped and we struggled too.

On thirty-four minutes, I sighed as a ball from Trevoh Chalobah to Neto just didn’t have enough speed on it to give Neto the needed momentum. With that, the move broke down, and the ball was then played to Jordan Henderson. Now then, I have never thought too highly of Henderson, but I had to gasp at the excellence of his long ball towards Kevin Schade. It was absolutely on the money.

Fresh from his whistle-stop tour of Arabia and Amsterdam – talk about different ends of the spectrum in which to live – his decision to retire to Hounslow surprised me, but here he was with the ball of the game.

Schade was able to wriggle past the scrambling Tosin, and when the striker came inside, I only expected one outcome.

I did not see the ball hit the net, but I heard the roar.

Bollocks to you Jordan Henderson.

El-Ettifaqinell.

Just after, there was a rare chant from the home end.

It’s the one thing that has surprised me about Brentford in their new stadium. This is the time of their lives, their high-water mark, playing in a tight and compact stadium, set up for noise, but they are so quiet and timid. It was honestly a shock to be able to hear them.

We struggled to get back into the game in the last part of the first half, and the sight of a corner from Enzo grazing the post raised hardly a flutter.

This had turned into a hard watch.

I turned to Andy from Nuneaton.

“You wouldn’t cross the road to watch this if it wasn’t Chelsea, would you?”

There were multiple changes at the break, and a few of us were surprised that Gittens re-appeared for the start of the second period.

So, Mister Maresca, what you got?

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Reece James for Fofana.

Tyrique George for Buonanotte.

It took me a few minutes to work out if there had been any fine tweaks to the positions. Was George now the striker, the half-striker maybe, with Joao Pedro behind? I wasn’t sure.

Soon into the second-half, George was released and did well to get a shot away from an angle. The reliable Kelleher was down well to touch it away for a corner.

Then came the first in a succession of “Reece James taking a corner” photos from yours truly and I don’t, thankfully, include them all.

Gittens then enjoyed his best run of the entire game, forcing a corner, but was then ironically substituted. On came the hopeful saviour, Cole Palmer.

God knows where everyone would play now.

Ah, I think I got it. Tyrique George moved over to the left, and Palmer moved behind Joao Pedro.

Am I right?

From row four, it wasn’t easy to slot everything into place.

Fackinell.

I captured a shot from Cucurella that was straight at Kelleher.

Our play improved immeasurably.

I, and probably hundreds of thousands Chelsea fans who were watching in TV Land thought the same thing.

“Funny that. Playing our best players. Playing better.”

Neto looked especially spritely down the right, away on that far side. On the hour, a cross from Enzo – improving after a dreadful first half – lofted a hopeful ball towards a leap of Joao Pedro. The ball broke to Palmer who swept it in with the minimum of fuss.

A roar from the Chelsea faithful, but no self-aggrandising celebrations from the scorer. He raced straight back to his own half.

Get in.

Just as I was jotting down a few notes on my phone, I looked up to see Robert Sanchez fall to his right and tip and effort from Schade around the far post, a magnificent stop.

I loved a run deep into the box in front of me, lots of flicks and touches, but the run from George just ran out of steam.

On seventy-four minutes, a clean run from Neto on the right and a perfect pass to Palmer. With the goal gaping, I absolutely expected the net to bulge even if I wouldn’t see it.

He shot.

A block, or a save, I know not. I just saw Palmer hold his head.

Ugh.

On seventy-six minutes, one final change.

Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro, and so Tyrique George again moved into the middle.

Now then, Garnacho. Who remembers his first game for Manchester United? His debut was against us at Old Trafford in April 2022 when a late Cristiano Ronaldo goal gave them an undeserved 1-1 draw. Our new signing came on as a late sub in that game, and I remembered how a memorabilia collector who featured Garnacho among the players in his portfolio was happy to pay me £50 for my ticket stub knowing that he would later sell it on, autographed, as a memento from that debut.

I have called the young Argentinian “the peroxide plonker” in the past, and as he lined up on our left, I could not help reminding myself of this.

To his credit, the former United starlet impressed me greatly in the short time that he spent attacking our end. I kept thinking back to Jadon Sancho, another United mis-fit, and his promising debut at Bournemouth last autumn.

On this day, Garnacho – at least – showed plenty of desire to get past his marker and create havoc in the danger areas. More of the same please.

On eighty-six minutes, the debutant shimmied and rolled the ball back towards the penalty spot, but there was nobody there to meet it. I remember thinking “where is Frank Lampard when you need him?” but a Brentford clearance was far from perfect. The ball ended up rolling towards Caicedo. There was a touch to create space and to set himself up, and he then drilled the ball goalwards.

Did I see the net ripple? Of course not.

But I heard the noise and saw the gorgeous celebrations.

GET IN.

My camera was on hand, after I had punched the air a few times no doubt, to record the scene down below me.

Limbs, limbs and more limbs.

Beautiful stuff.

I spotted Enzo walking away, his arms around the shoulders of Garnacho, no doubt whispering words of encouragement in Spanish but with an Argentinian twang.

Soon after, Sanchez was able to scramble across his goal to maintain our slender lead.

Whereas there had been time-wasting from the home team at 1-1, now there was none of it. There was a renewed urgency in their play.

The away end was buoyant, and we were hoping that we could hold on. However, in the fourth minute of extra time, a long bomb of a throw-in on their left caused chaos inside our six-yard box and Fabio Carvalho pounced to stab home, the far post unguarded.

Oh bollocks.

Just after, Garnacho set up Palmer but he lofted the ball over.

A second winner was not forthcoming.

Time ran out.

Ugh.

This felt like a loss and all the other well-used cliches.

On a slow walk back to the car with Parky, I mentioned to a few friends that because of our poor first-half showing, perhaps we never really deserved the full three points on this day in West London.

And I suppose it was time to be pragmatic.

Whereas others were full of rage, I guess we all need to practice a little patience here. After all, it is just the start of another long season.

However, the irony of an extra-time equaliser saving Frome Town but of an extra-time equaliser robbing Chelsea was not lost on me.

We stopped at Reading Services at 11.45pm – what a crap time to be halfway home – and I finally reached my house at 1.30am.

My next game will be at Old Trafford.

See you there.

Tales From An Evening Out In London

Posted on August 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 22 August 2025.

I always look forward to the first away match each season. I will bump into a ton of mates at the first home game of a new campaign, but way more at the first away fixture. At such games, in pubs or on concourses or in the away section, it’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without seeing someone that I know. It’s all about big numbers in small spaces.

The first away fixture of the new season would be sending us out to the East End of London, and despite the inconvenience of a Friday evening kick-off, that was alright with me.

West Ham United vs. Chelsea at 8pm on a Friday night?

Oh, go on then.

I was parked up outside Barons Court tube station on Margravine Gardens at 5pm, and I fancied a jolt of caffeine before Parky, PD and I headed out east. Our usual café just across the way from this red-bricked station, where Parky and I chatted to Seb Coe after a game at Arsenal in 2012, was closing and so we tried “Gail’s Café” for the first time.

“If we lose tonight, we shan’t be coming here again” I warned my two mates. My football-going routines are full of such superstitions.

After some expensive but bland coffee, we caught a District Line train to Westminster, then a Jubilee train to Canary Wharf. On these two journeys, we were the only Chelsea fans. We saw a just a few West Ham. The ratio on this day would be around 60,000 to 3,000 or 20 to 1, so it was not surprising that we were the lone Chelsea contingent. At Canary Wharf, we ascended into the light at the airy train station and into the London of finance, tall tower blocks and evening commuters heading away to their homes in the suburbs.

We turned a corner and spotted the first Chelsea presence of the evening; Leigh, Darren and a few others, mainly from Basingstoke as far as I could see, were drinking at “The Alchemist” and although we were tempted to stop, the consensus was to head over to the stadium even though it was still two hours to kick-off.

“Nice to see you chaps though evidently not that much”, I exclaimed, smiling, as we left them to walk over to the Docklands Light Railway. Before long, we had boarded the driver-less train (I was hoping that West Ham would be equally devoid of a leader) and we soon found ourselves at Pudding Mill Lane, which not only acts as the destination for away fans going to the London Stadium, but also for those attending the ABBA arena too.

It was a quarter of an hour walk to the away turnstiles, and it’s all so familiar now. This would be my ninth visit. Because we were there so early, and the foot traffic was very quiet, the immediate surroundings seemed even more anaemic than usual. There wasn’t the usual hustle and jostle of a football crowd. There were no street vendors, no hawkers of tat, no grafters, no food outlets, no noise, no nothing. It was a bland approach to the stadium, which itself is as bland as it gets. I was never a fan, even in its Olympic year.

There were quick security checks – no SLR this time either, my Sony pub camera was clasped in my hand and nobody spotted it – and the three of us were soon taking a lift to the area outside the away turnstiles. Sharing the tight space was a lone West Ham supporter.

“Here we go for another nine months of hell” he grumbled.

“That’s the spirit” I thought, remembering how awkward it used to be back in the ‘eighties when home fans talked to you as one of their own, and you tried to say as little as possible. I remember settling down to some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” on the Barking Road in 1986 and the West Ham fan sitting opposite trying to strike up a conversation with me about Tony Cottee or Mark Ward, and me being very taciturn.

More checks, more security, but we were in. I did say to the lads that I had fancied walking around the stadium to see if there are any things worth seeing, but without thinking, I was pulled into the away concourse, like a moth to a flame.

West Ham’s London Stadium might be the worst football stadium in London, in the topflight, maybe in the whole country, but I do like its airy concourses outside the steps to the away seats, which provide plenty of space for fellow fans to assemble, drink, and share a laugh. We soon bumped into “Eight Bells” regulars Jimmy and Ian. The latter bought me the dearest Diet Coke ever apparently.

“Cheers mate.”

And there they all were; many familiar faces, far too many to name, ready for the battle against our London enemy.

Yes, I love away games.

And yet, it has not been a good summer regarding away games in the up-coming season. To cut a long story short, many in our support base have felt let down by the club. Firstly, news about the away season ticket took forever to be communicated by the club. Then came the horrific news that away tickets were non-transferable, with the added piece of news that sporadic ID checks would take place at away games, a repeat of what allegedly happened at Tottenham last December.

This panicked many people. Two friends who have been away season ticket holders for a while have very kindly offered me their away tickets over the past seven or eight years if they could not attend games. They immediately contacted me to say that if they could not transfer tickets, they would opt out of renewing in 2025/26. This was understandable. But it meant that I would not be able to help many close friends to tickets, including Parky and PD on occasion.

If you are reading this and have received away tickets from me in this period, they have more-than-likely come via these two mates.

Then, long after the away season ticket cut-off time, we found out that Chelsea Football Club had reneged on this ruling – in other words, away tickets could be transferred – but without any clear communication in the change to their stance.

Everyone I knew was livid, not least my two mates.

It is rumoured that during this period of uncertainty, around two-hundred supporters left the away scheme.

That hurts.

What hurts even more is the near certainty that many away seats in the Chelsea sections at stadia in 2025/26 will be on sale on third party sites for extortionate and obscene prices. By creating a period of uncertainty in the ranks, perhaps on purpose, it’s likely that the club succeeded in weeding out some of our most loyal fans to gain financially from moving tickets to third party platforms.

It sickens me.

I was inside the upper tier with a good forty minutes to go as I fancied settling myself and clearing my head. I had been awake since 4.45am and was feeling a little jaded. My seat was in a very familiar position; the second row of the tier, right in line with the touchline. I was sat next to John and Gary.

The stadium took forever to fill up. I hated the booming dance music that sucks all the life out of the pre-match. I remember the days when football grounds would be bubbling away before kick-off, with songs being sung, and players being serenaded. Not so in 2025.

At last, bodies appeared. The stadium filled.

We heard, late on, that Cole Palmer had injured himself in the kick-in, so he was replaced by Estevao Willian.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Adarabioyo – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Pedro Neto

Delap

“Bubbles” boomed as the players entered the pitch, the longest walk in football.

Chelsea were in all black.

Although this new kit looks clean and neat from a distance, I am not a fan of its odd white “false collar” but I absolutely loathe the Chelsea Collection badge from 1986. It was hated, really hated, when it came along almost forty years ago and there was a real sense of relief when the “lion rampant” badge was reinstated on our centenary in 2005.

In many circles, it was known as the “Millwall badge” and it is obvious why.

I then thought back to the “World Champions” logo on the rear of the hotel wall at Stamford Bridge and it all made perfect – muddled – sense.

Never mind, the oddballs who collect Chelsea shirts like a mania will love it.

West Ham themselves looked a little odd. There were no light blue sleeves, nor much sign of light blue anywhere on their kit. Their kit reminded me of the one they wore in 1986 when they finished in second place in the old First Division, their highest-ever placing.

At 8pm the evening’s entertainment began, and – as always – we attacked the other end in the first half.

It’s so difficult to get our whole section singing as one at West Hame, since there is that hideous void between the two levels. I have always had seats in the upper section and the view from there is bad enough, so God knows what it is like thirty-five rows behind me. I have had contrasting opinions of the view from the lower tier. Some say it’s OK, some hate it. The away fans tried to get behind the players as the game began.

In the first five minutes, Chelsea edged possession but then came the sixth minute.

The ball was played in to Lucas Paqueta, a long distance out, but allowed to advance. I immediately sensed the danger and yelled out “block the space” but nobody heard me. Chelsea backed off and the West Ham player strode on. To my utter disbelief, he struck a brilliant shot – moving and dipping over the flailing and failing arch of Robert Sanchez – and the ball crashed in. To my horror, I was right in line with the path of the ball.

Gutted.

The scorer shot off to celebrate in the right-hand corner and the home fans were in ecstasy.

Well, bollocks. After our staid draw against Palace, this was a horrible way to start our next game.

Behind me, four fans howled “we hate Sanchez” and I just glared at them.

We huffed and puffed and tried our best to get back to level terms. On fifteen minutes, we were given a corner on our right and Pedro Neto aimed at the near post. I captured the moment that Marc Cucurella lept and headed the ball on – a waning skill these days – and we watched with glee as a Chelsea player, no idea who, headed the ball in as it dropped inside the six-yard box.

GET IN.

Then, a scare. West Ham broke down our left in front of us, and the ball was played square. I immediately thought the recipient was offside, so when the cross was turned in by Niclas Fullkrug, whoever he is, I was adamant that VAR would rule it out. There was a wait, but yes, no penalty. Jean-Clair Todibo, whoever he is, was just offside.

Phew, but fuck VAR right?

Five minutes later, we did well to win the ball in the inside-right channel and Joao Pedro flicked a great cross over to a Chelsea player to sweep the ball in. I was too far away to be sure who scored and was too busy celebrating to watch the scorer run to the corner flag where he was mobbed.

A blue flare was dropped from behind me into the void below and the sulphurous fumes filled my nostrils.

On the pitch, we began to purr. You know we played well when I use that word.

The Chelsea support was loving this. With each move, we grew in confidence. Lovely.

On thirty-four minutes, a nice little moment of interplay between Liam Delap and Estevao enabled the young Brazilian to dance away inside the box – quite beautiful – and send over a teasing cross that a Chelsea player swept into the goal.

We were up 3-1.

You beauty.

Another race to the corner flag, more celebrations, more fist-punching from me, more snaps of the lads in black.

I thought back to New Jersey.

Another first-half with three goals.

I realised that I had sat the entire first half, leaning on the safe-standing rail in front of me, but totally engrossed in everything. It had been a cracking game thus far. As the players left the pitch at the break, there were audible boos from the home section.

We eventually learned that the three scorers were Joao Pedro, Pedro Neto and Enzo Pedro Neto, whoever he is.

What would the second half bring? Hopefully more goals.

To be honest, the second period was just funny.

We continued as we had finished. Enzo, though, shot over with a good chance.

On fifty-four minutes, a corner from Enzo down below us and the West Ham player in orange – their goalkeeper apparently – flapped at the ball. Moises Caicedo was on hand to smack the ball in.

More crazy celebrations.

Beautiful.

I remembered the poor bloke’s horrible debut on that sunny Sunday two years ago at the same stadium. Since then, what a revelation he has been.

Just four minutes later, a Pedro Neto corner from down below us, mayhem in the West Ham box, and the ball fell for Chalobah to smash in from close range.

5-1.

Heaven.

More celebrations in Chelsea-ville.

With half-an-hour to go, we hoped for more goals, but no. It wasn’t to be. But we didn’t care. To be honest, the home team conjured up a few chances, but we never looked like conceding.

The hapless Graham Potter was serenaded by the Chelsea faithful. Has there ever been a more lack-lustre personality linked with Chelsea Football Club? I think not.

Substitutions were made.

62 : Andrey Santos for Delap

69 : Reece James for Gusto.

69 : Wesley Fofana for Chalobah.

69 : Jorrel Hato for Cucurella.

A good chance for Estevao, running freely, but a mis-control and a touch too many and over. Ugh.

We didn’t care.

77 : Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

I spoke to the bloke to my left.

“This must be our biggest ever win at West Ham. Does it even up that 0-4 loss to them in 1986…that year again…no, I guess it doesn’t.”

I had answered my own question.

The last part of the game drifted away, as did a good proportion of the home fans.

My player of the match was Pedro Neto. His efforts up and down the wing were the stuff of legend.

At the end of the game, just happiness and smiles.

“Top of the league, lads.”

However, it has to be said; how poor were West Ham?

I trotted out to the concourse and went to use the gents before the trek back West. One of the idiosyncrasies of the gents at West Ham is that the toilets are like a maze, a never-ending pattern of urinals, going on forever. You’re lucky to get out. I reckon it’s one of the reasons why West Ham have gates of 62,000 every game. There was one bloke in there from the final day of the 2012 Olympics.

I met up with PD and Parky and we re-traced our steps. The first DLR train was an odd mix of West Ham fans and ABBA fans. People were dolled up for their night out and were wearing gaudy make up with bright and lurid fashions from the successful era of the mid-‘seventies to the early-‘eighties. The others were the ABBA fans.

From Pudding Mill Lane to Canary Wharf, the night now dark, and the return journey to Westminster, which always seems to be like something out of a dystopian sci-fi horror, then back to good old Barons Court at 11.30pm.

“Gail’s Café” passed its test.

I reached home at 2.20am and I fell asleep at 2.45am.

This Chelsea day at lasted from 4.45am to 2.45am.

Mamma mia.

Next up, another London Derby awaits.

See you in the pub.

BARONS COURT TO PUDDING MILL LANE

LONDON STADIUM

PUDDING MILL LANE TO BARONS COURT

Tales From A Lukewarm Start On A Hot Summer Day

Posted on August 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 17 August 2025.

Just five weeks had elapsed since the mightiest of endings to season 2024/25 in New Jersey, and now we were facing the first league game of the new campaign.

Fate had dealt us a relatively kind hand with our first four league fixtures set to take place in London. After our extensive travels and travails of the previous season, perhaps this is just what we all needed; the chance to ease ourselves back into everything.

That these four league games would still entail a total of around nine hundred miles of travel for me is hardly important. I am used to these numbers by now. Last season, though, surely set a personal record. It encompassed a perfect century of live football games, from Rio de Janeiro to Almaty and all places in between, from Newcastle to Wroclaw, from Merthyr Tydfil to Ipswich, from Liverpool to Gosport. The international segment of this amounted to 34,000 miles alone. Add in 10,500 domestic miles with Chelsea and around 2,500 with Frome Town and it all equated to around 47,000 miles.

Fackinell.

After returning from the USA, I did my best to try to relax, although if I am honest the two match reports of the games against Fluminense and Paris St. Germain hung over me like the sword of Damocles for way too long. Eventually, I managed to complete them both, and I was rewarded with my highest ever monthly viewing total; 12,000 in August thus far.

It looks like my 2024 total of 54,000 will be smashed, and I thank every one of you for this patronage. It does, believe me, make all the toil so worthwhile.

I didn’t attend the two friendlies against Bayer Leverkusen and Milan. I needed that rest. Instead, I gently eased myself into the new season with a small smattering of Frome Town games spanning a period of three weeks; a home friendly against Chippenham Town (lost 0-1), a triumphant home league opener against Tavistock (won 3-0), an away trip to the New Forest against Bashley (won 3-1) and a tight FA Cup home tie against Newquay (won 2-1).

I am hopeful that this coming season will evolve into successful campaigns for both teams that are closest to my heart. I would love to see Chelsea challenge for the top places in the league, and maybe win more silverware, and I am hopeful that my local team will return to the Southern League Premier under new and exciting ownership.

I will try not to deviate too far from the main subject matter here, but there will – I am sure – be regular mentions of Frome Town if I feel it is either interesting or relevant. Many have expressed their enjoyment in reading the pleasures that I get out of experiencing football at different ends of the spectrum, so I hope to keep that going.

Before we leap into the first match of 2025/26 – my fifty-third season of watching Chelsea – let’s take one last look at the previous campaign.

On a personal level, I loved the fact that six games featured teams from Brazil. These encounters book-ended the season for me; three in Rio in July 2024, plus three in the USA in June and July 2025.

It was an undulating season in terms of enjoyment and team performance, and tested my patience at times, but Chelsea games – trips – were always the highlight of every week.

I am sure that I am not the only one that saw a similarity between the 2011/12 and 2024/25 seasons. At the end of 2010/11, the club discarded with the services of the much-loved Carlo Ancelotti. However, just over halfway through 2011/12, we were going nowhere under Andre Vilas-Boas, and our beloved team was sleepwalking to a season of relative mediocrity. Come May, under Roberto di Matteo, we had won the FA Cup and the Champions League, and the turnaround was the stuff of legend.

Last summer, we parted company with the – perhaps – surprisingly liked Mauricio Pochettino and the untested Enzo Marseca took over. In 2024/25, again at the same point as in 2012, we were really struggling. Oh, those two games at Brighton in the same week. A real nadir. But then things changed, and by the end of the season, we had reached a top four position in the league, triumphed in the Europa Conference League and had won the Club World Cup.

In both campaigns, we did things the Chelsea way.

“Write us off at your peril.”

It was all very Chelsea-esque,

Which brings us nicely to Sunday 17 August 2025.

It was a typical start for me. I was out of the house at 6.50am, I collected PD at bang on 7am and we then motored over to pick up Lord Parky at 7.30am.

This trip was so easy. I dropped the lads off, then parked just off Lillee Road, devoured a great breakfast on the North End Road and then spent a little time around Stamford Bridge.

It was around 11am when I entered the West Stand forecourt, but to my surprise and annoyance, I was asked by two stewards to show them my ticket at this early hour. I fancied a little verbal jousting and made out that I wasn’t going to the game but instead wanted to visit the megastore. This absolutely flummoxed them. In fact, one of them suggested that I should return on a non-match day.

I told them that I had plenty of money to spend in the megastore and wondered what Chelsea FC would think of such a suggestion.

With that, more embarrassed shuffling from them, and I could hardly bare to watch. I flashed my QR code at them and went on my way but told them to talk to their supervisor about contingency plans for those visitors that might want to visit the store but not be so lucky to have match tickets.

This is just another example of how the club is trying to squeeze as much fun out of the match day experience as possible.

Ticket checks three hours before kick-off, bag checks, no left luggage options, no cameras, the imminent anxiety of disappearing QR codes, the difficulty in passing tickets on, “don’t do this, don’t do that”. It all chips away at the sense of fun that used to exist in SW6.

I spotted the new signage on the West Stand that depicted us as World Champions. I also spotted an echo of the never-liked Chelsea Collection club crest from 1986 to 2005 being used on one of the large panels and it immediately struck me as messy.

I bumped into Donna and Colby, and we decided to peek inside the revamped ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway tube station that was opened up as a bar during the summer by Wetherspoons and renamed “Walham Green.” It was already busy, and under the glass of the ceiling, it resembled a greenhouse, and we soon felt uncomfortably hot. We soon decided against having a drink, and left, but not before I bumped into Allie once again, who I last saw leaving MetLife after the final.

In the end, I spent an enjoyable hour in “The Eight Bells” – shocker – with Even from Norway, Dave, Salisbury Steve, Parky, PD, Ian, Jimmy and Paul. Dave had shared a train carriage with non-other than Kerry Dixon on the way down from Luton and was full of glee.

In all honesty it did not feel like we had been away. All the familiar faces. All the usual laughs. It’s a great boozer.

However, I was rather anxious about the new digital ticket procedure, and despite the QR code already appearing on my Chelsea App, I was keen to get to HQ early in case there was teething trouble. Considering this I left twenty minutes before the others.

I wandered past the first barrage of ticket checkers out by the Fulham Road at just before 1pm. So far, so good. Then a mate sidled up to me to say that many QR codes had suddenly disappeared from phones and supporters were now lining up at the ticket office to get them resent.

Fackinell.

With that, as I walked past the Ossie Statue, it took me fifteen swipes to get my bloody phone to open, irrespective of any issue with QR codes. Maybe my phone could sense my anxiety. Were my palms more sweaty than usual?

I hate modern technology.

I walked a few more paces, tapped on the “my tickets” icon on the phone and I was overcome with worry when I was directed to the “Play Predictor” screen, whatever the fuck that is. So, deep joy, my deepest fear had surfaced; my QR code had fucked off to some un-navigable part of cyber-space unknown to man or beast.

However, while I stood bemused and angry, the QR code suddenly reappeared once more, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Right, let’s get in before it fucks off again.”

I ascended the steps to the MHU, the “CFC” newly painted, and glided past several small groups of supporters who seemed oddly reluctant to enter the turnstiles. It took me back to my youth when, as under-age sixth formers nervously awaiting to be served at pubs, we would wait for the eldest looking of the group to appear like a hero to get the drinks in.

I guessed that their QR codes had disappeared and were currently doing a tour of duty somewhere. I wished them well as I brushed past.

A quick scan and I was in.

Thank heavens.

It was 1pm, a full hour before kick-off.

The ground took a long time to fill, and it did feel so strange to be in so soon. I’ll admit to being relieved to be inside, but I absolutely dreaded the thought of having to get to Stamford Bridge an hour early for a while. Our next home game is at 12.30pm on a Saturday lunchtime. Do I really have to get inside for 11.30am? God forbid.

I chatted to some good friends, and flicked through the programme, which I decided to buy for a change. I wanted to read one particular page.

After last season’s 1984/85 retrospective on this site, I feel saddened to have to report that one of the lions of that era, Joey Jones, sadly passed away on 22 July. Everyone loved Joey at Chelsea in those mad days of Second Division struggles against relegation, redemption and promotion the following year and then consolidation in the topflight in three crazy seasons. His clenched-fist salute to us on the terraces was so iconic and adeptly epitomised the bond twixt players and fans of that time. Sadly, I never met Joey face to face, but we were “Facebook” friends before my old account was hacked in 2024, and several good friends at Chelsea became really friendly with him in those times. I include the piece in the programme here.

Joey Jones.

Once a red. Always a blue. RIP.

The place slowly filled. There was a new addition to the pre-match selection of Chelsea-centric songs. At 1.45pm, “Our House” by Madness filled the Stamford Bridge air.

There had been the promise of an “unveiling” before kick-off, but this amounted to nothing more than two banners being exposed on the brick walls behind The Shed.

To the left, the Millwall lion from 1986, and to the right “World Champions.”

I know which I preferred.

I was saddened to see two unknown tourists sitting in front of me. These seats belonged to dear Albert, who passed away last Spring, and his brother Paul. We were hoping that Paul would renew this season, but we guessed that he hadn’t.

Oh boys, we will miss you both.

The minutes ticked by.

“Blue Is The Colour” was played, galvanising us all.

As the teams appeared, the right-hand side of The Shed got going with their flag-waving, and a lovely gold on blue “Champions Of The World” banner was draped majestically over the balcony, just above Parkyville.

What with the gold of that, plus the gold of the other CWC signs, how nice of Crystal Palace to complement all of this with a gold kit that seemed to perfectly match the pantone reference of the gold banners above The Shed.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Acheampong – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Pedro Neto – Palmer – Gittens

Joao Pedro

As for the visitors, there were a few familiar names in their team, with Marc Guehi, Eberechi Eze and Jean-Philippe Mateta possibly the targets for other teams. I’ve no cross to bear with Palace to be honest, Peter Taylor 1976 aside. I was happy that they beat Manchester City in last season’s FA Cup Final. They have never really been rivals or even quasi rivals in the way that Fulham and QPR see themselves.

The Stripey Nigels, bless ‘em.

At 2pm, the game began.

We attacked The Shed, they attacked the Matthew Harding.

We began brightly enough with new boy Joao Pedro looking lively and the initial action was towards The Shed. Very soon into the game, a near post header by Marc Cucurella from a corner was goal bound but was headed away by a Palace defender.

We then drifted a little and the away team slowly got it together. We were treated to a smart Robert Sanchez save, a grab at the near post.

On twelve minutes, a free kick was awarded to Palace centrally in the “D”, and I noted what seemed to be a clear gap in the centre of the wall. I guessed that this was the strategy for such kicks, leaving the ’keeper with clear vision in the middle of the goal.

I raised my pub camera to my eyes – the SLR is resting at home for now until I can smuggle it in undercover – and took a shot of Eze slamming the ball straight and hard and true, and seemingly right over the head of goalkeeper Sanchez.

Oh bollocks.

Well so much for the wall.

They celebrated away, all gold kits shining in the sun, and we all groaned.

Then, God knows why, VAR was called into action, and I foolishly presumed that it was for the initial foul, which even I thought was rather far-fetched. Nobody in the stadium really had a clue why the goal was then cancelled, but there was eventually a reason given; something along the lines of “wearing a loud shirt in a built-up area” or some such nonsense.

Anyway, I didn’t join in with the cheering, why would I?

On eighteen minutes we were treated to another Sanchez save.

In the stands, everything was quiet.

It took me a full twenty-five minutes for me to utter my first song or chant and the 1985 me would have been very dismayed indeed.

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

On the half-hour, an effort from seemingly right under the bar ended up right over the bar, by whom I forget.

There was some ‘eighties side chatter between Clive and myself about Keith Jones and Mike Fillery, and it seems ridiculous to say that I can still remember how both of those players moved around the pitch. Jones was a workaholic runner, whereas Fillery slowly glided past players.

For a moment, I was lost in time.

We loved how Josh Acheampong made two thunderous tackles, back-to-back, and as is usually the case here in England, if not in more refined parts of the football world, this resulted in a loud and guttural reaction, at last, from the home support.

To the tune of “Amazing Grace”, Stamford Bridge rallied.

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

There were half-chances from a smattering of players, but Dean Henderson was not really troubled in the Palace goal. With the loveliest piece of skill of the entire half, Cole Palmer took a ball down from the air with consummate ease, but his shot was blocked. From the rebound, Cucurella blazed over.

It was 0-0 at the break. It had been a disappointing first forty-five minutes of the new campaign.

“It’s hot out there, mind,” said PD.

“Bloody hell, you are mellowing, mate.”

Clive chuckled.

PD’s usual response to any sub-standard performance by any Chelsea player is to decorate the air with as many words detailing female genitalia as possible, so this was indeed a surprise.

“I think it’s the tablets” I whispered to Clive.

The second half began and play resumed.

On fifty-four minutes, a substitution. Debutant Jamie Gittens had not really impressed too much, and he was replaced by another new kid on the block, Estevao Willian. With almost his first involvement, there was a jinking run down the right from the kid from Palmeiras and a cross that was just slightly too high for Pedro Neto to reach. With the substitution, Neto had switched wings to allow Estevao his preferred right-wing berth.

We loved the way that Estevao tried his utmost to wrestle the ball away from a Palace player on that far side, showing real determination to win the ball.

“That’s street football for you right there” proclaimed Clive.

“You’re right, mate. Not exactly Mike Fillery, is it?”

There was a trio of chances initiated by the industry of Pedro Neto down below us. A corner was headed over by Joao Pedro. Then a cross that Palmer met, but the resultant shot was blocked. Then, Neto to Palmer and a lob towards Estevao. He delayed slightly and his touch took the ball away from him. His hurried shot went high and wide.

Three more substitutions.

74 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

79 minutes : Andrey Santos for Enzo.

79 minutes : Malo Gusto for Reece James.

Enzo had been quiet, and we hardly noticed him, a worry.

Chelsea dominated the second half, as they had done the first, but Palace are no fools and defended resolutely by reducing the space for us to use. They never stopped closing us down. On eighty minutes, a shot from Eze was thundered in from distance and Sanchez pushed it over.

Delap had a half-chance in the final minute after a strong and forceful run, and then two identikit corners from Estevao on the far side were slung in towards the near post. The first one almost snuck in; the second one was headed away easily. Late on, in injury time, Santos smashed a ball over the bar and that was that.

From our viewing position in the MHU, in the shade, and with a little air, we had no real idea of how hot it had been for the players. However, as I walked out into the mid-afternoon sun, I was shocked at how blisteringly hot it was. I felt for Pedro Neto, who had stayed on the pitch for ninety minutes, and had given his absolute all, and I was immediately in awe of his performance.

PD was right. It had been hot out there.

Was this the real reason for our rather sluggish performance during this season opener, or had the extension of the last campaign left the players tired and lethargic?

Maybe against West Ham United, away on the following Friday, we would find out further.