Tales From A Black Country Comedy

Posted on November 4, 2025 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2025.

On an increasingly cold night in Wolverhampton, we watched Chelsea produce a fine first-half performance but to then self-implode in an increasingly bizarre, and at times comedic, second half. We ended up edging the game in a seven-goal thriller, although it was hardly a bona fide thriller. If anything, it was a black comedy.

A Black Country comedy.

After a decent but lengthy trip up to Lincolnshire for our first battle in this season’s League Cup, we could hardly resist a nice little jaunt into the West Midlands for a tie with Wolves.

I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, and the three usual protagonists were joined by my work colleague Simon. For a while, Simon was a bit of a Jonah on these Chelsea trips; he went winless in around seven trips a while ago. If we lost this one, I wondered if I should leave him up in in the wilds of the Black Country.

Heading north and over the M4, the trusty Sat Nav sent us on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the Southern Cotswolds, apparently avoiding roadworks and delays on the usual M4/M5 route. There was a little drama as Parky had difficulty in locating the email containing the elusive ticket for the evening’s game. Eventually, Simon sorted him out.

My ETA at Broad Street Car Park was around 6.15pm. The journey time of just over three hours would be longer than usual. Oh well, rush hour traffic south of Birmingham can’t be – er – rushed,

At least I was rewarded with some cracking views as I descended from The Cotswolds and into the Severn Vale at Coaley Peak. Then, for a while on the M5, while the others slept, clear blue skies to my west contrasted with wild and towering clouds over the hills to my east, the whole of that section of sky coloured with a lavender wash, but with dark grey brooding clouds in the distance, but then the tops of clouds were searing white, given life by the fading sun.

I wished that I could have stopped on the hard shoulder to take a few photographs.

I quick stop at Frankley Services, and then the slow approach into Wolverhampton through Dudley and Coseley.

The Sat Nav was bang on; I was parked up at 6.15pm. Simon sorted out the relevant parking App, and we then walked the ten minutes to Molineux.

All along I doubted that this game would sell out, despite the cheap ticket prices. We paid just £15 in the away section. I presumed that home areas were similarly priced. We stayed a while in the concourse, chatting to a few loyalists. Simon devoured a Balti Pie; PD supped a hot chocolate. After the Sunderland defeat, nobody was clear what performance was coming from Team Maresca.

I headed into the seats at 7.15pm. I was in row K, the tenth of fourteen in that elongated away tier, towards the Wolves’ South Bank.

The squad were running through their stretches, sprints and drills.

The substitutes were stretching with those elasticated resistance bands on their calves. From a distance, it looked like a load of blokes, hungover after a night on the ale, trying to put their underpants on.

The stadium at this stage was barely a third full. Our section took a while to fill too.

It was getting colder, but my new fleece-lined K-Way jacket was doing me proud.

With ten minutes to kick-off, there was a very half-hearted “Hi Ho Wolverhampton” and I wondered if the crowd would grow any further.

Next, “Firestarter” was played as the flames were set loose in front of us, and it temporally warmed us.

Then an homage to their life president Robert Plant, “Whole Lotta Love” and Kashmir” as kick-off approached. There were gaps everywhere, in the top corners of the main stand opposite, the odd “temporary” seats in the far corner to my left were devoid of people, as was the right-hand side of the ugly two-tier stand to my right.

As the teams appeared, a very odd choice of songs.

“Those Were The Days” by Mary Hopkin.

Ah, Mary Hopkin, my first-ever girlfriend, stop laughing at the back. I remember being exited when I heard that she was from Wales and that we were going to Tenby in South Wales for a family holiday in around 1968 and I wondered if I would meet her. I was only three.

I’m still waiting, Mary.

Now, I’m not sure if this song was meant to reference Wolves’ glory years. If it was, it was a decade out. A song by the Beverley Sisters would have been more apt.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Acheampong – Tosin – Hato

Lavia – Santos

Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens

George

It did not come as much of a surprise that Josh was the only player to retain his place from the Sunderland debacle, squad rotation et al.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked off.

Chelsea, in a crisp all-white kit, attacked the South Bank.

Very soon into the game, the locals teased us.

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

Oh boy.

“World Champions, you mean?”

We began well, and after just five minutes, Jamie Gittens picked up a loose ball inside the Wolves half and the ball ran on and into the path of Andrey Santos, who calmly slotted the ball home past Jose Sa.

Santos raced over to celebrate to my left.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.

The home team came at us on the occasional break, and their wide men floated in a couple of testing crosses. It was a lively start.

One of the blokes to my left had already claimed that “Tyrique George ain’t a striker” – I knew what he meant, he’s a wide player, and doesn’t have the physicality to lead the line in a traditional way – so imagine the looks he received when a really fine move flowed through our team, and Gittens set up George to push the ball in from close range.

Only a quarter of an hour had elapsed.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.

Just after, we went close again. A Gittens shot was blocked by Sa, but George was just unable to control the rebound, and the ball went wide.

Gittens was enjoying tons of space on the left, close to us, and a clipped cross caused havoc again.

It was lovely to be so close to Gittens as he continually exploited space on our left. I lost count of the times that he advanced with confidence, teasing their right back.

The lad hadn’t really enjoyed a great start at Chelsea.

Kev sagely commented that the adage of giving everyone one season to settle in at a new club still rings true, and we both hoped that Gittens will go on to find his true form. This first-half performance from him lit up the cold Wolverhampton night.

“Their right back will be having nightmares later on…”

On forty-one minutes, Wolves attempted to play the ball out, but Chelsea were having none of it. Santos stole the ball, and it ran towards Estevao. One touch to control, one touch to cheekily lob the ball over Sa.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.

At half-time, the temperature worsened.

As our team took to the pitch at the start of the second period, I experienced a very odd feeling. I quickly glimpsed at them all, in an unfamiliar all white kit, and the players, taken as a whole, suddenly seemed oddly unfamiliar.

This jolted me.

I quickly attributed this to our large squad of mainly young, and relatively new players, and the fact that our team changes so bloody often.

It honestly felt that I hardly knew these players.

A few friends and acquaintances often say they feel no connection to the players in the current squad and here was a similar feeling for me. For a few fleeting moments, it felt that the players were ghosts in my consciousness…

Little did I know then, but for the next forty-five minutes, they played like they were bloody ghosts too.

The home team, with two half-time substitutions, suddenly upped their game, and went close with a cracking volley from Arokodare, who had headed just wide from a Wolves free kick in the closing minutes of the first half.

On forty-seven minutes, Buonanotte gave the ball away cheaply and the ball was worked out to Arokodare – a suspicion of offside? – who swept the ball in from their left.

Wolves 1 Chelsea 3.

Get out.

A succession of petty fouls from us gave Wolves some sort of motivation and they seemed emboldened. We, however, lacked desire and application.

On the hour, Maresca made three substitutions.

Marc Cucurella for Malo Gusto.

Enzo Fernandez for Romeo Lavia.

Liam Delap for Estevao.

As Delap strode onto the pitch, I thought to myself “yeah, we have missed you mate.”

I wondered if we had created a single effort on goal in this half. I thought not.

On seventy-two minutes, George gave away a damn silly foul on a Wolves defender. The defender was about twenty yards away from his own goal line, going nowhere. My message at times like this is always the same.

“Pen him in.”

Those around me were fuming at George too.

One lad said, “if we let in a second, nightmare.”

From the resulting free kick, the ball was knocked forward, and Wolves won a throw on the far side.

Oh great, a long throw.

The ball came in, the ball bobbled off heads and finally dropped for David Moller Wolfe who slammed it low past Joregensen from an angle.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 3.

Get out.

On seventy-six minutes, Pedro Neto replaced George.

Delap received a yellow card for bringing his hands up to push away a marker, and I lambasted him for being so silly.

On eighty-five minutes, Moises Caicedo replaced Buonanotte.

It seemed that the manager had taken too bloody long to realise the paucity of quality in this half and that he chose to bring on our strongest – in every sense of the word – player with just five minutes to go speaks volumes.

A minute later, I watched closely as Delap jumped with his marker, untidily, then elbowed the defender.

A second yellow.

No words.

Ugh.

Down to ten men, again, we were now hanging on in a game that looked done and dusted at the break.

The minutes ticked by.

I admitted to others that “we don’t deserve to win this.”

There was a comment about Halloween coming up soon, and this being a premature horror show.

At that exact moment, Gittens was put through and without a single touch to steady the ball, he lobbed the Wolves ‘keeper with an amazing first-time effort.

Get in, Gittens.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 4.

I looked at Kev and said “that’s just funny” without the merest hint of a celebratory cheer.

As six minutes of extra time was announced on the PA, I was checking my ‘phone and I looked up to see both the ball and Cucurella end up in the net.

They must have scored straight from the kick-off, how I do not know.

Wolves 3 Chelsea 4.

Get out.

What a ramshackle, preposterously bad, comedy-show of a football match.

Fackinell.

As we assembled outside before walking back to the car, it honestly felt like we had lost. I took little pride in this match. It had been, ultimately, a mess of a football game.

It could, of course, have been worse. Also playing during the evening were Frome Town, at home to local rivals Larkhall Athletic. Frome went 1-0 up but eventually lost 1-3. Two losses would have been hard to take.

There were diversions on the way home, too, and it meant that I didn’t reach my house until 1.20am. On that drive back to civilisation, we learned that we had been drawn away again in this competition, at Cardiff City.

There’s nice.

Postscript : when I woke on Thursday morning, it still felt like a loss.

Tales From The Usual Suspects And Danny Bloody Wellbeck

Posted on September 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, bugger.

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

I include it below.

Bless you Albert. You are missed.

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

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

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

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Hato – Cucurella

Santos – Caicedo

Estevao– Enzo – Neto

Joao Pedro

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

It was a sunny day in SW6.

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

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

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

“Good save, son.”

Marc Cucurella then flashed a shot wide.

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

Brighton threatened a little, but nothing too sinister.

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

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

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

I hate modern football.

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

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

Ugh.

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

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

An odd sensation.

And an even odder sentence.

Football, eh?

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

“How old is Boris Becker?”

“How old is Lance Armstrong?”

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

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

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

Answers :

57
54
Not a clue.
71.

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

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

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

The.

Worst.

Ever.

Think about it.

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

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

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

Off went Chalobah.

Maresca chose to replace Santos with Josh Acheampong.

From the resulting free-kick, Gomez blasted over.

What now?

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

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

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

On sixty-three minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Estevao.

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

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

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

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

Well, bollocks.

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

Benoit Badiashile replaced Hato.

Romeo Lavia replaced Neto.

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

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

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

The frustrated crowd groaned.

This whole match was drifting away from us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, bollocks.

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

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

Down in Totton, Frome had lost 2-4.

It had not been a good day at all.

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

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

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

Excited?

No, neither am I.