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Tales From Wrexham

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Wrexham vs. Chelsea : 7 March 2026.

The Football Gods had shone on us once more. After FA Cup away trips to Charlton Athletic and Hull City, we were blessed with another rare venue; a trip to North Wales to see us play Wrexham.

To be honest, there are so many different strands to this cup tie, it’s difficult to know where to begin.

How about a little bit of history?

Well, there isn’t a great deal. The two teams first met in the old Second Division in August 1979 and would do so again at that level for three seasons. This period represented the high-water mark in Wrexham’s footballing path at the time, and it hasn’t been matched until now. I saw Wrexham once in that period.

I visited Stamford Bridge for our game with them on Saturday10 October 1981. This was a memorable day for me as it was the first time that I travelled up to London by myself, by train from Westbury station, aged sixteen. It’s likely that PD – who would be travelling with Parky alongside me forty-five years later – was on the same Paddington-bound train that morning. I was in the Lower Sixth at the time, drifting along, with my love for Chelsea far outweighing my love for academic study. I had newly subscribed to the home match programme that season and every Monday morning I would be so excited to receive the latest edition. Chelsea won 2-0 on that autumn afternoon, with goals from Colin Lee and Mike Fillery in front of 14,710. It would be the last time I’d see Petar Borota in goal.

Later that same season, the teams met in three FA Cup games in early 1982. On 23 January, a crowd of 17,226 saw a 0-0 draw at Stamford Bridge. This necessitated a replay at Wrexham three days later. On this occasion, 8,655 witnessed a 1-1 draw with a goal from the much-maligned Alan Mayes. In those days, we had second replays and this took place five days later on 31 January. We triumphed 2-1 on this occasion, in front of a gate of 10,647. The goals came from Mayes, again, and Micky Droy. Incidentally, we met Hull City in the previous round that year, just as we did last month.

We went on to beat European Champions Liverpool in the fifth round at Stamford Bridge before losing to Tottenham at home in the quarters. The two gates for those games of 41,412 and 42,557 were huge at the time. Our average gate in the league that season was just 13,132.

Between those two games, we lost a run-of-the-mill league game 0-1 at the Racecourse Ground on 27 February 1982. By then, I think both sets of supporters were sick to the back teeth of seeing each other. Just 3,935 attended.

And that was our last game against Wrexham until those two recent hideous friendlies against them in the US. In 2023, we beat them 5-0 in North Carolina, and a year later we drew 2-2 in California. At the time, it felt that we were bit-part players to a reality TV show and those two games didn’t sit right with me. I remember watching the first few minutes of the first match on TV and I have never seen a more tepid atmosphere at a football match. Why the hell were we playing Wrexham? They were hardly at our level.

Oh yeah, I know why.

By then, of course, Wrexham was a global football phenomenon after the take-over by Messrs. Reynolds and McElhenney. Their rise through the football pyramid has been one of the “feel good” stories in recent years and although it is tempting to be churlish and mock this amazing story, there is no doubt that the town seems to have been energised since the two North Americans strode into town.

I just find it a little odd that Americans loved the connection between the Wrexham team and its community; they seemed surprised and shocked, as if this sort of bond doesn’t happen in the US. This was my big take on all this. But then I wondered if high school football teams have the same bond with their communities? And, if so, maybe that is the only comparable example. Maybe in US pro-sports there is no sense of belonging. No sense of local pride. Or a shared brotherhood. I can’t imagine a sporting culture like that.

When I was in the US last summer, I lost count of the number of Americans that mentioned the word “Wrexham” to me, and it all got rather tiresome.

And all because of a TV programme.

Crazy, tedious and amazing all at once.

Chelsea was given 1,330 tickets for the game and I must praise Wrexham for not hiking the price of tickets to silly levels. My ticket cost just £27, no doubt a lot less than those two games in Chapel Hill and Santa Clara.

I set off from Frome at 9am and the day stretched out in front of me. The kick-off wasn’t until 5.45pm, but I fancied a nice long day following the love of my life. Neither Parky nor PD had visited Wrexham before, so this had all the makings of a cracking day out. It was a misty and foggy start to the day. We wolfed down a McDonalds breakfast at Melksham, then headed up on to the M4, onto the M5, before stopping at Frankley Services just south of Birmingham. There, we bumped into Chelsea stalwarts Allie and Nick. We touched the M6 for a few miles and then veered off onto the M54. PD and I drove this way to a League Cup game at Shrewsbury in 2014. It is not used very often on my travels around the country following the team.

The traffic lessened as I headed north, and the countryside grew flat. Just over the Welsh border, we stopped at Bangor-on-Dee, just a few miles south of Wrexham. It was 1.30pm. This little village, with a quaint cobbled bridge over the River Dee had one pub, “The Buck”, and we stayed there for forty-five minutes. The Mansfield Town vs. Arsenal cup game from Field Mill was on TV and seemed to be entertaining the locals – somehow. Maybe they had been fans of “Robot Wars”. It seemed Arsenal were struggling a little but edged it 2-1.

A few summers ago, drinking with my mate Chris in Washington, County Durham – a lovely summer sesh at a sports bar – I met up with his mate John, a Wrexham fan. We spoke about the Wrexham and Chelsea connections; Eddie Niedzwiecki, Mickey Thomas, Joey Jones, John Neal. We got on like a house on fire; we stayed in touch. Over the past few weeks, John was able to tip me off with a few nuggets of local information for my day in Wrexham, and he had advised a pub to aim for, just across the road from the Racecourse Ground.

The Racecourse Ground. It first came into my consciousness one day in May 1980. I was playing cricket for my school team in Shaftesbury, Dorset, and was aware that England were playing Wales at Wrexham in the home internationals. Wales defeated England 4-1 that day; a real shock, back in the days when I cared about the national team. There was a memorable Mark Hughes volley at the Kop End against Spain in 1985, and a Mickey Thomas screamer for Wrexham against Arsenal in the FA Cup in 1992.

I had mentioned to John and Chris that while travelling up to Glasgow from Stoke to see Rangers in March 1987, three Wrexham nutters got on the train at Crewe, and they were on their way to support Celtic in a game at Hamilton. To be honest, they were proper psychos and were part of Wrexham’s Frontline firm at the time. I mentioned that the main lad, who I was sat opposite, had ginger hair.

Chris and John said at the same time “that was Neil.”

It must be a close-knit community in Wrexham. I figured that Neil was the leader. One of the three went with Chelsea a fair bit. A lad from Cardiff was on our table, on his way to Ibrox too. The conversations between them were quite an eye-opener. It seemed that they were totally and unequivocally devoted to football violence. John and Chris had mentioned that Neil had quite recently passed away.

Later that night in Washington, we were joined by John’s mate from Wrexham, Scoot, who is the lead singer in the Declan Swans, a local band that has featured in the Wrexham TV series. Having never seen the series, I was oblivious, but after meeting Scoot, I found myself playing their signature song “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” non-stop for a few days. What a catchy song.

We moved on and I headed into Wrexham. It’s a city of around 45,000 people, and I am a little annoyed that I didn’t really get to see too much of it. I dropped the lads off at “Maesgwyn Hall”, then parked up at the nearby university. My car was only around seventy yards from the away turnstiles; “tidy” as they say somewhere.

I fell in love with the angled European-style floodlight pylons as I navigated my way around three sides of the cramped stadium. The old Kop is no more; a void sits in its place, waiting for a new 7,500 structure that will bring the capacity up to around 18,000. I suspect that the local supporters would be happy to host games hosting such a number. It seems about right for a city of Wrexham’s size. Should the owners over-egg it, and aim for a higher capacity, one wonders if the indigenous support would be able to support it. A reliance on a global – OK, US – support should not be taken for granted. There’s a difference between supporters’ buses coming in from Llandudno and Rhyl and planes arriving from Los Angeles and Philadelphia.

Out on the Mold Road, the new Macron Stand isn’t particularly appetising; it’s cladding resembles that of a trading estate warehouse. However, tucked in a corner is the famous “Turf” pub – where the club was formed in 1864 and because of its many appearances in the TV series – which now boasts a lovely mural of the late Joey Jones on one of its walls. There is the famous clenched fist, so beloved by the Chelsea faithful when Joey played for us between 1982 and 1985.

I, like many others I think, was not too happy when Joey joined us in 1982, amid a terrible season, for just £34,000. He seemed well past his best – he was a European Champion with Liverpool, remember – when we picked him up from lowly Wrexham, with whom he played before his big move to Merseyside. I was even less impressed with him when he was sent off on his debut at Carlisle. However, over the next two-and-a-half years his passion and commitment to our cause, under former Wrexham manager John Neal, allowed him to become a Chelsea legend.

As I began taking some photos of Joey, who should appear but Allie and Nick. I took a photo of then in front of Joey. They took one of me.

Mission accomplished.

I was calling this game “The Joey Jones Derby” and I had my photo with him.

I was happy.

I made my way over to the pub at 3pm and we stayed the best part of two hours. It was full of friendly locals, many wearing Wrexham favours. I sat with PD and Parky and – a rare treat – I decided to reward myself with two pints of cider. Our friends Youth and his son Seb sat with us. There was a rugby union game on the TV, but I avoided it.

Tommie from Porthmadog dropped in for a short stay, buzzing that a Chelsea game – for once – only took him an hour and forty minutes to get to. I first met Tommie in Bratislava in 1997, and he is a good friend. Tommie and Chris are brothers. Tommie mentioned that Scoot had ‘phoned him earlier in the day and had teased him about “not singing about sheep-shagging”.

We had a great pre-match.

The team news came through. We weren’t happy. For some bizarre reason, Liam Rosenior had chosen us to line up in a 3/4/3 formation.

Robert Sanchez

Mamadou Sarr – Tosin Adarabioyo – Benoit Badiashile

Josh Acheampong – Andrey Santos – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Alejandro Garnacho

Just before I left, I shook hands with the two Wrexham fans next to me and said, “good luck in the next round.”

 I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not. We all smiled.

This honestly felt like a huge banana skin had been placed under our football boots.

Unlike at Villa, there was no bag search and my SLR was in. The stand at Wrexham was cramped, and I struggled to edge my way along to my seat.

It was 5pm.

So far, a perfect matchday…now, it was up to the lads.

Gulp.

The consensus among a selection of some very familiar faces next to me in the stand was that the new formation, and mass-changes, was a negative. My annoyance was Rosenior’s changing of the goalkeeper and centre-backs. They had played well at Villa a few days before. Change other personnel, but keep those three in place, to attempt to try to get some sort of continuity. Jorgensen, Fofana and Chalobah made way for Sanchez, Badiashile and Tosin.

The Chelsea section creaked with the closeness of 1,330 supporters. There were familiar faces everywhere.

Before the entrance of the teams from the off-centre tunnel down below, a mosaic on the far side was displayed, but the words were not clear. I only later realised that the cards spelled out “OH JOEY JOEY”.

So, the Joey Jones Derby was recognised by the home team; super. I had hoped for Mickey Thomas to appear on the pitch, at half-time maybe, but he never did. A shame.

Soon into the match, a chant from the locals in the Tec End to my right, a nice bit of banter.

“National League Champions, You’ll Never Sing That.

Off the pitch, there was a frenzied atmosphere, with the home fans bubbling over with enthusiasm. You felt their passion from the off. This felt like a classic Cup Tie already. There was an edginess to our play in the first quarter of an hour and we didn’t seem comfortable.

Being so close to the goal, I kept thinking back to that screamer from Mickey Thomas in 1992. It was lovely to be visiting a famous stadium for the first time after seeing it so often on TV through the years.

On twenty minutes, a catastrophe. A long ball out of the Wrexham defence from Callum Doyle was perfectly weighted for Sam Smith to chase. The twin centre-backs had been caught out and scurried back in desperation. There was no surprise when I saw the shot from Smith – through my camera lens – evade Sanchez and end up in the goal.

The home support erupted. To my right, bodies jerked and spasmed in all directions at once, and the home stands roared.

“Here we go” I thought.

A VAR check – new to this lot – did not stop the goal.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea 0.

Llffackwynll.

After the commotion had died down, out came a chant from the Tec End.

“1-0 to the Sheep Shaggers.”

And another one, heavy on self-deprecation.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

I had a little chuckle.

What of our play? We couldn’t get going and our passing was slow and lacked invention. I found Pedro Neto particularly frustrating; forever carrying the ball, but to nowhere in particular. It was if his Sat Nav was broken.

Leigh was stood behind me, and he had seen the manager and the team up close in a Chester hotel the previous night. He had mentioned that Rosenior looked unduly worried and nervous ahead of this match.

Perhaps he was right to be.

Wrexham were playing to their strengths; tight marking, tough tackling, direct when needed. Joey Jones would have approved.

Our chances were rare. There was only one half-chance involving Neto and Garnacho.

At the other end, the gaping void where The Kop once stood, there were a couple of Wrexham chances. On the half-hour, Smith slipped at the last minute, thank the Lord. Just after, a fine reflex push-away from Sanchez at the near post.

Phew.

Wrexham had undoubtedly produced the better football thus far, but we were slowly getting into the game in the closing section of the half. On forty minutes the ball was punched forward to Liam Delap by Andrey Santos. Thus far he had received service but had been woeful with what he had been given. On this occasion, he was fantastic, beating off a challenge and turning, running into space. He passed to Alejandro Garnacho who raced on and shot at goal. I captured his shot through my camera lens, but how the ball ended up in the net was a matter of confusion. Just after he reeled away – minimal celebration, good to see – there was an announcement that there had been an own goal from Arthur Okonkwo in the Wrexham goal.

So be it.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea.

There was great relief at the break. This game was, of course, being shown on free-to-view national TV on BBC1, and the viewing millions were surely enjoying this classic Cup Tie. Well, I am sure they were enjoying it more than I was. We had been poor, but now we needed to push on.

Lo and behold, the second half began with two chances from the home team in front of us at the Tec End. A shot over the bar, a shot at Sanchez.

Then, at the other end, on fifty-three minutes, Delap set up Garnacho on the left, but he fired wide.

I almost missed it, but the Tec End sang the chorus from “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham.”

“Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-one’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.”

On fifty-eight minutes, Rosenior made a change; Marc Guiu for Sarr, and I tried to work out the jigsaw puzzle of players and positions but soon gave up as the match became even more intriguing.

Sanchez erred, clearing to a Wrexham player, but the ball was hoofed away.

On sixty-two minutes, Neto set up Hato and the latter slammed a ball just wide of a post.

Just after, two more changes.

Marc Cucurella for Lavia, still to play a whole game.

Dario Essugo for Hato.

There was a run and a shot from Neto that went just wide. But Wrexham were creating chances too. I turned to Leigh and Ben and grimly admitted that “all this pressure is going to pay off, isn’t it?”

In the very next passage of play, a corner was swung in, and cleared, but only as far as a Wrexham player outside the box. Josh Windass kept the ball low, and it was deflected in via a neat touch by Callum Doyle.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea1.

Bwyllocks.

Seventy-nine minutes were on the clock. This was dire.

However, just three minutes later, a loose ball in the Wrexham box was won by Santos and he played in a teammate. I caught a shot on film, and saw the ball slam into the net, though was unsure of the scorer.

Wild celebrations now.

What a Cup Tie.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 2.

The scorer was Young Josh.

BOSH.

Just after, Sanchez saved well from George Thomason, and a header then flew wide from Windass.

Phew.

Two more substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Acheampong.

Joao Pedro for Delap.

On eighty-six minutes, Neto slammed a shot against the crossbar.

Ugh.

The game edged into six minutes of additional time. Soon into that period, Garnacho was chopped down on the left wing. The yellow for George Dobson was changed by VAR to a red. The defender was sent marching.

The home support screeched about VAR, and of course they have a point.

Just after, an absolute blooter was hit right at Sanchez.

On ninety plus extra-time, it was level and so the game continued for another thirty minutes. Here was a modern-day equivalent of that 1982 three-game marathon.

In the first period of extra time, it was all us. In the sixth minute, Essugo played the ball out to Garnacho, in a not-too-dissimilar position to where he struck before, and he volleyed at goal. From my angle, it looked like the ball had hit the near post. Nobody reacted. But we then saw Garnacho running away, his arms held high. The referee was pointing at the centre-circle.

Goal? What?

I don’t think the Chelsea support has ever celebrated a go-ahead goal as quietly as that ever before.

Very strange.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 3.

Now in front, the Chelsea support changed the tune from urging the team on to a dig at our own US-based owners.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.”

Jesse Derry replaced Neto.

As the second period of fifteen minutes began, I turned to Leigh and Ben.

“Boring half coming up.”

Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I?

Five minutes in, a Wrexham free kick was sent narrowly over.

Eight minutes in, a block from Tosin stopped Kieffer Moor’s goal bound header. From the corner that followed, Moore flicked the ball on, and Lewis Brunt, loitering on the far post – surely offside, ref! – poked the ball in. While the locals, and large swathes of the US, celebrated, we waited for the correct decision.

VAR.

Offside.

Yep.

There was still five minutes of injury time to play; this tie simply did not want to end.

One minute into this, a curler from Lewis Brunt swept just past a post. The looks on our faces told of relief and disbelief in equal measure.

I must say that Joao Pedro looked fantastic in his short cameo appearance, full of beautiful hold-up play – he’s not exactly Mark Hughes, but he knows how to shield the ball – and gentle prods to others.

Thankfully, he was on hand in the last minute to sweep a ball in, again on film, and we howled our approval.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 4.

Our deficiencies were never far away, but we hauled ourselves over the line, and into the hat for the Quarter Finals.

It was hard work, but what a pulsating Cup tie.

It was an absolute classic.

We were back at my car within two minutes, and I began the long drive south.

Thanks Wrexham.

What a great day out.

Joey would have loved it.

It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham

He ordered a medium doner kebab.

Saving a tenner to pay for his cab.

Seems no harm in jumping the queue.

Showing the owner his latest tattoo.

Guy in his forties is rolling a joint.

Pleased his team has rescued a point.

A wicked deflection in time added on.

Can see in his eyes he was totally gone.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

King Street was calm on a Saturday night.

Apart from the usual worrying sight.

Of zombie-fied corpses parading the streets.

Arched over flower beds slumped across streets.

Mass the bus stop for Moss and Brynteg.

Zombie apocalypse modern day plague.

A stone’s throw away or a two second ride.

Wetherspoons locals are smoking outside.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

Tales From The Men In Black

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Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 4 March 2026.

Chelsea were amid a run of away games against Arsenal, Aston Villa, Wrexham and Paris St. Germain; this midweek fixture at Villa Park was being talked about within many Chelsea circles as a “must win” game, bearing in mind Villa’s place in the league – just ahead of us – but also because they were on a run of poor form.

This had been a simple enough flit up the M5 for me – via a curry at “The Vine” in West Bromwich – and I was parked-up on Bragg Road around fifteen minutes from the away turnstiles at 6.30pm. I fastened my coat and walked east. Kick-off was an hour away.

It was the usual scene at Villa Park; the police vans parked on the roundabout where Witton Road meets Aston Lane, the approach along Witton Lane, the bloke with the “God Is Love” placard, the red bricked buildings, the souvenir sellers, the floodlights in the distance. I did notice a new pre-match hospitality area as I got closer, a good use of those old existing buildings. Villa have plans to enlarge the existing North Stand, and they have plenty of space to enlarge the hospitality areas further.

I was sat in the second row alongside John; alas Alan and Gary could not make this one. Parky and PD were down in the lower tier.

The famous old stadium slowly filled, and we were soon treated to the usual pre-match rituals at Villa of “Hi-Ho Aston Villa”, flames, and fireworks, and dear old Ozzy belting out “Crazy Train.” Other clubs – yes, including ours – have gone for the “Flames & Fireworks” as a pre-curser to the match, but Villa have taken it to a different level. If you were to rate their pre-match claret and sky-blue pyrotechnic trickery, it would certainly be top of the pile. In fact, Villa are so desperate for silverware these days that we might soon find this in their honours section of their match programme.

Amid the sulphurous fumes, the teams made their way onto the pitch.

Liam Rosenior had chosen this team :

Filip Jorgensen

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Was Robert Sanchez injured or dropped?

We were dressed in our all-black kit, and I had immediate memories of us in that colour at this venue in other years, most memorably the Frank Lampard game in 2013 when he equalled and then surpassed Bobby Tambling’s 202 goals. I also, and oddly, remembered the black-shirted Alexandre Pato’s penalty kick in a 4-0 win in 2016.

The game began with us attacking the towering Holte End. I spent the first few moments trying to work out who was where on the right side of the field. Was Reece at right back, but able to push into midfield with Malo Gusto as a right-sided attacker – unlikely, I know – or was Gusto at right back, with Reece alongside Caicedo in midfield? The positioning of Enzo and Palmer seemed to confuse me more than help me. I think it was the initial position of Gusto, so high on that far side, that had baffled me. Within those first fleeting moments, we had won a corner but then got caught on a rapid break from the home team. I took a couple of photos of Leon Bailey teasing away down below us. He got the better of Hato and drove a low ball into the box, where Douglas Luiz delicately and deftly touched it past Jorgensen.

Only three minutes had passed, and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I was shell-shocked.

The home support was enlivened.

“Holte Enders in the skoy.”

Two minutes later, Garnacho on the left curled a great cross over for Joao Pedro to head down but Emilano Martinez saved well.

Soon after, at a Chelsea corner, we noticed how the Villa team left four players up, and of course it meant we had less numbers in attack. It was a new and novel approach to defending corners, though I seem to remember Jose Mourinho leaving three up in his first stint with us.

Palmer shot weakly at Martinez on a quarter of an hour, and up until now our support was getting increasingly frustrated with the slow approach play from the back. Chalobah must have touched the ball more than anyone else in this period.

“Get it forward!”

I heard that Arsenal were 1-0 up at Brighton and I told John “I hate football.”

On twenty-one minutes, another chance for Palmer inside the box after a great ball into him, but his finish was as weak as before. Then, two minutes later, and with Chelsea picking up the pace and finding some good angles and spaces, a lovely move set up Enzo, but his effort was hit tamely at Martinez. By now, Garnacho was getting more and more involved out wide and giving Matty Cash a real test.

The game was hotting up. We had, also, quietened their crowd, always a good sign.

Out on the far side of the pitch was Ian Maatsen, our former player, and I could not help noticing how short he seemed in comparison to the other players. I had only been commenting to Alan, I think, at a recent home game how we never see short players at football these days. It’s a mark of the modern game; how most players need to be tall and physically strong, and especially fast, in this era. Gone are the days when will o’ the wisp players…cheeky wingers, midfield dynamos…were everywhere…our own Pat Nevin, our own Mickey Thomas, our own Gianfranco Zola spring to mind. All these players – and Maatsen – were 5’6” and it’s an oddity that there seems to be a shortage – sorry! – of these players today.

Maybe I noticed Maatsen because I am 5’6” too.

We continued to be press forward.

Just after the half-hour I turned to John to say “it’s a much better game now.”

We had thrown off our shackles and were now having a real go at Villa. There was a shot from the energetic Garnacho, and the Chelsea choir were now getting behind the men in black. But Villa were still an occasional threat and Ollie Watlkins perhaps should have tested Jorgensen better when one-on-one.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful ball from Enzo was sent over the Villa defence to the onrushing Gusto. He spotted the run of Joao Pedro and I sensed a goal. I mouthed “here we go” at the exact moment that he arrived to slide the ball home.  

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

More Chelsea pressure, Garnacho revelling in the space out wide.

“Go on son, get past him.”

Cash was being run from arsehole to breakfast time.

In the third minute of added time, Hato – who was enjoying a very solid game – dribbled into the Villa box with ease but his shot was blocked.

Then, a rapid Villa break, and I kept an eye on the passage of play, trying to spot if an offside was about to happen. The ball was passed out to Ollie Watkins who struck the ball past Jorgensen. The Villa hordes roared again,

To me, it looked onside. Thankfully, VAR ruled otherwise. Phew.

Then, with five minutes of added time played, Chelsea were again knocking on the door, and Garnacho was involved once more. He found Enzo who wriggled into some space and lifted an exquisite ball into Joao Pedro. He nonchalantly guided the ball past Martinez.

Now it was our turn to roar again.

Then, to our horror, VAR was called in to rule on a potential offside.

Nah. The goal stood.

At the break, we were 2-1 to the good.

“Great recovery that, John.”

I just hoped that we could continue in the same fashion. Sometimes we just can’t seem to play two consecutive halves in the same way, can we?

Joe Cole, with former Chelsea fan Peter Crouch on TV duty, were spotted a few times and Joey walked over to pose for some photos with a few Chelsea supporters in the break.

Before the second period, more “Crazy Train” and another Chelsea huddle on the centre-circle that seemed to irritate the Villa players.

The second half began, and there were two early chances for Garnacho but he spurned them both.

On fifty-five minutes, we broke when Caicedo won a ball inside our half and we moved the ball quickly – no honest, we did, I was there – via Palmer and Joao Pedro and found Reece on the wing. His low cross was punched away by Martinez, but only as far as Palmer. The Palmer of old – er, two seasons ago – would have struck it home easily, whereas the little less confident Palmer of 2026 might struggle. I watched to see which version would prevail.

He struck the ball with venom. Its trajectory was unhindered. The back of the net rippled.

GET IN.

I watched Palmer cup his ear as if to say “what’s that you been saying about me?” and then saw his trademark celebration.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

We were 3-1 up.

Beautiful.

We continued to purr, and the Chelsea fans were energised and happy. This was just how I wanted us to play. With more freedom. With more pace. With more style.

Chelsea is all about style.

But this was still an open game – Mourinho would have hated it – and chances for Palmer and Garnacho were matched occasionally by Villa. Watkins was put through, one on one with Jorgensen but he dallied, enabling Chalobah to twist his body and dig out the ball, a fine piece of defending.

On sixty-three minutes, former blues Jadon Sancho and Ross Barkley were among the three substitutions made by Villa.

A minute later, Caicedo – from deep – swept the ball out to Gusto, who touched it to Palmer. His trusted left peg floated the ball out to Garnacho. I photographed his surging run, deep into the box, and watched as he very unselfishly played the ball square to Joao Pedro who guided the ball in, his hat-trick.

The goal immediately reminded me of that Lampard goal from 2013.

The scorer raced over to the Chelsea section, and I was lucky enough to capture his beatific smiles.

4-1.

Fackinell.

Not long after, there was an audacious bicycle kick from Joao Pedro.

On seventy-two minutes, Tammy Abraham came on and so Villa now had four ex-Chelsea players in their eleven.

In the last fifteen minutes, Rosenior rang the changes.

75 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Gusto.

79 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo.

79 minutes : Tosin Adarabioyo for Fofana,

85 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

85 minutes : Andrey Santos for Palmer.

John and I had a little laugh about Lavia and his unfortunate habit of getting injured. I envisaged a scenario where he is chosen to start a game and lasts the entire match. He comes into the Chelsea dressing room at the end of the game and sits on the bench alongside his teammates.

Liam Rosenior sees him and asks “what the fuck are you doing here?”

With the game won, and the number of changes, it was no surprise that the game drifted towards the end. It was nice to see the former Chelsea players again, and Barkley had a trademark shuffle through the middle and shot.

“I can actually see them scoring” I said to Gary, just as Barkley floated a ball in and Abraham leapt to head the ball on to the top of the bar.

In the stadium, the home fans were drifting away, and the Chelsea crowd aired the “fire drill” chant.

The game finished and the men in black had triumphed. This was a lovely surprise, a great Chelsea performance – admittedly against an increasingly disheartened Villa team – and a perfect response to the doom mongers after Arsenal. The plaudits must got to Joao Pedro and his sublime touch, and his ability to drift in and score, but Garnacho was a revelation, his best game for us by a country mile. A special mention for Hato, too; what a polished performance.

I was able to take a selection of photographs at the end as the Chelsea players celebrated down below. I loved the way Enzo was serenaded. He has many admirers at Chelsea. And I loved how we sang Tammy’s name as he walked, slightly, towards us. The photo of him with Trevoh is my favourite of the whole night.

And so that was that. A great away win in a “must-win” game, and a nice fillip before trips to Wales and France.

Oh, there were three extra bits of drama that I won’t bore you with that took place during the afternoon and evening involving Parky’s ‘phone, my SLR camera and my wallet.

“I still can’t download the ticket. I reckon I’m knackered.”

“You can’t bring that camera in. There’s a “drop-off” place just over there.”

“The team are doing a sweep of the stadium; it’s going to be an hour mate. Will you wait here to see if we can find it?”

Thankfully, everything worked out.

Next up, a first-ever trip for me to Wrexham.

Stay tuned.

Tales From Managers, Old And New

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 14 January 2026.

As we prepared for Liam Rosenior’s first home game as manager of Chelsea Football Club, I was reminded of another League Cup semi-final against Arsenal almost twenty-eight years ago.

This one took place at Stamford Bridge too. And it was also the first home game for another new manager, Gianluca Vialli.

After a 0-2 loss in the league at Highbury on 8 February 1998, chairman Ken Bates dispensed with manager Ruud Gullit – despite the Dutchman securing our first silverware in twenty-six years the preceding May – and installed the Vialli as player-manager on 12 February. As fate would have it, Vialli’s first game in charge of his old teammates was against Arsenal on 18 February in a League Cup second leg after we lost the first game at Highbury 1-2.

Before the game, in the dressing room, Vialli arranged for the players to toast each other with glasses of champagne, and on a very memorable night goals from Mark Hughes, Roberto di Matteo and Dan Petrescu gave us a wild 3-1 win and a 4-3 triumph on aggregate. It was a bloody fantastic night.

I was confident that there would be no champagne in 2026; isotonic sports drinks were more likely.

We met Arsenal in the 2017/18 semi-finals too; a dull 0-0 at Chelsea was followed by a meek 1-2 loss at Arsenal.

What would happen in 2026? I, for one, was not too confident.

This was a standard midweek trip to Stamford Bridge for me. After I dropped my two fellow travellers off at “The Eight Bells”, I visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. The waitress asked me if I had any allergies, and I wondered if I should have replied :

“Yeah, I fucking hate Tottenham.”

A bowl of French onion soup and a peperoni pizza later, I was on my way to West Brompton and then Putney Bridge.

During the day, I had messaged my friend Mark – a Chelsea supporter from nearby Westbury who I first met on the day we beat Leeds United 5-0 back in 1984 – and who is now the chairman of Westbury United. While Chelsea would be playing Arsenal, the re-arranged Frome Town vs. Westbury United game would be taking place over one-hundred miles to the west. I wished him “all the best for tonight” but was surprised to hear that he would be at Stamford Bridge instead.

As I walked into the pub, Mark was with Parky and PD, who he has known since around 1979, and I sat myself down for a good old chat about Chelsea and the non-league scene on the Somerset and Wiltshire border. It is an odd quirk that I am good friends with both clubs’ chairmen; even more that they are both Chelsea.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.20pm, and I was suffering with a recently acquired sore throat. There would be no singing at all for me on this night in SW6.

We had heard that Arsenal had the whole Shed End, but I soon spotted that there was a “no-go” area towards the left-hand side of the stand. This immediately confused me. I then presumed that Arsenal had not been given the rumoured 6,000, more like 4,500, and that Chelsea fans – 1,500 of us – were sat in the area usual reserved for away fans. It seemed odd and looked even odder.

We have had some strange sights over the years at Stamford Bridge since the renovations began in 1993. We have had away fans positioned in the East Upper. We have had away fans in the East Lower. We have had away fans in the uncovered West Stand. We have even had away fans in the Matthew Harding Lower. And of course, away fans in the Shed End. But this was the first time I could ever remember Chelsea fans in the away section of The Shed.

As I waited for the game to begin, I spotted a few visitors from The Shed who were unable to take up their usual seats due to the Arsenal invasion and were now sat in the Matthew Harding Upper. I spotted Long Tall Pete, then Cliff, then Martin from Glocester. Again, it was odd seeing unfamiliar faces in this section. Parky and Salisbury Steve, two other Shedenders, were in the tier below.

The team that Rosenior had picked surprised us.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Neto

Guiu

Several big names were out; we presumed injured.

On the Monday, we had sadly learned that former player and manager Eddie McCreadie had passed away at the age of eighty-five. Eddie stopped playing for Chelsea just before I began going to games, but he was a key member of the 1970 and 1971 cup winning teams in Manchester and Athens. I remembered him more as an intelligent manager, galvanising a team of mainly youngsters to gain promotion in 1977 after the desolation of relegation in 1975. That he failed to agree on a deal at Stamford Bridge in the summer of 1977 is always seen as a massive failure by the club at the time. In an era when Chelsea did not sign a single new player in 1975, 1976 and 1977 – are you listening, Clearlake? – the eventual success of McCreadie’s youngsters were testament to his prowess in nurturing young talent.

I always remember hearing the story of how he went on a mazy eighty-yard dribble in the home leg of the League Cup Final in 1965 and scoring past Gordon Banks in the Leicester City goal. The game had been tied at 2-2 after Chelsea went 1-0 up, then 2-1 up but the away team equalized on both occasions. This wondergoal from McCreadie won the game, and ultimately the tie, since the return leg finished 0-0.

But he will always be remembered for 1970, above all.

I absolutely think that the 1970 FA Cup winners are still regarded as the most-loved of all our teams, despite the glories of the past twenty-five years.

  1. Peter Bonetti
  2. Ron Harris
  3. Eddie McCreadie
  4. John Hollins
  5. John Dempsey
  6. David Webb
  7. Tommy Baldwin
  8. Charlie Cooke
  9. Peter Osgood
  10. Ian Hutchinson
  11. Peter Houseman

Sadly, just three of this cherished team remain with us; Ron Harris, David Webb, Charlie Cooke.

Before the game, there was a respectful moment of applause in memory of Eddie McCreadie.

REST IN PEACE

Kepa was booed as his name was announced and I shook my head. He was, after all, part of the team that saw us embarrass his current team 5-1 in Baku. I am sure others rolled their eyes when they heard that.

Soon into the game, we had already witnessed a long throw into the mixer from Declan Rice from down below us, and soon after I snapped as the same player dropped a corner into the six-yard box.

The action seemed to go into slow-motion. I saw Sanchez rise, I saw Sanchez flap at air, I saw the ball drop onto the head of Ben White, I saw the ball squeeze in past an Arsenal player on the line.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

Maybe there had been champagne pre-match, and Sanchez had drunk more than his share.

I slumped into my seat, with the back of my head nestling in the palms of my hands, crestfallen and silent. I don’t think I moved for the best part of a minute. The Arsenal players – I call them “the robots”, and they don’t deserve capital letters – swarmed together and very soon the Arsenal lot in The Shed began singing.

“Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again, set piece again.

Set piece again, ole ole.”

Was this tiresome chant a replacement of the equally shite “1-0 to the Arsenal”?

No, because that was soon aired too.

Bloody hell.

Ten minutes had passed, we were 1-0 down to the Woolwich Wanderers, they had scored via a set piece, and we had already been treated to pieces of kamikaze distribution from Sanchez.

“This could be a long night, this.”

However, Enzo rattled a powerful drive at Kepa, and we all hoped for more.

A strong run from Viktor Gyokeres into the box, trading paces with Trevoh Chalobah, allowed him to wriggle free and create space but his shot was deflected away for a corner. There was something in that old-fashioned contest that somehow warmed me; two players in a good-old duel, a real blast from the past.

I noticed that every seat in the house was occupied, and where there are usually empty seats in most areas, this night Stamford Bridge looked crammed. I have to say that the £60 ticket for this game shocked a lot of us; until recently the club has charged significantly less for League Cup games, even semis. We wondered how much the away ticket would cost. It was odd that the away game was not yet on sale; the first instance I could ever remember of this happening. On the way up, we wondered what the likelihood of purchasing a second-leg ticket would be if we were trailing 0-3 from this game.

The consensus was this :

“3-0 down. £60 a pop. Won’t get home until 2.30am. Let someone else have our tickets.”

Estevao looked lively as we tried to get back into the game. The best move of our match came on twenty-seven minutes as Enzo set up Joao Pedro but his low cross bobbled across the six-yard box but there was nobody close in to finish.

Leandro Trossard weaved his way into the box down below us, but his shot was blocked.

At the other end, Enzo played in Estevao who forced a fine save from Kepa at his near post.

Arsenal were plainly a well-oiled machine with players who knew how their system worked. Chelsea kept battling away, but without a great deal of penetration.

On thirty-nine minutes, William Saliba dropped a shot on the roof of Sanchez’ net.

Two bookings followed for Estevao and Cucurella, and the first half ended.

At half-time, no changes from Rosenior, and I was quietly expecting another half of decent possession but no final product. Marc Guiu had not had a sniff.

During the break, I was relieved to hear that Sam Heal had given Frome Town a 1-0 lead against Westbury. A healthy gate of 814 would soon be announced

The second half began, and after just four minutes, the action switched to the West Stand touchline. Pedro Neto lost the ball to Bukayo Saka, Cucurella fell and tried to recover, and raced back trying to track Saka, but the ball was played outside to the free man White, racing on the overlap, nobody tracking him. I know that Neto usually does this; not on this occasion. The ball was fired in low, and from over one hundred yards away, it was not clear to me how it had evaded Sanchez. Gyokeres had the simplest task.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 2.

The visitors began singing about Wembley.

Eight minutes into the second period, the new manager made two substitutions.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Acheampong, while Alejandro Garnacho replaced Guiu.

We approached the hour mark, and we seemed to be more direct, more cohesive.

On fifty-seven minutes, a poor Arsenal clearance failed to clear their half. It annoyed me that the bloke behind me was quick to berate Enzo, but as he spoke his words of disgust, Enzo chased down the ball from one player and then continued to fight for the ball, not once but twice. The ball broke to Joao Pedro who set up Neto on the right. The ball was crossed to the far post, where Garnacho waited. The ball bounced, he chested it down, then lashed it in from an angle. I was impressed with this finish.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 2.

Game on.

Garnacho soon realised it was no time to sit his arse on an advertising board and raced back towards his own goal.

Arsenal had been singing along constantly all game, but it was now our turn. Stamford Bridge was engulfed in a deluge of vibrant noise.

Heart-warming stuff.

We created a few half-chances, with Estevao and Garnacho causing problems.

Sadly, on seventy minutes, Saka initiated a move on the right, and the ball was neatly played between Mikel Merino and Gyokeres. Fine footwork from Martin Zubimendi inside our box allowed him to create space and fire home, high into the net.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 3.

The Gooners went into orbit.

On seventy-five minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

I wasn’t particularly confident about anything.

“It’s going to be a long quarter of an hour.”

An Estevao shot was blocked. At the other end, Sanchez denied Merino with a stunning piece of goalkeeping, flinging out a leg, and stopping a goal-bound shot with his boot.

From the corner, Gabriel headed a cross down and up and over the bar.

Fackinell.

On eighty-one minutes, our last two changes.

Tosin Adarabioyo for Cucurella.

Shim Mheuka for Joao Pedro.

…also Kai Havertz made an appearance, and Porto 2021 seemed such a long time ago.

Estevao enjoyed a fantastic run down the right, forcing a corner. Neto delivered the ball in, and it was flicked on towards Garnacho, again at the back stick. An instinctive finish, but well controlled, and we were overjoyed to see the net ripple.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 3.

Garnacho again raced back to his half; no time for celebration fripperies.

The last ten minutes of the game were played out, and half-chances came and went. PD set off early to begin the slow walk to the car. No more goals ensued, and as I joined the masses attempting to vacate The Sleepy Hollow, tempers were raging among a few players down on the pitch.

Out into the night, I muttered to myself:

“Now I’ll have to fork out for a ticket for the bloody second-leg.”

I met up with the chaps. We were pragmatic. We hadn’t played brilliantly but we never gave up.

“The tie is still alive.”

After a predictable detour down the A4 from Hungerford to Melksham, I eventually reached home at around 1.45am.

At least Frome won.

Tales From “Bloody Hell, Chelsea”

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Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 27 December 2025.

I wasn’t happy that there was no Chelsea match on Boxing Day 2025. I was also annoyed that there was no Frome Town game on Boxing Day 2025. It seemed that the natural laws of football in the festive period were being flaunted.

At least, I suppose, travel was easier on the Saturday.

I was able to enjoy a little lie-in and picked-up PD at 9am and Lord Parsnips at 9.30am. Outside, it was bitterly cold.

I did admit to PD that a substantial part of me wished that I was off to watch Frome Town play a local derby at Shaftesbury at 3pm rather than drive the three hours up to Fulham yet again for the match against Aston Villa. Frome had won eight league games in a row and, after a fine win at home against Exmouth while I was in Newcastle last weekend, were now five points clear at the top. A visit to a new ground, just forty minutes away, did seem really alluring.

We breakfasted “on the hoof” and made our way to London. Above, no clouds. Ahead, not too much traffic. I dropped the chaps off at 11.50am near “The Eight Bells” and then drove through Fulham to park up at midday. I had a few moments to myself. I had to decide between my warmest coat and my small camera or another coat and my SLR. I didn’t fancy suffering for my art and dropped my Sony “pub camera” in the pocket of my “K-Way” jacket and slowly walked down towards Stamford Bridge. I stopped off at “Café Ole” for a cappuccino. There was another, small, bite to eat too. I then spent a few moments outside the West Stand, taking photos of the pre-match scene. Although the game was still four hours off, the place was getting busier by the minute.

I spent a few minutes talking to a few folks in the bar area of the Copthorne Hotel, then made my way back to Fulham Broadway to catch the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the usual suspects were crowded around our usual table. It was a tight fit; eight of us were crammed in on chairs, stools and a settle. My friend Eliot – last seen in NYC in July – arrived with his son Skinny, and we caught up a little.

We spoke about the difficulty in obtaining tickets these days, and this turned into a memory of playing Barcelona away in 2000 when we both shared stories about how we got in that day. Eliot managed to get in without a physical ticket – it’s a long story based on bravado and luck – while I had managed to obtain a ticket from Chelsea’s official allocation – only 1,500 – using that long-forgotten piece of antiquity called a fax machine.

The group left the pub surprisingly early at around 4.15pm. There was a noisy group of Villa fans on the same train.

The news from Shaftesbury was varied. The home team had a player sent off early on, we went 1-0 up, they equalised, we went 3-1 up with a quarter of an hour to go but the home team scored two in the last ten minutes to share the points.

Balls.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 5pm.

All day long I had been saying how difficult this game would be. We were playing an in-form team here, and I probably would have been happy with a point.

The surprising news was that Benoit Badiashile was given a start.

Fackinell.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Alongside me were Clive and PD, and thankfully the temperatures were not so Baltic as first thing. All the teams in and around us had won, albeit narrowly.

Two classic kits on show, the match began.

The game bristled to life and in the first two minutes, Moises Caicedo looped the ball towards Cole Palmer who gracefully brought the ball down. Alas his shot spun wide of Emiliano Martinez’ far post at the Shed End.

Soon after we were treated to a magnificent sprint from Reece James to win the ball from some poor unfortunate Villa midfielder, and the crowd roared its approval. The break was thwarted, just sensational stuff.

Then in the next minute, Villa’s first foray into our half, but Badiashile was strong in thought and strong in tackle, which is not always the case.

I liked the way that Alejandro Garnacho and Pedro Neto were occupying the far reaches of the width of the pitch.

“Chalk dust on their soles.”

It meant that Villa was stretched. We just needed to hit them early and hit those spaces.

Villa shouted about “empty seats” but nobody rose to the bait. The home crowd was, mainly, docile.

On the quarter of an hour, it really was all us. I could only really remember that Badiashile block.

A shot from Enzo was walloped wide.

On twenty minutes, a rapid succession of shots and stabs at goal from us in the Villa box were unrewarded as defenders lunged at balls to block.

I turned to Clive : “nice game of football this, we are playing well.”

Although the home support was hardly prolific, at least the players were awarded with the old “Amazing Grace” chant.

You know the words.

On thirty-three minutes, Garnacho to Neto and a header back to James, but the blast fizzed just wide.

On thirty-seven minutes, a corner in front of the Villa lot. Reece James curled a slow cross towards the six-yard box.

I snapped; a blur, too blurred to share.

To our amazement the ball bounced on the turf amidst a crowd of players and up into the goal, Martinez totally befuddled.

GET IN.

Had it gone straight in? I wasn’t sure. For that matter, neither were the players. For the first time that I could remember, the celebrations were split.

Joao Pedro and Enzo sped off towards Parkyville and collapsed on each other. Meanwhile, all the remaining eight outfield players rushed over to celebrate with Reece James. The goalscorer was announced in the stadium as Reece James. Or was it? My instinct to take a photo of the two rather than the eight was proved prescient; the Brazilian did indeed get the final touch.

We were in front.

Lovely stuff.

A few “THTCAUN/ COMLD” exchanges were shared.

Beautiful.

An effort from Palmer was saved by Martinez, and then Villa sent over a free kick from John McGinn that Joao Pedro hacked away. Honestly, they had hardly troubled our backline the entire half.

I spoke to a few friends at half-time in the stadium, and via messages in the US, and we had all agreed how enjoyable that had been.

One friend suggested that I had probably made copious notes on my mobile phone throughout the first period.

He was correct.

But, deep down, there was a tangible fear that we couldn’t keep it going and that this match would turn into one of our recent “game of two halves” scenarios.

What Chelsea would prevail?

It felt as though a whispered stadium announcement would not be amiss.

“Please take your seats for the Second Act.”

Within the first minute, a tantalising cross from Garnacho down below us in The Sleepy Hollow caused havoc in the Villa defence. I presumed that former Chelsea player Ian Maatsen had cleanly headed it behind for a corner, but there was a shout for a handball.

No penalty.

But then, almost imperceptibly, the away team improved.

I yelled “don’t let them get a foothold, Chels.”

Their star of the moment Morgan Rodgers shot at goal – their first real chance – but it was deflected wide.

Just after, a hell of a break; initiated by Sanchez. Palmer to Joao Pedro to Palmer, a cross to Garnacho but a sliding clearance from McGinn at the far stick. A minute later, a curling cross from James caused Martinez to twist and claw it away.

On fifty-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella set up Garnacho but the chance was spurned.

I spoke to Clive : “one of these days, Garnacho will hit the target.”

We were weakening a little now and our passing – “triangles of torture” – were tending to get the fans frustrated, and the players were losing confidence with each minute.

On the hour, Unai Emery made three changes.

Ollie Watkins for Buendia.

Jadon Sancho – who? – for Malen.

Amadou Onana for McGinn.

The Villa fans, sensing a revival, stepped up their support. I was hoping for something to match it from the home stands, to roar the boys home, but it was not coming.

A fine break from Villa, but a great block on his knees from Sanchez foiled Boubacar Kamara.

On sixty-three minutes, a poor clearance from Badiashile was easily intercepted and the ball was worked from Rodgers to Watkins. Sanchez raced out, but the ball was edged home.

Bollocks.

I was impressed that there was an immediate and loud response.

“COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.”

But Villa were on top now and we had to rely on two excellent saves from Sanchez. Efforts from Maatsen and then Watkins were blocked by our ‘keeper.

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

Now it was time for Maresca to retaliate.

Three substitutions of our own.

Malo Gusto for Cucurella.

What? Alongside James, our best player. I was dumbfounded.

Estevao Willian for Palmer.

What? Cole had a mixed game but is always a threat. Unless injured, he had to stay on.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Garnacho has tons of tantalising potential, but I do wonder if he is going to be labelled as another Phil Driver, Jesper Gronkjaer or Mykhailo Mudryk.

Then, another one.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Within two minutes, Delap was given a yellow and then ran around a lot without really ever getting involved.

A couple of chances were exchanged. Enzo tumbled in slow motion and a weak free kick was given to us in prime Reece James territory, but his shot thumped against the wall.

Again, I was pissed off that there was no wall of noise to roar us home.

On eighty-two minutes, PD left to walk back to the car. I left my seat and sat on the step above the walkway to allow him space to leave. Just as PD walked by, I saw a corner float in from the left and I shouted “FREE HEADER!”,

Not only a free header, but a free-goal, Watkins again.

Bollocks.

The Villa contingent roared again and I looked around in bewilderment.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

There was a wasteful cross from Gittens, and we all moaned.

Villa had the best of the last few minutes. Caicedo uncharacteristically lost possession and Sanchez came to the rescue again. There was still time for another, superb, low save from Sanchez from a free kick. Honestly, if it was not for our ‘keeper, we quite probably would have lost 1-4 or worse.

Villa had made a lot of noise as their second half improved, and they ended the match with songs about winning the league. However, they reserved their loudest chant for their hated rivals Birmingham City. And by God, it was loud.

Ah, this was horrible. We had played so bloody well in that first period, yet we crumbled after the hour mark. What team are we? A blinkin’ frustrating one for sure.

As I trotted down the steps, I was reminded that on Boxing Day 2024, we were 1-0 up at home to Fulham yet lost 1-2 after a second-half collapse. And here we were again, experiencing the same Chelsea “fade” as twelve months previously.

I caught up with Big John, and I reminded him how we had wondered at the break if our first-half form would continue in the second, and we shrugged that Chelsea shrug.

“See you Tuesday.”

“You will.”

We now find ourselves a massive ten points behind Aston Villa and we are hanging on grimly to a fifth position that looks like being the best we can hope for this season.

At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.

As I started to drive home on the elevated section of the M4, past Brentford’s ground, I was pragmatic and philosophical. Although this defeat had hurt – and there were real feelings of disappointment with the manager and the lack of atmosphere – I had a moment to myself thinking of all of the times that my father had driven on this section, how many times I had driven along here, of all of my mates driving these miles over the years, and how lucky we have been to be able to do all this.

Schmaltzy shite?

Maybe.

But it is Christmas.

Oh – and Martin; I made more notes in the second half.

Tales From The Bigg Market

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Tales From Row Z And The Back Row

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5

Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 16 December 2025.

As I prepared for the trip into South Wales for our League Cup quarter-final at Cardiff City, I was relieved that I had finally caught up with the previous five blogs for games that I had attended. At last!

This was a huge weight off my mind

However, I couldn’t help noting that the viewing figures were significantly lower than average, and I guessed that was mainly due to the delays in publishing these. After the Everton game on the Saturday, I tried to improve my turnaround time and so published that match report in the small hours of Tuesday morning. For me, this is super quick. It usually takes a few days for ideas and themes to ferment. However, despite my relative rapidity, I was rewarded with the lowest viewing figures ever.

Yes, ever.

So, I don’t know.

Like some of Enzo Maresca’s team selections, I couldn’t fathom it.

There have only been two previous match reports involving away games at the Cardiff City Stadium – in 2013/14 and 2018/19 – but in the second one I went into quite considerable depth remembering our match at Ninian Park in March 1984. By a weird twist of fate, the games in 1984 and 2019 both took place on 31 March. The synchronicity was perfect.

I suspect that because the 2018/19 report included a big wedge of nostalgia from that iconic 1983/84 season, and the inevitable mentions of the football hooliganism of the era, it might well have attracted a different demographic compared to my normal readership.

Why do I mention this? It’s because the viewing figures for that match are particularly high. In fact, this game ranks at position number three in my all-time Top Ten views.

  1. Galatasaray vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,950
  2. Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,882
  3. Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 2018/19 – 1,678
  4. Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2014/15 – 961
  5. Preston North End vs. Chelsea : 2009/10 – 948
  6. Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur :  2015/16 – 898
  7. Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 1) : 2020/21 – 881
  8. Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 2016/17 – 812
  9. Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 2 ) : 2020/21 – 775
  10. Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 2018/19 – 767

Despite the falling-off of views over the past few weeks, I am not disheartened one little bit. All the individual game stats that I mention above are via clicks on game specific links that I share on Facebook.

As a comparison, the last five games have these totals.

Burnley vs. Chelsea – 99

Chelsea vs. Arsenal – 84

Leeds United vs. Chelsea – 73

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea – 65

Chelsea vs. Everton – 61

But the good news is that far more people click on my homepage to access the match reports; a huge total of 10,070 in 2025.

This signals to me that most of my readers don’t need individual Facebook reminders to keep in touch.

And I love that.

So, I’m doing OK.

Total clicks – including clicks on photos – are up from 53,888 in 2024 to 84,395 in 2025 so far.

I’m very happy with this.

Thank you.

For the game at Cardiff, I worked 8am to 4pm, and I collected PD and Parky at the latter’s house in Holt at 4.15pm. I envisaged reaching my pre-paid parking spot on Sloper Road, right opposite the away entrance, at around 6pm, but hideously slow-moving traffic in Cardiff itself meant that I wasn’t parked up until 7pm.

I had arranged to hand over a couple of tickets to Brad, a work associate, outside the ground but he was running late too. So, I had some time to kill. While the other two hobbled over to the away end to sort out ticket issues of their own, I joined a long queue at a burger hut just ten yards away. Although it was very convenient geographically, the £5 double cheeseburger and onions was one of the worst ever, but I was starving and gobbled it down regardless.

Needs must and all that.

It was a cold evening, but I was wrapped up warm.

I bumped into loads of mates outside while I waited. It always amazes me that there must be close on six hundred or more that show up at every single domestic away game, no matter where or when. I must know a fair proportion of these. Same faces, game after game; it’s incredible.

I spoke to Dave, who now also pens his own match-day notes.

“A nice little friendly competition, Dave.”

While I was waiting for Brad, the team was announced.

I dubbed it “The B Team plus Moises.”

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

George – Buonanotte – Gittens

Guiu

Brad and his young son Finley arrived at about 7.30pm.

“Let’s get in.”

I had decided to gamble getting my SLR in, but an over-zealous steward halted my progress. It was 7.45pm. The kick-off was at 8pm.

Not to worry, I walked the two minutes back to the car where, unlike certain managers in our recent past, I had a “Plan B” and replaced my Canon for my Sony “pub camera” and thankfully remembered – just – to swap over the memory card. I made it inside the large concourse and then the seats of the stadium as the teams were doing their “huddles.” While I made my way up the steps to my seat in “Row Z” – two-thirds of the way up – the game kicked-off.

I had left work at 4pm yet still only made it into the game by the skin of my teeth.

Just in time logistics is the name of the game these days.

The home side, flying high and on top of League One, contained such typically “Anglo”-Saxon names such as Trott, Lawlor, Chambers, Wintle, Colwill, Turnbull, Ashford, Davies and Robinson, plus the intriguing Ng.

Chelsea’s list of players sounded ridiculously exotic in comparison.

Cardiff in blue shirts with pinstripes, a memory of that 1984 game, white shorts and blue socks.

Chelsea in white with the green shorts and socks.

I spotted a fair few empty seats in our end. In the row behind me, for example, there were seven empty seats together. It had been a strange away game. For a week or more, there had been spares floating around yet many had not yet received their tickets by matchday and so had to get reprints at the home ticket office. Maybe this persuaded many from travelling.

The home team engineered the first real chance of the game at the end where the 3,200 Chelsea fans were stood. Callum Robinson’s header was thankfully weak.

Soon into the contest, a homophobic chant from the home areas aimed at us.

“Chelsea Rent Boys, you know what you are.”

Tut tut, and tut tut again.

Josh Acheampong arrived late on a tackle on Davies out on the Cardiff left but the referee played the advantage.

On thirteen minutes, a super cross from Tyrique George out on the right-wing raced across the box but nobody was on hand to get a touch.

Just after, a feisty retaliation tackle by Davies on Acheampong resulted in a yellow card.

Half-chances were shared, but no ‘keeper was stretched.

We had started off with a good tempo but soon reverted to type.

Pass, pass, pass, yawn, yawn, yawn.

Chances didn’t inspire much enthusiasm.

George had a shot blocked.

Davies was easily the home team’s biggest threat and an effort from him flew over the bar.

Marc Guiu’s shot from an angle was saved.

Then, a shot from Davies spun off perilously close to the corner flag.

A few songs were aired in our section.

“It’s Salomon!”

Chelsea also aired a very old song about sheep, and I almost split my sides laughing.

On thirty-five minutes, a ridiculously overhit cross from George evaded everyone. Just after a lovely sweeping pass by Moises Caicedo reached Jamie Gittens, but with only one person marking him rather than the usual two, he fluffed his lines with a dreadful touch and the ball embarrassingly spun away for a goal-kick.

 On forty-three minutes, Davies was again the danger man as his attempted cross took a deflection and was aiming for the net until Filip Jorgensen reacted s well to push the ball off for a corner at the near post.

Just after, the home team set up a header that was straight at our ‘keeper.

No, not a great half, and Cardiff had edged the number of chances created. Our two wide men were especially poor, and it meant that Guiu was given hardly any ammunition. Facundo Buonanotte looked neat but didn’t set up Guiu with many touches either.

At half-time I spotted Nat with Rob and Martin at the rear of my section so joined them, with me standing in the very back row. I never watch a game at the top level from two different perspectives, so the superstitious part of me was a little concerned.

At the break, Enzo Maresca changed things.

Joao Pedro for Guiu.

Alejandro Garnacho for George.

To accommodate the Argentinian, Gittens disappeared off to the far side – our right – where he had such an ineffective first half. Maybe it was to keep him away from the away fans.

This change brought a little Chelsea pressure at the start of the half. Eight minutes in, a great Buonanotte break set up Garnacho, in the inside-right channel for a change, whose shot was saved by the Cardiff ‘keeper Nathan Trott. A shot from Joao Pedro was blocked just after.

I struggled to understand how or why Cardiff’s Davies was substituted.

We were well on top now.

On fifty-seven minutes, Buonanotte intercepted a poor pass out of defence and ran at the goal. A selfless flick out to Garnacho and the ball was calmly passed into the goal.

GET IN!

The scorer did his trademark celebration, and I just about captured it.

Alan in South London : THTCAUN, isn’t it.

Chris in South Wales : COMLD, look you.

I was so pleased for the scorer; he needed that goal.

The Bluebirds’ support goaded us.

“You only sing when you’re winning.”

A shot from Buonanotte was surely going into the top corner but Trott finger-tipped it over superbly.

On sixty-six minutes, two more changes.

Pedro Neto for Gittens.

Malo Gusto for Buonanotte.

We kept up the continued pressure.

Shots from Gusto, Santos, Caicedo and Neto rattled into the danger zone. Joel Bagan almost ran the ball into his own net as he tried to clear. This was surely one of those fabled games of two-halves, and the Chelsea support were enjoying this second-half onslaught.

But football can be a crazy game and on seventy-five minutes the match took a surprising twist.

An excellent cross from Perry Ng on the Cardiff right, that curled into the penalty box, found the leap of David Turnbull. Chelsea’s defenders had switched off. He was unmarked. He steered it in magnificently, the header beating Jorgensen all ends up. In fact, our ‘keepers’ dive was so late he still hasn’t landed.

Bollocks.

The Cardiff fans livened up now.

The thought of, perhaps, penalties made my heart sink. Thankfully, seven minutes later, in the eighty-second minute, a lovely bout of passing on the edge of the Cardiff box resulted in a low angled drive from Neto, and we were all relieved – no, over-joyed – when the ball crept in at the far stick.

YES!

Soon after, with the home fans silent, we goaded them.

“You only sing when you’re winning.”

There was a slight scare at the other end when a bouncing effort from a Cardiff player ended up on the top of our net.

Just after, a neat ball in from the dominant Garnacho, a turn from Joao Pedro, but another Cardiff block.

The Chelsea choir aired a favourite from fifteen years ago.

“Three Little Birds”.

But the Bluebirds were worried; they doubted if everything was going to be alright.

The gate was announced as 33,027, a fine attendance.

In the third minute of injury-time, a little head tennis out of defence lead to Joao Pedro setting up Garnacho. This time, his right foot steered the ball home. It was another great finish from the Argentinian.

I was so pleased for him. He has been one of the plusses over the past six weeks.

I had enjoyed my time with Nat, Rob and Martin, and won’t be so nervous about changing positions at half-time – “ooh, er, matron” – in the future.

As the home fans made a quick exit, the blue seats of the neat stadium were soon exposed, but the top tier of the surprisingly huge stand to our right looked like a huge flesh wound, a cruel reminder of that insane decision in 2012 by the chairman Vincent Tan to change the Bluebirds’ shirt colour to red.

Outside, I met up with PD and Parky. PD had been sat just behind Paul Merson and his son. Despite his association with lesser clubs, Merse remains a staunch Chelsea supporter, and I bloody loved the idea of him in among the rank and file of our normal support.

We weren’t allowed to move out onto Sloper Road until the area was clear. This took about thirty minutes. This allowed the local police to flush out a mini-army of Stone Island-wearing fooligans to stumble past us. Eventually, we could move. I gave Nat a lift back to her hotel – past Cardiff Castle, past the Christmas lights, lovely stuff – but even this took an age. We reached Nat’s hotel at 11.30pm.

On the way back, the new Severn Bridge was closed and so I drove over the original one, the first time for decades.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am.

It has been a decent little run in this season’s League Cup.

Three trips to Lincoln City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, Cardiff City.

Where next?

Tales From A Crisp Winter Day

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 13 December 2025.

The three matches that had preceded our home game with Everton had been highly disappointing; a distressing 1-3 loss at Leeds United, an inconceivably dour 0-0 at Bournemouth and a depressing 1-2 defeat at Atalanta.

Disappointing, distressing, dour and depressing.

That’s some indictment, eh?

In such circumstances, I might be forgiven for feeling down before the Everton match.

Not one bit of it. In the latter stages of my day at work on Friday, I suddenly realised that the fatigue of the previous three weeks had evaporated and I suddenly felt energised.

I was, to use one of my favourite sayings, chomping at the bit for the chance to drive to London with a clear head and the opportunity to enjoy a typical Chelsea Saturday.

The three of us were away early. I collected PD at 7am and LP at 7.30am.

The first section of the two-and-a-half-hour drive to London involved Parky regaling us with tales from Turin, Milan and Bergamo. He had attended our match in Italy with Salisbury Steve and Jimmy The Greek and – the football apart – had really enjoyed himself. There were, however, long days involved. On the outbound trip, he stayed awake for thirty-six hours. On the return trip, delays at Turin airport meant he had to sleep at Gatwick on his return.

We also spoke briefly about the 2026 FIFA World Cup, and that is all it deserved. The price of match tickets is obscene, a clear indication of FIFA’s mission to make money from supporters with not a hint of a moral compass. Like the Qatar World Cup of 2022, I strongly suspect that I will not watch a single match. We also spoke about the ridiculous number of games. During that colossal first phase, there will be no edge and no jeopardy. I am getting bored just thinking about all those pointless matches.

As I have said before, FIFA’s mantra is “more is more”.

Well, I shan’t be part of it. If most of the stadia are half-empty, I shan’t be bothered.

I dropped PD and LP near the pub, and they slid off for a quick breakfast at “The River Café” while I backtracked across Fulham to eat at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road.

Two bacon, two sausage, two fried eggs, two hash browns, two black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea.

£11.

I’d include a photo, but you’d only be jealous.

I parked up and caught the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the lads were already getting into a decent sesh. On the short journey from West Brompton to Putney Bridge, with the sun shining gloriously, I had to admit that there is no greater place than London on a crisp Winter Day.

I strode into the boozer at about 11.15am and was happy to see the Normandy Division of Ollie and Jerome sitting alongside the usual suspects. On this day, our ranks would be joined by several from the US.

First up, Michelle from Nashville, who had also visited Italy and met up with the lads in Bergamo. Michelle entertained me with snippets of her post-match stay in Milan; a few days of opera and art, all very agreeable.

Next up was Tom from Laguna Beach in California, a friend of mine since meeting on the old Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2007, and at an away game at West Ham a couple of years later.

Lastly, my friend Natalie from Kansas City arrived with her long-time friend Amy – her first visit to London, and hence Stamford Bridge – and Amy’s two parents Ash and Julie. Natalie’s first-ever match at Stamford Bridge was alongside me to witness that unforgettable 6-0 thumping of Arsenal in 2014. I last saw Natalie at a home game against Southampton in January 2019. We enjoyed a great catch up, and I enjoyed talking to Amy and her parents before their first-ever Chelsea game. I had a few stories to keep them occupied. They absolutely adored the cosiness of “The Eight Bells.”

The five of us said our goodbyes and left for Stamford Bridge at 1.45pm. I took one last photo of Nat, Amy, Julie and Ash on the busy Fulham Road before going our separate ways. I would, however, be seeing Nat at Cardiff the following Tuesday.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 2.15pm.

Those in the Dugout Club had been given blue Father Christmas hats, and some of them were wearing them as they watched the players warming up.

I suppose for £5,000 a ticket, a Santa hat as part of the deal works out to be rather pricey.

Bless.

Right then, what of the team?

I couldn’t argue with Enzo Maresca’s choices on this occasion. It is, I think, what I would have chosen.

Robert Sanchez in goal, and possibly large parts of the penalty area too.

Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella as the full backs, with licence to roam.

Wesley Fofana and Trevoh Chalobah, the centre-back pairing for this game and perhaps others to come if this went well.

Enzo Fernandez and Reece James, the withdrawn midfielders, but able to burst into other areas.

Pedro Neto on the right, Alejandro Garnacho on the left, the Billy-Whizz twins.

Cole Palmer tucked in to the middle, but looking to ghost into areas unmapped by man nor beast.

Joao Pedro to lead the line, or at least to occupy defenders while others harried and carried.

During the day, I had reminded everyone that Everton last beat us in a league game at Stamford Bridge way back in 1994. I was scolded for mentioning it, but I was confident. I bumped into Hersham Bob – no laced-up boots, nor corduroys, alas – who suggested that the returning Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall would get the winner.

“That’s the spirit mate.”

The minutes clicked down.

It was a gorgeous day in Old London Town.

The game started.

“C’mon Chels.”

The first quarter of an hour was quite subdued, with tentative probing from us, and a few more direct bursts from the visitors. Their fans made a fair bit of noise at the start of the game.

On fifteen minutes, Dewsbury-Hall took a knock and had to be substituted. He was replaced by Carlos Alcaraz. I liked the way we clapped him off. He was honest player for us and has fitted in well with the Toffees.

I tried to catch Rob’s eye to let him see me wipe my brow.

“Phew.”

On eighteen minutes, Jack Grealish shimmied and advanced down below us and sent over a cross, but Trevoh Chalobah blocked. Grealish looked a handful in those early stages.

Two minutes later, a shot from Iliman Ndiaye that Robert Sanchez saved through a crowd of players.

A voice from the crowd behind me :

“They look more organised than us.”

At that exact moment – in fact, as I began tapping away those words from a worried spectator on my ‘phone – I looked up to see Wesley Fofana pass to Malo Gusto, who released the ball perfectly between defenders to meet the run of Cole Palmer. His finish was pure Palmer; a cool finish past Jordan Pickford.

The trademark celebration, the run to the corner, lovely.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Just after, Garnacho blasted over from a difficult angle, and then the same player latched onto a risky back-pass by Alcaraz but struck the ball just past the near post with an empty net begging.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency.

But then the visitors came again. It made a change for a team to attack us at home. James Tarkowski headed wide, then Ndiaye mishit a pull-back from Jake O’Brien. Then, a ball was rifled across the box by Gana Gueye but nobody was there to meet it. I was just grateful that KDH was off the pitch.

Next up, a skilful run from Grealish resulted in a shot that Sanchez somehow blocked with his shoulder.

We were riding our luck alright.

Just after, Pedro Neto did what Pedro Neto does, and I photographed him sprinting past his hapless marker Vitaliy Mykolenko. He reached the goal-line and played the ball into the path of Malo Gusto who touched it past Pickford.

GET IN.

By this time, Mykolenko was flat on his back, while Gusto slid towards the corner.

Phew.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

“That goal was beautiful.”

At half-time, I spoke to a few friends and acquaintances.

“Just doing enough.”

One replied –

“I think we’ve been diabolical.”

Throughout the first period, the atmosphere was quiet but that’s nothing new these days, eh? Everton were totally quiet.

“1994, lads.”

The second period began and a cross from the quiet Enzo teed up Garnacho at the far post, who was always stretching to connect. My photo of his lunge is almost as poor as his finish. The ball flew wide.

Throughout the first half and into the second half I had been impressed with the excellent play of first Chalobah and then Fofana. On fifty-two minutes, Wesley made a sensational block tackle on an Everton attacker who would have been through on goal.

I immediately thought “Bobby Moore on Jairzinho, 1970”; it was that good.

At last, a stadium-wide chant enveloped Stamford Bridge. It was initiated by the good people of The Shed, but the Matthew Harding soon joined in.

“CAREFREE.”

Garnacho shot over after a lightning break down our left. He was having one of those days.

On fifty-eight minutes, Cole Palmer was substituted, but Maresca went safe with Andrey Santos rather than with Estevao Willian. I approved of the way Palmer’s time on the pitch was managed.

I was impressed with Joao Pedro, who was something of a menace for the Everton defence, and he showed a few instances of great hold-up play.

On the hour, it was Chalobah’s time to shine defensively. He initially lost ground in a chase but recovered so well to make a last-ditch tackle just inside the box.

At The Shed, Sanchez tipped over.

At the Matthew Harding, Santos shot over the bar.

On seventy minutes, Reece James made a mistake in our final third, but that man Fofana recovered well. Just after, Grealish sliced well wide after arriving at the far stick at a free kick.

On sixty-five minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

On seventy-five minutes, Pickford tipped a Reece James free kick over the bar.

On eighty minutes, Estevao replaced Joao Pedro. Pedro Neto moved inside as a false-nine.

On eighty-six minutes, Ndiaye raced past Fofana and struck a slow shot towards goal. The effort bounced back off the far post. Clalobah then blocked a shot from Alcaraz.

In the first minute of injury-time, a Neto break but Gittens shot weakly over.

The whistle blew.

I had enjoyed this one. It had a little bit of everything. We weren’t at our absolute best, nor not near it, but we showed signs that it might be coming together. At least we stemmed that mini run of awfulness. Everton showed a willingness to attack, and, on another day, they might have returned North with a point or more.

I thought Fofana and Chalobah were excellent.

Here’s an idea, Maresca. Play these two together in all games. Cheers.

Oh, the run. Here it is.

Chelsea vs. Everton : Premier League.

19 August 1995 to 13 December 2025.

Played : 31

Won : 18

Drew : 13

Lost : 0

Oh, and to complete a perfect day, Frome Town won 4-0 at Tavistock in Devon to strengthen our position at the top of the table.

I will see some of you at Cardiff.

Tales From A Lack Of Vitality

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2025.

After the expedition north to the wilds of West Yorkshire during the week, here was an away trip that was a lot more agreeable.

AFC Bournemouth, to give them their rather annoying full name, play at the Vitality Stadium and it’s only fifty-eight miles from my house.

This would be a breeze; the car journey, if not the match.

PD shot off at 7am to collect Parky and I picked them both up in Frome at 8am, with Glenn shortly after. We were all chatting away during the first twenty minutes and I inadvertently took the slightly longer way down to the coast via Salisbury, through force of habit, rather than via Shaftesbury. It didn’t matter too much. We would be returning via Shaftesbury after the match since PD and I had remembered the lovely meal we enjoyed at “The Half Moon” pub a few years back, and we decided to repeat this.

PD remembered it well.

“We all had a starter of belly pork, and it was bloody lovely.”

“If it is a main course, I am having that again” I replied.

We had heard rumours that the weather was going to be wet and miserable in Bournemouth, but the weather was decent as I drove south. I was parked up at about 9.30am and we strolled into the Wetherspoons in the centre of the town, close to where the team stay at The Hilton, at about 9.45am. We have been using this as our base for this away jaunt ever since our first visit in the Premier League in 2015/16. This would be my tenth visit to the Vitality Stadium, on top of two visits to Dean Court in 1988 and 1994.

We devoured a typically good value breakfast.

The phrase “cheap and cheerful” fitted perfectly, and that’s the description of the breakfast and not PD, Parky, Glenn and me.

At about 10.30am we trotted upstairs to our usual tables and waited for enforcements to arrive. First to arrive was Johnny Dozen from Southern California, full of his miserable experience at Elland Road on Wednesday. Salisbury Steve and his son Leigh arrived. Dane from Bracknell joined us, as did Nick and his son Robbie and Nick’s brother Vince, who now lives in Dorchester and always pops up at Bournemouth.

After my bought with the flu, I was a little jaded and found the chit-chat a little tiring. I needed some fresh air inside me. I popped outside for about an hour and slowly walked through the park to the beach and the pier. Doing the same walk in 2020, I walked alongside the Chelsea squad for a few minutes. It was around midday this time and I suspect that “the walk” had taken place an hour or so earlier. When I returned to the pub, Jimmy The Greek joined us.

I include some photos of the beach and the pier to add some local flavour.

I also include a photo of what we called the “J12 Summit Meeting.”

At just before 2pm, I drove the two miles to the stadium. I have used “JustPark” on virtually every other visit to this ground but on this occasion, I surpassed myself. My parking spot was in a driveway on Thistlebarrow Road, no more than a two-minute walk to the stadium, or a four-minute walk to the away turnstiles.

There is never an issue getting my SLR in at Bournemouth.

Phew.

On this occasion, we – Alan, Gary, John and me – were further towards the corner flag, but only in the fourth row. It would hopefully be an ideal place to nab some up-close-and-personal photos.

As kick-off approached, there were no clouds in the sky.

Perfect.

The team was announced but I couldn’t stop thinking about that pork belly at Shaftesbury.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

James – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho  

Delap

No surprises with the number of changes since the Leeds debacle. This looked and felt more like a Chelsea team that meant business. It would Cole Palmer’s first start since the game at Old Trafford way back in September.

We were subjected to the usual “make some noise…for the boys” nonsense from the PA announcer who sounded like he had just taken charge of a primary school disco and had been overdosing on “Panda Pops” and “Sherbet Dip Dabs”.

The game began.

“They owe us one, Chris” barked Gary.

Within the first real attack of the game, the home team managed to bundle the ball in via Antoine Semenyo, and it appeared that we were already up against it, shades of Elland Road. It took a while for my grey matter to realise that a VAR review was taking place, and thankfully the goal was chalked off.

Bournemouth had begun the game with a flourish, but thankfully we were able to withstand this early pressure, helped by another offside flag and a little luck.

We began to attack with a bit more solidity, but our final ball was wanting on many occasions. With twenty minutes gone, however, we were on top.

The Chelsea choir wasn’t too loud, but after Robert Sanchez’ decent showing at Elland Road, and elsewhere this season, an old song was reworked.

“He used to be shite. But now he’s alright. Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

With that, a corner from Alex Scott in front of us was whipped in and Sanchez contorted his body to punch the ball away after the trajectory of the ball changed at the last minute. How I wish I had taken a photo of that.

A cross from Pedro Neto on the right was aimed towards the far post but Marc Cucurella headed over.

The ground was now shrouded in cloud. I hoped that the rain would stay away…

On thirty-two minutes, Liam Delap – who had struggled with the paucity of service – was injured and was replaced by Marc Guiu.

On thirty-five minutes, Sanchez reacted well to divert the impressive Semenyo’s low shot at goal, and thankfully Evanilson was unable to pounce on the rebound.

At the other end, Neto was faring better than Garnacho and curled a shot up and around the far post. It had been our best effort the entire half.

Yes, it really had been as bad as that.

We then fell apart in the closing minutes of the half as we called on Sanchez to save our bacon…

…mmm, pork belly.

Shots from Scott and Semenyo were parried. A rapid break in the final seconds thankfully resulted in a shot being flashed wide.

I was surprised that there were no Chelsea boos at half-time. Maybe everyone was in a football-induced stupor. It had been so quiet in all areas of the ground thoughout the first forty-five minutes. We might have controlled most of the possession, but our passing in the final third was very poor, and the home team probably deserved to be ahead at the break. Cole Palmer had began well, but got lost amid the mess of a very poor game thus far.

The second half began and we hoped for an upturn in our fortunes.

But again, the home team were on top as the game restarted.

In the forty-sixth minute, Marcus Tavernier dragged a shot wide when he really should have scored.

Five minutes into the second period…shock horror… a rasper from Pedro Neto was saved by our old friend Djordje Petrovic. It was the first time our former stopper had been tested.

Then, in a crazy spell – well, comparatively, let’s not get too fucking excited – we peppered the Bournemouth goal.

A Guiu header was saved, we hit the post via Garnacho and then shots from Enzo and Palmer were saved by Petrovic.

The noise levels within the stadium were still pretty low, but I liked the “In the net, Boscombe” chants from the home crowd who suddenly grew restless.

On fifty-eight minutes, Joao Pedro replaced the tiring Palmer.

A low shot from Guiu was easily saved.

On sixty-six minutes, a delightful shimmy from Garnacho – it was really enjoyable to see him go at defenders a mere five yards away from me – set up Guiu but he embarrassingly shanked it high and over the bar.

In the closing quarter of an hour, the travelling support somehow managed to make a little more noise; long overdue.

On seventy-one minutes, a strong shot from Garnacho grazed the far post.

On seventy-seven minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the Argentinian. This surprised me. Garnacho had been our most impressive player in the second half whereas Neto wasn’t at his best. I think Maresca took off the wrong wide man, but that’s just me.

The game detiorated.

There was an error from Malo Gusto and Semenyo pounced, but Sanchez was his equal, saving well at his near post.

The game finished with a lazy shot from the very disappointing Enzo that drifted over the bar.

It ended 0-0.

I was pleasantly surprised that hardly any Chelsea left until the final whistle. This was, at least for me, a big plus. Nobody likes to see empty seats in the away end at a Chelsea game well before the end.

I packed my camera away and sped back to the car.

From stand seat to car seat, it surely broke all records.

Glenn arrived, then PD and Parky.

It didn’t take me long to slide out and onto Wessex Way and I was soon heading north by north-west over the hills to Shaftesbury.

And it didn’t take us too long to dissect the game.

“Well, that was absolute dogshit, boys.”

“Yep. That stadium wasn’t full of any vitality today.”

“Both teams were awful.”

Outside, the night, and I drove on.

At about 6.15pm, I pulled into the car park of the pub in Shaftesbury.

We found a table and I grabbed the large menu.

“Oh great. It’s a main.”

Slow-cooked pork belly, served with creamy champ mash, braised red cabbage, roasted carrots with apple puree and cider gravy.

“Fantastic. Order that for me, Paul, I am off to turn my bike round, I’m bursting.”

When I returned, the waiter was still in conversation with Paul, a bad sign.

“That pork belly isn’t available, mate.”

Typical. Bloody typical. It summed up the day.

BEACH

BAR

0-0

Tales From A Black Night

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Leeds United vs. Chelsea : 3 December 2025.

Subtitled : To ‘ell and back.

I will be totally honest – or in modern parlance, “NGL” – here. I had been dreading this trip ever since I heard of this season’s fixtures.

Even as the game became close.

And that is somewhat surprising, bearing in mind our recent little upturn in the home games against Barcelona and Arsenal.

No, sorry everyone. A midweek trip up to West Yorkshire on a Wednesday evening in December filled me with dread. For starters, I was short on holiday, so was only able to take two half days to accommodate this troublesome journey. However, it got worse; I was still recuperating from the bug that had hit me hard the previous week.

The day began for me at 6.30am with an alarm call to get me up and ready to work an 8am to midday shift.

I eventually got away, with PD and Parky as my trusty passengers, at 12.15pm. Thankfully there were clear skies overhead. I am not quite sure how I would have possibly coped with heavy rainfall and dodgy visibility. So, that was a huge positive.

Not long into the journey, PD shared the news that Marvin Hinton had passed away the day before. This fine servant, who played as a full-back and then a centre-half and was probably our first-ever sweeper on occasion back in the mid- ‘sixties, played an important role in our much-loved teams from that era. “Lou” played 344 times for Chelsea and came on as a substitute against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final and replay. Sadly, I never saw him in a game. He was known for his cool and calm style of play. He was eighty-five.

Rest In Peace Marvin Hinton.

We stopped briefly at Strensham Services. Thankfully I was feeling reasonable and we pressed on.

I spoke about the evening’s match.

“It’s weird. They will be singing ‘Doris Day’, while we will be singing ‘Dambusters’ and long may it continue.

It’s a cracking rivalry, even now.

At around 4pm, we decided to call in at a familiar pub on our travels; The Windmill at the Tabley Interchange on the M6. We were distraught to see that the property was closed and for sale. All three of us had really fancied some of their robust Northern grub. We then decided to aim for The Kilton Inn near Mere, another old favourite used for games in the Manchester area – including on Saturday 30 April 2005 – but they weren’t serving food until 5pm. Thankfully, our luck improved when we stumbled across The Plough at Hollins Green – a good sign for the evening’s game, surely – where we stopped from 4.30pm until 5.15pm.

Food was ordered and devoured.

In-keeping with the day’s travel and the evening’s game, we dined on traditional no-frills fare.

PD : Cheese and onion pie and chips.

Parky : Cottage pie.

Chris : Lancashire Hot Pot.

The pub was decent. It’s very close to the northern banks of the Manchester Ship Canal. The food was hearty and filling. The staff were friendly, if not slightly bemused that we were en route to Leeds.

We edged through some slow-moving traffic but then found ourselves back on the same road that we had used to get to Burnley ten days previously. Once on the M62, the traffic cleared, and I soared up and over The Pennines.

I made good time. We passed over the highest spot on the UK motorway network near the Lancashire / Yorkshire border then descended towards Leeds. As I drove on, the lights of the city and then the lights of Elland Road lured me in.

I was parked up at 6.30pm at a private car park; the price was a reassuringly cheap £6.

We had made it.

The former “away” pub The Dry Salters is now closed, so we had no options before walking to Elland Road, which was a good twenty-five-minute walk away. There’s nothing much around Elland Road. It’s a decent place to reach in a car, but it’s a long way out of the city centre, with hardly any pubs nearby.

Stamford Bridge it ain’t.

The temperature had dropped. Locals rushed by wearing the trademark white, yellow and blue bar scarves.

My K-Way jacket and Yankees cap fought to keep out the chilling temperatures.

I had to meet Lewis, a friend of a friend of a friend, to pass over a spare, and this was eventually accomplished at around 7.30pm.

In I went, and I was soon reminded that the bar area in the away concourse is strangely carpeted, a remnant of when this stand was for home fans only.

Up the steps, down the steps, and I quickly found my place alongside John. I said “this place doesn’t change much, does it?” and he soon mentioned the Don Revie carpet.

Revie loved getting the Leeds squad to play carpet bowls – that’s not a euphemism, I hope – and I wondered if this odd practice even took place in the crowded confines of Elland Road.

We had good seats, near the player’s tunnel. I soon spotted PD in the front row. He was sat a couple of seats away from a guy that Parky was sat next to at Burnley. During the TV coverage, Parky was spotted by many friends in the US and I was sent some screen shots. The chap next to Parky had a bizarre ‘seventies hairstyle…long blonde locks…and a mate said that an image of him was used to initiate a “reddit” thread during the game.

There were comments of this bloke’s resemblance to Jimmy Saville. In Leeds, on this night, he made the very wise choice to wear his hair in a ponytail. However, one poor chap within the Chelsea support nearer the noisy buggers in the South Stand, who must have had a passing resemblance to the infamous Leeds native, was the target for much abuse throughout the game.

John and I chatted about how ridiculous the 8.15pm kick-off was.

The irony was that Arsenal were playing Brentford at 7.30pm. If one game had to kick-off, why not that one, with most of the crowd travelling in from the South-East.

An evening game in West Yorkshire is bad enough, but not 7.30pm, not 7.45pm, not 8pm but 8.15pm?

It’s taking the piss on a monumental scale.

The team was announced.

Enzo Maresca rang the changes, and how. Nobody was happy.

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

With Caicedo on a ban, and James simply not chosen, I wondered if the team had enough guts.

The home team boasted a mysterious bunch of unknowns – Ampadu, the captain, and Calvert-Lewin aside – including Peri-Peri, Bijoux, Boogle, Nacker, Stuck and Stack.

“Marching On Together” boomed, and the noise was impressive.

The two teams appeared in front of us, and it irked me that Chelsea chose to play in the all black “Millwall badge” monstrosity. When Chelsea plays at Leeds, we should always wear blue. Maybe with yellow socks to remind them about 1970.

As for Leeds, what with their hatred for all things Mancunian and Lancastrian, the flash of red of their shirt sponsor looked out of place too.

The noise didn’t let up as the time reached 8.15pm.

I posted on Facebook : “Let’s Win This For Lou.”

Leeds began on fire. A shot from Ao Tanaka was dealt with by Robert Sanchez, but a corner in the sixth minute was swing in and Jaka Bijol leaped clear to head home, unchallenged, from an angle ahead of the near post.

“Here we bloody go.”

After ten minutes or so, we looked so lethargic in possession.

Where was the fire, the intensity, the hunger?

On fifteen minutes, a half-chance for Joao Pedro at the old Gelderd End, now the Don Revie Stand. Funny, back in the day, I always knew it as The Kop, not the Gelderd End. I only heard of this name relatively recently.

There was an almost witty exchange on fifteen minutes.

Chelsea to Leeds : “Champions of Europe, you’ll never sing that.”

Leeds to themselves : “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

This is their stubborn nod to the 1975 European Cup Final in Paris against Bayern Munich when a Peter Lorimer goal was controversially chalked off for offside, only for Bayern to win a tight game 2-0.

Fifty years ago. Fackinell.

The irony is that I wanted Leeds to win that night; these were the days when things were less tribal, and when – as a young kid – I wanted all English teams to be victorious in European finals.

I remember us singing “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe” as we exited the stadium in Munich in 2012, but we haven’t sung it since to my knowledge.

Estevao was only really involved with his trademark shimmy inside and I wondered if he would be found out if this was to be the only trick up his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Leeds were winning tackles and second balls with an admirable, yet gut-wrenching, intensity. Our midfield was missing, perhaps on the Pennines or somewhere.

Shots were aimed at Sanchez from all angles. They were out-fighting us and out-shooting us.

“And go get your father’s gun, shoot the Chelsea scum.”

We improved slightly but our shots on goal were woeful. Jamie Gittens seemed unsure whether to stick or twist; to dribble past his man, or to pass. He looked lost.

Leeds were full of it.

“Even bloody Calvert-Lewin looks a handful tonight.”

Benoit Badiashile seemed to slow down to a crawl when in possession. And it didn’t help that he probably touched the ball more than any other player as the first half progressed. His passes were never positive. It was excruciating to watch.

On thirty-nine minutes, there was some terrible pre-meditated nonsense from Estevao. After losing the ball, he kicked out at a Leeds player from behind and was rightfully booked.

Prick.

In the last couple of minutes, Leeds won a loose ball as Chelsea struggled to clear and the ball ran nicely to Tanaka, who struck a magnificent shot into the corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared again.

Memories of our equally awful performance under Thomas Tuchel in the August of 2022 came racing back. We lost 0-3 that afternoon.

At the break, we were at a real low.

What a lacklustre first half, nobody more than 4/10.

“Sort it out Maresca.”

At half-time, Howard Wilkinson slowly walked onto the pitch to say a few words to the Leeds faithful. How I remember our battles with his Sheffield Wednesday team in the early-to-mid ‘eighties, and of course I remember him leading Leeds to that 1991/92 championship. It was the last Football League title and – get this – Wilkinson is still the last English manager to win the title in England.

That’s pretty damning if you ask me.

As I heard him speak, I remembered that excellent midfield of David Batty, Gary Speed, Gordan Strachan and Gary McAllister. In truth, elsewhere that Leeds team contained mediocre players – maybe Tony Dorigo is the exception – but I was just happy that they pipped Manchester United that season. My college mates Bob and Trev went to many Leeds games that season. I thought of them too; friends since 1984.

I was having a wistful moment and found myself clapping the Leeds manager, no doubt out of respect for some fine memories of a time when football was another ball game in another age. A few other Chelsea fans of my generation clapped too.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile.

Pedro Netro for Estevao.

On forty-seven minutes, a cross from the Leeds right found Lukas Nmecha but Sanchez made an outstanding point blank save.

Three minutes later, we worked the ball out to Gittens who surprised us all by sending over a very good cross that evaded everyone and found Pedro Neto arriving at the far post. He adjusted himself and did ever so well to slot the ball in from a very awkward angle. He raced away, heading for the bench, pointing and gesturing and one can only imagine what he was saying to the management team.

We momentarily played some incisive stuff, and the fans noted the difference in intent.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Liam Delap fired wide from an angle.

“Come on boys.”

On the hour, more changes.

Cole Palmer for Delap.

Alejandro Garnacho for Gittens.

Eight minutes later, the Argentinian raced away down the left, in front of the baying home fans who remembered his Manchester past and set up Cole Palmer who had typically dropped into some space at the front of the goal.

I expected him to score. John expected him to score. The twat behind me who had been calling virtually every Chelsea player a “c**t” expected him to score. My mates in South Philly and in South London expected him to score. Johnny Dozen from Southern California, watching to my right in the paddock, expected him to score.

The shot went wide.

I held my head in disbelief.

On seventy-two minutes, Chelsea suicide. We found ourselves doing our best “after you, Claude” routine, passing the ball around inside our box, but looking increasingly inept with each nervous pass. Leeds put us under pressure. Tosin dillied and dallied, and dallied and dillied, and lost his way, and the ball. Leeds had two aggressive players on the last man. Ilia Gruev stabbed at the loose ball, Sanchez blocked, but Calvert-Lewin pushed the ball home.

Leeds United 3 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

In the last ten or fifteen minutes, many Chelsea fans evacuated both levels of the stand, but I had to stay to the end. I rarely leave early.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Joao Pedro.

No doubt recycling a chant aimed at Manchester United fans, the South Stand sang at us.

“It’s a long way to London when you’re shit.”

It wasn’t to be.

The whistle blew and that was that.

What a terrible performance.

In retrospect, the manager’s selection – and by the looks of it, his motivational pre-match speech – were way off.

To the Chelsea fans inside Elland Road, we appeared to be in completely the wrong frame of mind. Whereas the home team were full of aggression from the off, we seemed to be treating this game like any other.

Simply selecting a sub-par eleven and hoping for the best was never going to work at Elland Road.

Is anyone at modern day Chelsea aware of the dislike they have of us?

Amongst all of it, Sanchez kept us in it with some super saves, and he can’t really be blamed for the goals. Garnacho was a big positive when he came off the bench. And I think he ought to have started. He knows what the atmosphere at Leeds is like. Less so the young and still inexperienced Estevao. Enzo was poor. Santos too. That midfield was devoid of bite.

Elland Road is a very tough venue for us.

Since our first visit in 1927, in all games, our record is this :

Played : 53

Won : 8

Drew :15

Lost : 30

Two seasons ago, the two teams met in a Youth Cup game. The club was concerned that Leeds knew all about the rivalry, but the Chelsea boys didn’t. To remedy this, the 1970 replay was shown to the squad at Cobham, and the staff ensured that the players were suitably motivated. We won the tie easily.

I bet Maresca didn’t even know about the 1970 cup replay.

We slowly walked back to the car, and I got going at around 11pm. On the return home, there were roadworks on the M5 and so I was pushed down the M1 to Leicester and I was forced to come down the Fosseway – hello again – and over The Cotswolds. At Cirencester, there was a road closure, and the diversion signs took me everywhere but the right direction. At 2.45am, I found myself creeping around the streets of Cirencester trying to find an escape route.

I eventually reached home at 4am.

6.30am to 4am.

Bloody hell.

We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…

Tales From A Day Of Total Football

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Chelsea vs. Woverhampton Wanderers : 8 November 2025.

Rarely would a day be as totally devoted to football as this one.

When I went to bed on the Friday, I knew that as soon as I woke up, I would be on a conveyor belt of football-related activities that would last the whole day.

There would be a breakfast with my good friend Courtney from Chicago, visiting for a Frome Town game, then a blog to finish off, then a Frome Town game at 3pm, then a drive to London for a Chelsea game in the evening. And heaven knows what time I would be home from that.

During the week there had been, of course, the game in Baku and it was bittersweet to see so many friends travelling over for the match with Qarabag while I remained in England.

To coin a phrase from the Falklands War, “I counted them all out, and I counted them all back.”

Everyone enjoyed the trip by the look of it.

I was awake at 6.45am, and I drove into Frome to collect Courtney for a breakfast at one of the Farm Shops that have evolved over recent years in the local area. We chatted over a breakfast that included black pudding and Bubble & Squeak, and Frome Town was the dominant topic rather than Chelsea. It wasn’t surprising. He is, after all, the Frome Town chairman. Courtney had hoped that our game with Wolverhampton Wanderers would be shunted to the Sunday so he could attend two matches during his very short stay, but it wasn’t to be.

On the way back to Frome, I drove through a few local villages to give Courtney a taste of the local scenery. We drove past the majesty of the George pub at Norton St. Philip – built in the fifteenth century – and saw the stocks on the village green at Faulkland, then on into Frome via Hardington and Buckland Dinham, with the autumn colours giving a vibrant backdrop to our journey, and with a pure blue sky above.

Once I was home, I finished off the “match section” of the Tottenham blog after editing the photos and typing out the “pre-match” a few days before. As ever, it took me between three and four hours to complete the entire thing.

I eventually posted it at just after midday.

It was at this time that my usual match-going colleagues – PD and LP – were arriving in London at Paddington. They had made their own way up and were going on a mini pub crawl with “Greek” and “Salisbury” before the match and were then coming home with me.

I arrived earlier than usual at Badgers Hill, at around 1.45pm. It was still a beautiful day, no clouds above, and I was able to stop and chat to a nice selection of friends – a couple I met back in 1978 – and match-going acquaintances before the game with Hartpury. The visitors represent Hartpury College in Gloucestershire, and this was our first-ever meeting.

I was hoping for a gate of around 500 for this game. The two games before drew 525 and 514.

Before the match, the crowd quietened and the players of both teams stood in the centre circle. A bugler played “The Last Post” and this was followed by two minutes of pristine silence. I stood, head bowed, near the corner flag.

I was pleased that Courtney was able to witness this moment.

Of course, there is a special link with Chelsea Football Club and the recognition of remembering those lost in conflict, and I hoped that I would arrive at Stamford Bridge later that evening to witness the pre-match ceremony. If not, at least I had this.

Unfortunately, the first half of the game was a very scrappy affair and not many chances were created for either side. I thought the visitors shaded the first half-an-hour, but Frome slowly improved. I photographed a header from Albie Hopkins that brought a fine save from former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. We watched the first half from the Clubhouse End but switched to see the second half in The Cowshed along the side. Courtney chose to watch from the Clink End alongside the Ultras’ flag that bears his name.

I love the many little parts that make up Badgers Hill, all with their own little quirks and charms.  

My Chelsea mate Glenn appeared to watch the second half with my gaggle of Frome mates, and we were rewarded with a much-improved second half showing. We turned the screw as the game continued and played the last half-an-hour with three strikers. Although we went close, that all-important goal wouldn’t materialise.

It stayed at 0-0 and the gate was just shy of my target; 495.

It meant that Frome Town were in third place in the league but were top of the attendances by some margin.

Frome Town 473

Melksham Town 379

Westbury United 327

Malvern Town 311

Portishead Town 306

I met up with Courtney, with Glenn by my side, at the end of the game, just before I left the stadium.

“Well, I just wish both of you could hop into my car and we could go to Chelsea tonight, but…”

My voice trailed off.

I pulled away from the Selwood School overflow carpark dead on 5pm.

I was on my way east.

My GPS signalled that I would roll in at about 7.20pm.

“Perfect.”

On the drive to London, I half-listened to the Sunderland vs. Arsenal game. There were intermittent reports from Twickenham and the England vs. Fiji rugby union game, and after each one I belted out “no one cares.”

At around 6.30pm, I found myself driving right past Twickenham, and I certainly didn’t care.

When Arsenal went 2-1 up, I turned the radio off.

Traffic slowed a little, and I wasted a few minutes finding somewhere to park, but at 7.30pm I was parked on Barons Court Road opposite West Kensington tube station.

Despite my best efforts – and with speed limits always honoured – I reached the Matthew Harding Stand at 8pm. When I reached the turnstile, there were only four people behind me. However, I didn’t reach my seat until 8.07pm, thus missing the minute of silence, and the kick-off.

PD was happy to see me as I sidled past.

I would soon learn that we had got off to a very decent start.

I would also find out that a very late Sunderland equaliser had spoiled Arsenal’s day out in the North-East.

Right. I needed to acclimatize.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Garnacho

Delap

This was our second game against the Wanderers from Wolverhampton in ten days, but since the last match they had dispensed with their manager, and were now being coached by committee, one of whom could well have been their coach driver.

With just two points on the board this season, it felt like they were down already. Their team was largely unfamiliar to me; here was an ensemble of whoevers, whatevers, and even a Hoever on their subs bench.

Well dear reader, despite the apparently decent start, as soon as I plonked my ‘arris on Seat 369, the game went to pieces. It was if it was my punishment for arriving unfashionably late.

So, for this, I am truly sorry.

The game meandered along at a very leisurely pace.

One incident on twenty minutes summed up my frustration and the frustrations of those around me. The ball was just outside our box after a tepid Wolves foray into our half, and Enzo was on the ball, centrally. I looked up to see Pedro Neto, right on the halfway line, holding his position, but ready to bust into acres of space, his marker tucked inside.

I yelled out “hit him Enz’, it’s in your locker.”

He ignored me – maybe I should learn Spanish – but chose to play trigonometry in the “D”, knocking the ball to a spare defender, who then played it to Sanchez; we favoured tiny triangles in the penalty box rather than a long chip into space.

How irritating.

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, we then saw a flurry of activity at The Shed End.

Enzo crashed a bouncing bomb of an effort at the Wolves goal, but their ‘keeper Sam Johnstone tipped it over. From the resulting corner, Enzo’s inswinger was hacked off the line by a defender. We then hit the side netting with a shot from close in.

On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding suddenly realised that it is their job to support the team and a rather lacklustre and lethargic “Come On Chelsea” was heard.  

The play down below me was equally lacklustre and lethargic.

I mumbled to myself “the new Chelsea ethos – why take one touch when you can take five?”

There was a slightly more spirited show of support when an “Amazing Grace” rumbled around The Bridge but this was a poor game, both on and off the pitch.

In the closing moments of the half, Joao Pedro screwed a shot wide of the far post after an effort from Enzo was blocked. Alejandro Garnacho was the instigator of this chance, and he looked like the only one who was being a little more direct. Marc Cucurella was full of fight, but only these two seemed to be playing with much integrity.

Just before half-time, my Frome mate Steve messaged me: “another 0-0 would be cruel.”

At the break, I heard from PD about their four-stop pub crawl from Paddington to Fulham; seven hours of it. Gulp.

The second half began with Steve’s words ringing in my ears.

Two goalless draws would indeed be cruel.

In the first minute, a bursting run from Pedro Neto and a cross to the otherwise quiet Liam Delap, but his delicate touch went well wide.

Five minutes later, Garnacho and Cucurella teased an opening down below me. The former sent over a cross with his right foot, and I watched with pleasure as Malo Gusto arrived at the back post to head down and in.

Chelsea 1 Wolves 0.

Phew.

My rise to my feet for this goal was slow, and it honestly shocked me. Maybe I was just fed up I didn’t have my camera out to snap the goal. I made sure I took some of the celebrations. It was Gusto’s first-ever goal for us.

A strike from outside the box from Delap was hardly worthy of the name.

On the hour, the first shot of the game from the visitors.

On sixty-four minutes, a change.

Estevao Willian for Delap, and Joao Pedro was shunted forward. This warmed the crowd, especially in the absence of Cole Palmer; someone to excite us.

His impact was sudden. He accelerated past two markers and aimed a low cross towards Neto in the box – on film, but too poor to share – but the ball was deflected towards Joao Pedro. He slammed it in.

Goal.

Chelsea 2 Wolves 0.

Lovely stuff.

Wolves were faced with the choice of “stick or twist” and chose the latter. They opened up a little. On seventy-three minutes, an aimless punt was headed away by Trevoh Chalobah, and Enzo adeptly pushed it up towards Garnacho. This time, my camera was ready. He put the burners on and raced past his marker. As he neared the box, he spotted Neto inside. My photo is a little blurred, but I think it captures the moment. Neto slammed it in.

Chelsea 3 Wolves 0.

That goal could have been Pedro and Diego Costa in the autumn of 2016.

We were home and dry now, and the manager changed things again.

Marc Guiu for Pedro Neto.

The substitute came close, soon after, when Moises Caicedo won the ball back, and set up a move involving Estevao and Joao Pedro, whose shot was parried, and Guiu could only stoop and head against the post on the follow up.

If only Marc Guiu could be a little more like Mark Hughes.

Garnacho was on fire, and set up Guiu, but a shot went wide.

Two late substitutions.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Jamie Gittens for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-five minutes, a Cucurella error and a rare Wolves shot on goal.

Meanwhile, in the closing moments, The Shed occupied itself with some old-school chanting…

“We’re the middle, we’re the middle…”

“We’re the west side, we’re the west side…”

It would have been pretty funny if Wolves joined in.

“We’re the white wall…”

The game was won – well won – in the end, but oh that first-half, as at Frome, was so poor.

I met up with Parky for the first time of the day as I picked them both up on Lillee Road.

Sadly, traffic delays on the M4 and a diversion via the A4 meant that I did not reach home until 2.30am. I couldn’t even be bothered to check the photos from both games and shot straight to bed soon after.

6.45am to 2.45am.

Sixteen hours of football.

It’s a good job I am on time-and-a-half on Saturdays.

See you all at Burnley.

FROME TOWN VS. HARTPURY

CHELSEA VS. WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS