Tales From Row Z And The Back Row

Posted on December 18, 2025 by Chris Axon

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.

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

Posted on December 16, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on December 14, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on December 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Tales From Walham Green

Posted on October 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 25 October 2025.

This would be Sunderland’s first visit to SW6 since the very last game of the 2016/17 season, a resounding 5-1 Chelsea triumph.

And with disruption on the London Underground taking place over the weekend, we decided to keep close to Stamford Bridge before our game against the Black Cats.

I had quickly visited the new “Walham Green” pub on the first day of the season, but it was too busy – and too hot, under the glass roof – and I didn’t enjoy it. However, on this occasion it was a much more enjoyable visit. I like what the Wetherspoon Company has done with the former ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway underground station. For a while it hosted a market hall, with small shops, but the space has not been used for a few years. Thankfully many of the fittings have remained to this day, and just being in the building brings back so many lovely memories of attending games at Stamford Bridge in my younger days.

Walking up the slight slope, my parents alongside me, the colour of match day, the London accents, cigarette smoke, the chatter, the noise.

The ticketing booths have become the serving areas, underneath a glorious “To The Trains” sign, and even the brass coin wells are still intact.

The building was erected in 1888, and the station was named Walham Green until a change to Fulham Broadway in 1952, just in time for our first League Championship three years later. I have strong memories of watching the 1997 FA Cup parade outside the station and looking up at the many Chelsea supporters who had climbed onto the building to gain a good vantage point.

The old station was used in the opening minutes of the 1998 film “Sliding Doors.”

I joined Parky, PD, Jimmy The Greek and the two Steves for a drink or two from around 10.30am, and we were sat alongside an overflowing table of visiting Sunderland supporters. Another lone Mackem – with a full Sunderland tracksuit top on show – was denied service, and I guess there is a “no away supporters” ruling in operation, although there are no signs. The lads next to us were not wearing Sunderland colours or favours, save for one lad who had his home shirt covered up under a zipped pullover.

They were friendly lads and invited us to their local when we get to visit their hometown on the last day of this current season. I mentioned one fantastic pub we visited in 2016/17, and it turns out that their local is just a few yards away.

Before the season had started, surely the Wearsiders would have been among the favourites to be relegated but their early season form has been surprisingly good. With us not knowing which Chelsea team would show up against them, I – for one – was not being blasé about the outcome of this match.

Sunderland were one of the traditional giants of the English game, though they have not won a single major honour for over fifty years. For those of a certain age, who can ever forget their 1-0 FA Cup win against Leeds United at Wembley in 1973?

Their haul of six league titles equals our total, though the last of these was in 1935/36.

People talk of the powerhouses of the modern era, and the names of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester City and Chelsea are usually cited.

Yet in the first decades of the professional game in England and Wales, it was a little different. From 1888/89 to 1938/39, the most successful teams were Aston Villa and Sunderland with six titles each, then Arsenal and Everton with five, then Liverpool, Newcastle United and Sheffield Wednesday with four.

I always think that these old established clubs inherently carry a lot of gravitas, and it suits my traditionalist outlook on football when a sleeping giant emerges from years of heartache. In 2019/20, Sunderland sank to their lowest ever league position, eighth in League One. But now they were back.

The previous evening, I had briefly scanned the teams that are currently in the prime positions in the Championship, and I was pleased by the quality of teams – I mean stadia, really – that will be vying for promotion come May. Rather than the same old tired old teams, there is a refreshing blend of names that thrilled me.

The first nine are all crackers.

Coventry City : Frank Lampard’s current team were last in the topflight in 2000/2001, when they played at Highfield Road, a stadium I visited on three occasions. I once visited their current stadium in the FA Cup in 2009. Coventry is a good away trip for me, “up the Fosseway” and I am long overdue a visit.

Middlesbrough : much-maligned but we like our visits to Teesside. Their last top-flight season was 2016/17, but before that it was 2008/9. It’s certainly a cheap night out.

Millwall : I never went to the Den, and I haven’t visited the New Den. It’s about time I went. It will be an experience, for sure, and I have to tick it off at some stage surely? Their last year in the topflight was 1989/90 when I was in North America; a pretty good excuse for not going to the Den if you ask me.

Bristol City : only twenty-three miles away, but my last visit with Chelsea was over thirty years ago. Their last season in the top flight was 1979/80. I have only visited Ashton Gate three times with Chelsea; 1975/76, 1984/85 and 1995/96. I know a few locals who follow City. This would be a very enticing away fixture.

Stoke City : I love going back to my old college town, and this would be a pretty decent away day for me. There must be a few remaining pubs from those years that I can winkle out and revisit. Plus, I need to polish up my Stoke accent too.

Charlton Athletic : a ground that I last visited in 2002, and another trip that is long overdue. I have only visited The Valley twice and I haven’t seen any of it apart from the walk from the train station to the away end. To go there again would be lovely.

Preston North End : their last season in the topflight was 1960/61, and the last time that they were in the same division as Chelsea was 1980/81. I loved the remodelled Deepdale when we played them in the FA Cup in 2010, and a return trip would be excellent.

Hull City : another maligned city, but some great pubs near the marina, I am sure we could find some other pubs too. It’s not a bad stadium as it goes.

Queens Park Rangers : no issue returning here, maybe just for a one-off visit before they get relegated again no doubt. It’s a tight and cramped stadium, but quite unique these days. Whisper it, but it does have its charms.

If I had to chose three it would be Coventry City, Millwall and Bristol City.

After a nice and relaxing time in the first pub, we quickly moved over to “The Tommy Tucker” for more drinks. Here, I met up with Nick, Kimberley and Josh – last seen in Wroclaw – plus Angela, Andrew and Matt. Five out of six are from Fresno, Josh from LA. It was lovely to see them again. As I had mentioned in the Ajax report, a few went to see Dagenham & Redbridge play during the week, and Nick told me that a local chap was intrigued by their accents and a conversation ensued. It turned out that this chap was the manager of Depeche Mode, and of course I had to mention that Dave Gahan and Andy Fletcher – RIP – were Chelsea supporters.

With storm clouds gathering – looking out at the light steel of the Stamford Bridge roof, the dark clouds above were so dramatic – I made a move at about 2.15pm.

Thankfully, the rain soon passed but would return with gusto soon into the match.

We had seen the team on our mobile phones in the pub; I generally approved.

Robert

Reece – Josh – Trevoh – Marc

Enzo – Moises

Pedro – Joao – Alejandro

Marc

It was a ropey start to begin with, and Robert Sanchez made two wayward passes to teammates in the first few minutes. This encouraged the away team to attack, and I wondered what sort of afternoon was lying in wait for us.

Thankfully, a Sunderland move was quashed by an Enzo Fernandez tackle, and then Pedro Neto passed the ball out to Alejandro Garnacho.

As the young Argentinian raced down the left wing, and entered the penalty box, I muttered : “Go on Garnacho, be selfish.”

He must have heard me because he slammed the ball past the Sunderland ‘keeper to give us a 1-0 lead.

Phew.

The clouds had dispersed by now and the sun was out; Chelsea were 1-0 up and all was well with the world.

Garnacho looked the liveliest player in blue during the opening moments, but I was impressed, too, with Enzo’s intelligent promptings from his more central position.

We were the brighter of the two teams, and we caused a few problems at the Shed End. A thumper from Moises Caicedo was deflected wide.

The first fifteen minutes were ours, the first twenty minutes were ours.

However, on twenty-two minutes, a long throw-in on the far side was captured by my camera – “look away now” – and my camera also captured the confusion in our six-yard box as the ball bobbled against heads, though not shared here. The resultant loose ball was bashed home by Wilson Isidor. They celebrated in front of us. As I saw their red and white shirted players assemble, I momentarily wondered if I should take a photo. A tough one. I thought of the fans taking photos of opposing players celebrating with their mobile phones, and I didn’t want to be like them. But my conscience was clear. I wasn’t right next to the players. I would never take a photo of opposing players celebrating up close. I wouldn’t be part of the scene. I was fifteen yards away, out of shot. A quick snap.

It was a moment when my twin passions became embattled; me as a supporter, me as a photographer.

Oh well.

Not long after, a delightful ball in between our defenders by an unknown Sunderland player had me gasping – “the best ball of the game so far” – but the recipient, another unknown Sunderland player, could not finish.

PD : “we’re losing it here.”

Upfront, we were getting weaker.

The chap next to me – Josh from Dartford, formerly Margate and a Margate fan – made a very succinct point that it seemed that we had forgotten that we now had a physical presence up front and we didn’t want to play him in.

Poor Marc Guiu didn’t have much service at all.

We didn’t hit him early, we didn’t give him something to run on to, we didn’t cross towards him. I felt so sorry for him. Instead, he found himself coming short and impinging on Joao Pedro’s space.

On the half hour a frustrated “Come on Chelsea” rumbled from the Matthew Harding.

On forty-three minutes a riser from Trevoh Chalobah was tipped over.

There were grumbles at half-time and Gary, a few seats along, made the point of how slow it all was, and one of the main culprits was Reece James.

“A great player Gal, yeah, but his first touch is often at walking pace.”

[in the back of my mind : “but I guess he is told by Maresca to slow it down.]

Ugh.

But some bright news elsewhere; Frome Town were 3-0 up at Malvern Town.

GET IN.

And Josh was happy that Margate were 4-0 up (at the same level as my lot, but further east.)

The second half began, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding.

A James free kick from the right caused havoc but a defender thumped the ball away.

There was a rapid break from Neto on fifty minutes, but with Garnacho alongside him and in a promising position, the ball was played behind him.

The Argentinian then curled a lazy shot over.

On 58 minutes, Estevao replaced Alejandro.

There was a lovely buzz that met his first few touches of the ball, and a chance quickly fell for him, but his shot was deflected for a corner.

Sunderland’s role in all of this was easy to fathom.

Defend deep – “low block” as per the nerds – and catch us on the break.

On the hour, noise at last.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

There was a fantastic sliding tackle from Young Josh, who was enjoying a solid game.

On seventy-six minutes, two more changes.

Jamie for Marc, not his day.

Tosin for Josh, a surprising one.

We dominated so much of the ball, but Sunderland defended like their lives depended on it.

A cross came in, the Sunderland ‘keeper punched it clear, Cucurella went down like he had hit by a heavyweight boxer’s glove.

Oh boy.

More changes on eighty-five minutes.

Tyrique for Pedro, surprisingly poor.

Andrey for Joao, disappointing.

And as the final twelve minutes came and went, and as we ate into the added six minutes of injury time, everyone was thinking the same thing.

“We’ll concede, here.”

I even said this to Josh :

“We’re attacking, they break, ball gets played across the box, they sweep it in.”

On ninety-three minutes, the ball was walloped high up towards Brian Brobbey. He had his back to goal, and was shadowed by Tosin, with Chalobah nearby, in the slips. I decided to snap – “look away now” – as he guarded the ball with his life.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed…the ball was zipped inside, square.

Chemsdine Talbi arrived to slide the ball painfully past Sanchez.

Oh fuck.

The Sunderland fans roared.

I texted some mates : “why did nobody have the hunger to track the runner?”

Chemsdine Talbi joined the ranks of Clive Walker, John Byrne and Gordon Armstrong as Sunderland anti-heroes.

Sigh.

A few days before this game, I had asked some mates if it was good or bad luck – I could not remember – for a black cat to cross your path.

The consensus was, definitely, bad luck.

On this day, I had to agree.

Tales From A Night Of Chelsea Daggers And Zigger Zaggers

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Benfica : 30 September 2025.

History.

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

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

Thus far, four games and four wins.

Players.

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

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

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

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

We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.

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

Managers.

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

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

Modern Football – Part One.

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

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

Modern Football – Part Two.

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

Modern Football – Part Three.

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

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

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

Pre-Match.

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

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

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

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

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

I was in at 7.45pm.

Teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho

Tyique George

Kick-Off.

Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.

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

Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.

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

The First-Half.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GET IN.

And then my night got worse.

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

My heart sank.

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

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

I hate modern football.

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

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

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

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

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

The Second-Half.

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

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

On the hour, two more substitutions.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Joao Pedro for George.

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

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

“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”

“OI OI OI.”

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

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

If only, eh?

If fucking only.

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

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

On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.

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

We howled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s Go Home.

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

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

Ah well, all roads lead to Frome.

2012

2013

2025

Tales From The Gtech

Posted on September 16, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 13 September 2025.

What did I do in the international break?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bollocks.

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

It’s quite a site and quite a sight.

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

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

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

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

It was 5pm.

I had left my village in Somerset at 2.15pm.

Job done.

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

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

Lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Chalobah – Hato

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Buonanotte – Gittens

Joao Pedro

The defence seemed ridiculously unfamiliar.

“Have you chaps met each other yet?”

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

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

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

Only time would tell.

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

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

The teams appeared to our left.

At 8pm, the referee Stuart Attwell whistled.

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

It came to nowt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bollocks to you Jordan Henderson.

El-Ettifaqinell.

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

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

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

This had turned into a hard watch.

I turned to Andy from Nuneaton.

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

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

So, Mister Maresca, what you got?

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Reece James for Fofana.

Tyrique George for Buonanotte.

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

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

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

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

God knows where everyone would play now.

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

Am I right?

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

Fackinell.

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

Our play improved immeasurably.

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

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

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

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

Get in.

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

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

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

He shot.

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

Ugh.

On seventy-six minutes, one final change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I see the net ripple? Of course not.

But I heard the noise and saw the gorgeous celebrations.

GET IN.

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

Limbs, limbs and more limbs.

Beautiful stuff.

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

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

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

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

Oh bollocks.

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

A second winner was not forthcoming.

Time ran out.

Ugh.

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

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

And I suppose it was time to be pragmatic.

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

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

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

My next game will be at Old Trafford.

See you there.