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 Our House

Posted on May 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 16 May 2025.

With twenty-five minutes to kick-off, I posted this on “Facebook”.

Tonight is all about Albert who sat in this seat in front of me since 1997. Last week, Albert sadly passed away.

He was a lovely man and will be so sadly missed by all who knew him.

Rest In Peace.

The news about Albert’s passing had hit me hard, and during another early shift at work in Melksham, Wiltshire, I was quiet and subdued. I was preparing myself for a tough day ahead.

I had been awake since 4.50am when the alarm rang before a 6am to 2pm shift at work. My usual travel companions PD and Parky had travelled up earlier by train to get stuck into some drinking at “The Eight Bells” in the early afternoon. I had a decent drive up to London and only stopped for a Cornish Pasty at Reading Services. I was parked up just after 5pm and I then walked to West Brompton tube to catch the District Line down to Putney Bridge tube.

I had caught a glimpse of the promotional video of the new 2025/26 Chelsea kit and immediately suspected that the “Carefree Café” in the film was in fact “The River Café” opposite the tube station. It was closed as I crossed the road so could not peer inside to check the décor, nor talk to the owners, but I was pretty sure. This café, a lovely old-fashioned one, has been featured in a few media pieces over the years and so this added to my assumption that this was indeed where Cole Palmer had asked for his usual sandwich in the promo video.

I eventually squeezed through the door and into the familiar pub at about 5.40pm. The usual crowd were assembled. Everyone seemed well-lubricated. We briefly touched on the loss at Newcastle, but more focus was on the evening’s match with the decidedly poor Manchester United, the season finale in Nottingham, and of course another UEFA Final in Wroclaw.

This hasn’t been an overly exciting nor engaging season, has it? Yet here we all were with three games to go and talk of European football – via whatever means – next season, and it seems that this is nearly always the case.

Since 1997/98, we have only experienced two seasons without European adventures.

2016/17 and 2023/24.

We have been very lucky buggers.

Back in 1984/85, as the supporters assembled at Stamford Bridge on the evening of Tuesday 14 May, there were thoughts and dreams about Chelsea participating in European football for the first time since 1971, some fourteen years previous. With an up-turn in our fortunes in the closing games of that league season, a win against already-relegated Norwich City would probably ensure that Chelsea would finish in fifth place in the First Division and thus qualify for the following season’s UEFA Cup.

It had been an odd season for our opponents that year. They had won the Milk Cup Final yet were relegated alongside Sunderland and Stoke City.

On a terribly wet night at Stamford Bridge – I was listening to updates on my radio in my student flat in Stoke – we were tied 1-1 at the break via a goal from Mickey Thomas, but in the second-half Asa Hartford grabbed a surprising winner, to add to their first goal scored by Steve Bruce.

Chelsea 1 Norwich City 2.

It dropped us down to sixth place.

The gate was just 22,882.

My memory is that we would therefore need Liverpool, who had finished thirteen points adrift of Champions Everton, to beat Juventus in the up-coming European Cup Final on 29 May to take a second European Cup place and to allow us to slip into the 1985/86 UEFA Cup.

From 14 May 1985 to 16 May 2025, a gap of forty years and two days, European football was dominating our collective thoughts.

I wanted to be inside the ground early, to come to the terms with Albert’s absence, and I solemnly made my way in. There was one final “pat down” and my SLR had made it in once again. I made my way up the stairs to The Sleepy Hollow.

I gave Alan a hug.

We believe that Albert passed away in the days between the Liverpool and Djurgarden home games. Albert and his brother Paul were not in their seats for the latter game; they were used by others. I concluded, then, that Albert’s last Chelsea goal was that penalty from Cole Palmer against Liverpool when the scorer changed tack in the goalmouth and headed over to celebrate down below us.

I am sure that Albert loved those celebrations.

As kick-off against Manchester United approached, overhead there were no clouds. It was a pure, perfect evening in SW6. What a bittersweet feeling.

Albert often appeared late at games, clambering over the seats to reach his place in front of me.

Always there would be a shake of our hands –

“Alright, mate? / alright, Albert? / alright, son?”

Oddly, I seemed to think that against Liverpool I clasped his hand with both of my hands, in the way that blokes sometimes do…

Down below us, the Dug-Out Club muppets were grouped behind the rope cordon to watch the players up close during their pre-match routines.

I’d want to be bloody playing for £12,000 a pop.

There was a photo of some very good friends that I have accumulated over the years.

Clive 2003.

Alan 1984.

PD 1984.

Ed 1995.

Daryl 1991.

Rob 2010.

My team.

I had no doubts that despite United’s very lowly position in the league, their supporters in the far corner, the red corner, would be making some noise all night. I had recently read a comment from a Brentford supporter who had praised the wall of noise provided by the away fans at the recent away game in West London. Manchester United have constantly been one of the noisiest sets of supporters at Chelsea for years now.

The clock-ticked away.

I sadly passed on the news about Albert to the two chaps who sat to his left. They had not heard. Eyes were moist.

The teams were announced.

Sanchez

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

George

So, Reece James back at right-back, and the youngster Tyrique George asked to lead the line.

Oh, Mason Mount was in the vaunted number seven shirt for United.

The twerp.

Before the game, the We Are The Shed gang had plastered bar scarves over the back of a thousand seats in The Shed, but as the teams entered the pitch, although the many Shed flags were waved, not many fans joined in by waving the scarves.

I am not too surprised.

Despite the probable protestations of our tourist section, we have never really been a scarf-waving crowd, not in the same way that – say – Liverpool and Arsenal are.

At 8.15pm, the game kicked-off.

With Mount’s first touch, a barrage of boos. Not from me, but there you go.

This wasn’t “Durie, 1991” levels of desertion…

The first chance of the game was perhaps unsurprisingly created by Cole Palmer, up against his boy-hood team, who steered a cross for Noni Madueke at the far post. The ball was bounced high and he found it hard to get his attempt on target. His shot was high, and my shot of his shot was too blurred to share. Let’s move on.

On eight minutes, a rather agricultural tackle by Enzo Fernandez on Bruno Fernandes went unpunished by the referee Chris Kavanagh, and I licked my lips at the thought of a no-holds-barred game of old-fashioned football. One can hope, right? In fact, I thought that the referee let quite a few rugged tackles from both sides go in the first part of the game.

United then enjoyed a decent spell and on fifteen minutes, Harry Maguire volleyed a cross from Fernandes in and reeled away as the United support roared. It was, thankfully, ruled out via VAR.

No celebrations from Alan nor me, though.

“Nah.”

We continued to be rather sloppy both in and out of possession. Patrick Dorgu, down below us, created a chance for Mount, but his effort was wide, and how we laughed.

Thankfully, these two chances having passed, United then defended deeper, and they lost their interest in attacking us. It was odd how the game tilted back in our favour. Perhaps the visitors were more concerned with a UEFA final of their own. They just seemed to drift away.

Chelsea, with Moises Caicedo in top form, slowly took control, though goal-scoring chances were rare.

On twenty-four minutes, a cross came out to Our Reece, who slammed a delightful shot goalwards – I was right behind its flight-path – but sadly struck the far post.

“Beautiful effort, that.”

James had been a little patchy, like many, in that opening period, but from that moment he seemed to improve.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency but were not really playing brilliantly. While others in my company were rudely chastising our players, I was a little more pragmatic. It’s not always about the quality at this stage of the season, but it’s all about the points.

My attention was caught by the LED adverts sliding their way around the perimeter of the pitch, backing up the 2025/26 kit launch.

“London. It’s Our House.”

Good ol’Suggs in the video, as the cab driver, and that classic song from 1982.

“Our house, it has a crowd. There’s always something happening and it’s usually quite loud.”

I wish. On this particular night, we were quiet. Compared to other seasons, United were relatively quiet too, but they were singing the whole time, unlike us.

The game continued on, but with not much quality on show.

A deflected shot from Palmer, a blocked shot from Enzo, another shot from Enzo, but offside anyway.

It seemed that neither team had the will to finish the other off.

Enzo was surprisingly poor.

At the break, I shared the opinion that if there was another St. James’ Park style improvement in the second-half, we would win.

At the break, Alan offered me a “Wispa” which I quickly devoured. After, I spotted that I had let the wrapper slip beneath my seat.

“That was careless.”

Alan groaned.

At the break, “Our House” was played in the stadium.

“Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, in the middle of our street,

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, in the middle of our street.”

It was now around 9.15pm, and the second-half began.

Annoyingly, United began on the front foot. On fifty-one minutes, Mount screwed a good chance wide. Amad Diallo, who had almost impressed me, set up Fernandes but his shot sped past the far post.

Not long after, down below us, Tyrique George – not really in the game, bless him – ran after a ball, and Andre Onana ran to cover. The result was a penalty, but then not a penalty, and I yawned my way through the whole sorry tale.

The game continued, but with only hints at quality.

I turned to Alan and mentioned that Sanchez had not really had too much to do, and Alan gave me a withering look.

On sixty-nine minutes, off went Mount and Casemiro, whose face always looks like it has been injected with something catastrophic.

Two minutes later, at the end of a massive spell of possession, as the ball reached Pedro Neto – who had been increasingly involved during this half – I picked my trusty SLR up and focussed on the winger. He danced one way and then the other and I snapped. Next, the ball was played inside to Our Reece. I had my camera focussed on him, and was aware that he had lost the substitute Alejandro Garnacho was an exquisite “see you later” spin, but then snapped as he released a cross that would drop into the danger zone in the six-yard box, or just outside it. As the ball hung in the air, I readjusted and snapped as the leap of the continually impressive Marc Cucurella flashed before me. I was able to witness the beautiful moment as the ball rippled the net, Onana somehow beaten.

Stamford Bridge reacted with a guttural roar, and so did I.

I then tried to flip immediately back to that of ice-cold photographer and snapped away as the scorer raced away over towards the far corner, the noise booming.

I quickly took a photo with my phone of the Cucurella header from my SLR – typically blurred – and shared it on “Facebook.”

For Albert.

Right after, probably as I was fiddling with camera and ‘phone, Madueke was released by Palmer and found himself one-on-one with Onana. He slammed it past the near post. Had that one gone in I am in no doubt that Stamford Bridge would have been launched into the atmosphere and would have landed in another time / space portal.

There is nothing like the adrenalin rush of two goals scored in quick succession.

Chances were exchanged as the game, at last, came to life, with Neto forcing a fine save from Onana, while Sanchez saved from Amad.

Some late substitutions were made by Enzo Maresca.

Romeo Lavia for George.

Palmer moved forward.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

Gusto went sprawling, pictured, but no penalty.

We held on.

A poor game, mainly, but one that was lit up by that magnificent winner. Our opposition was the worst Manchester United team that I have ever seen live.

In the pub it felt odd to be saying “see you next season” to those I would not be seeing in neither Nottingham nor Wroclaw, and as I walked back towards my car off Rylston Road, the sign at Fulham Broadway saying “Have A Safe Journey Home” seemed ridiculously final.

However, this had, indeed, been our final home game of the season, but where has the time gone?

Regardless, our home record in the Premier League this season has been remarkably good.

P 19

W 12

D 5

L 2

The two losses were against Manchester City and Fulham. Maybe our house is regaining its status of a decade or so ago.

“Our house, was our castle and our keep.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, that was where we used to sleep.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house…”

After some typical delays underneath the M4, I didn’t get home until 2.15am and I eventually get to sleep at 3am. I had been awake for twenty-two hours and ten minutes, but it was all worth it for that spin, that cross, that header.

I will see you in Nottingham and I will see you in Wroclaw.

Let’s go to Europe.

Tales From A Weekend Away

Posted on May 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025.

“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”

With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.

And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.

It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.

I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.

At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.

Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.

We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.

There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.

We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.

Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.

We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.

Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.

So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.

Ah, 1985.

The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.

I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.

For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.

I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.

I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.

I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.

I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.

Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.

A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.

I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.

Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.

After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.

The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.

In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.

Euphoria.

Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.

“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”

We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.

Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.

However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.

This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.

Let’s get back to 2025.

The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.

A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.

At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.

Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.

I eventually crawled in at around 2am.

I think.

On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.

“It’s ten thirty mate.”

“Fackinell.”

My immediate thoughts?

“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”

“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”

“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”

“Never again.”

We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.

The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.

There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.

“The trophy room” I replied.

“But there is no Tier Eight.”

“Exactly, I replied.”

*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.

I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.

I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.

Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.

I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.

I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.

With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.

Before I knew it, the game had began below me.

Quick, the team.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.

I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.

There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.

Fuck it.

The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.

“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”

I felt crushed so soon into the game.

And I thought of Albert.

To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.

We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.

Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.

This was horrible.

And I thought of Albert.

On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.

Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.

Sigh.

We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.

This was a really odd game.

I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.

I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.

I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.

“Sorry mate.”

He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.

Bless him.

At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.

And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.

Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.

On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.

“It’s all us now.”

The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.

“It’s Salomon!”

A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.

On seventy-five minutes, two changes.

Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia

Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah

God know who was playing where.

The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :

“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”

Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.

The home fans roared again :

“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”

On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.

FACKINELL.

That was our chance.

There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.

Bollocks.

At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.

So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.

I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.

Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.

STOKE ON TRENT : 11 MAY 1985