Tales From A Nervous Night

Posted on May 21, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 19 May 2026.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham. It gets the pulses racing, eh?

It’s always a key fixture every single season against “that lot”, but this one could have been so much bigger, and so much better. If only we could have been able to relegate them on this fourteenth anniversary of “Munich Day.”

If only they hadn’t picked up sufficient points in recent weeks…if only.

If is a big word.

I was up bright and early for another 6am to 2pm shift which would enable me to reach London in good time for the 8.15pm kick-off. After my spate of bad luck occurrences leading up to Saturday’s Cup Final, I wasn’t too happy about seeing seven individual magpies within a three-quarter of a mile stretch of road at the bottom of Bonnyleigh Hill between Frome and Beckington at about 5.30am.

Seven of the buggers!

You could say I was spitting feathers.

But maybe I would have been more worried if I had seen seven cockerels.

As the morning developed, I contemplated the potential enormity of the day. Should Manchester City draw at Bournemouth, Arsenal would become champions for the first time since 2004. If Tottenham were to draw at Stamford Bridge, they would relegate West Ham United, bar a mathematical miracle on the last day of the season.

This could be a day of destiny.

All of this was happening with the backdrop of Chelsea Football Club naming Xabi Alonso as our new manager – not coach, an important difference – on the Sunday after the FA Cup Final. In some ways, it felt that we did not deserve him, what with the way we have ridiculously hired and fired coaches over the last four years. It has been a comedy show, and we have collectively suffered from the constant laughter aimed our way from outside the club.

Alonso is one of Europe’s most respected new coaches. We have done very well to nab him, especially since I am sure that many Liverpool supporters were eying him up as a successor to the unloved Arne Slot.

When I came into work on the Monday, it was noticeable that the several Liverpool supporters in the office, rather than engaging with me about our loss in the Cup Final, were avoiding eye contact.

I think we all know why.

I thought about going up to each one of them and asking them a question :

“So, do I pronounce his name Zavvy, or Zabbi?”

But I resisted the thrill of seeing their teeth grinding and their eyes blubbing.

I worked an early shift, and took PD and Parky along the for the ride as per normal. At Reading Services, after Saturday’s escapade, I was relieved to see that I had used pump #9.

Phew.

I made my way into London and dipped into an Italian for a quick bite on Vanston Place.

The pre-match was spent in the packed and stifling “Tommy Tucker” where we were joined by surprise guests Foxy – and his amazing technicolour haircut – and Drew from Dundee, and George from Czechia. Talk was equally concerned with our stay on Tyneside & Wearside at the weekend as it was with the evening’s game. I was so hot that I only lasted an hour in the pub. I was inside the stadium at 7.15pm, a full hour before kick-off. At that stage in the evening, only a few hundred souls were inside.

Outside at CFCUK stall, I had briefly chatted to CFC writers Marco and Tim; they agreed with me that we were ridiculously lucky to have been able to acquire Alonso.

I chatted with Big John about that beautiful game against Tottenham in 2016 when we came back from trailing 0-2 at the break to draw 2-2 and to deny them their first league title since 1961. How can that be ten years ago?

John said that the game “had it all.”

I replied : “Yes it did, including three thousand miserable Tottenham pricks.”

Unfortunately, both Alan and Clive could not attend this one, but it was a pleasure to welcome Daryl to The Sleepy Hollow who had picked up Alan’s ticket late on. I can’t remember the last time we had watched a game next to each other; maybe at a New York Mets game in 2015.

The stadium filled, the players did their pre-match runs and stretches down below us, and with about ten minutes to go to kick-off, there was a rumble of “Oh when the Spurs…” in the rear reaches of the lower tier of the away section.

Joao Pedro was presented with his “Player of the Year” award; he would have received my vote for sure.

Calum McFarlane decided upon this eleven, and we found it odd that neither Levi Colwill nor Joao Pedro were featured.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Hato – Cucurella

Caicedo – Santos

Neto – Palmer – Fernandez

Delap

The minutes ticked by, and the seats that were unused around me thankfully filled.

The usual fizzbombs, flames and flashes.

Then “The Liquidator” and I joined in with the “We Hate Tot’num” chant which was louder than bombs.

But a slight concern and a slight worry; oddly Tottenham chose to wear their all-yellow away kit, with a navy yoke, and it brought back instant horrific memories of their visit in November 1978.

They had risen to the First Division after one year in the second flight in 1977/78 and shocked the football world with the acquisition of Argentina’s two World Cup Winners Osvaldo Ardiles and Ricardo Villa. Despite seeing Tottenham at home in 1974, I wanted to see them again in only my tenth game at Stamford Bridge. It was a supremely hot ticket; these two signings had captured the imagination of the entire football world, and I couldn’t wait to see Ardiles, especially. Stamford Bridge was stretched to its limit with a gate of 41,594. Chelsea went ahead with an overhead goal from Tommy Langley, but to my sadness the visitors – in an all-yellow kit with navy trim on their chest – came back to win 3-1. The aggro inside Stamford Bridge before the game had been the stuff of legend, and the whole arena was a bowl of animosity. The visitors from N17 packed out the entire northern terrace and their loud chant of “We are Tottenham from the Lane” would haunt me for years.

The game kicked off and thankfully there was no modern-day equivalent of Osvaldo Ardiles nor Glenn Hoddle in this Tottenham team.

Both teams had a few early approaches into each other’s penalty boxes. It was ridiculous how my mind’s eye played ridiculous tricks with my brain; Robert Sanchez was dressed in all orange, with his protective cap, and the Cech vibes were uncanny.

Both Daryl and I were upset with the widespread booing of Conor Gallagher; some of our fans are absolute fools.

Conor did not want to leave Chelsea. His whole family are supporters of the club. When it was clear that the hierarchy wanted to cash in on him – and I suspect that this action acted as a major factor in Pochettino leaving – he must have felt betrayed. He chose Atletico Madrid when Tottenham, allegedly, first came sniffing. I bet my life that he hated signing for them.

I felt for him.

I said to Daryl “he’s no Gordon Durie, after all.”

Indeed, he wasn’t. Durie wanted to head north, closer to his family in Scotland, so imagine our surprise and disgust when he didn’t choose the north, but the North Circular instead. His move to Tottenham in the summer of 1991 is still infamous thirty-five years later. Never has a former Chelsea player been as vilified by us as he was at White Hart Lane in the August of that year.

A cross from Tottenham right was deflected just wide of our goal by Jorrel Hato. Not long after, Mathys Tel – whoever he is – met a cross with a diving header and at first glance it looked like Sanchez had performed a fantastic reflex save at his post. The replay showed that he did not lay a finger on it; we heaved a sigh of relief.

There was a shot from Cole Palmer that curled at the Shed End goal, but the wonderfully named Antonin Kinsky was able to palm away.

It is not known if he was wearing Kinsky boots.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was floated up to Palmer who had drifted to the right. I saw that he needed help, so yelped out

“Go on support him.”

With that Pedro Neto raced forward to carry out my instructions perfectly.

Neto drifted inside and then played the ball to Enzo, who – without hesitation – decided to take aim and shoot at goal. The ball was hit from thirty yards out and flew into the net’ dropping into the corner at the last moment.

How we celebrated.

The place erupted.

I had taken a photo of the shot but it’s way too blurred to share here; the subsequent photos of his euphoric match down to the corner flag are a tad better.

This was fantastic. We were up 1-0 against the old enemy, and life was suddenly good again.

The visitors tried their best to get into promising positions, but our defenders were solid and tenacious when needed. To be honest, I thought we bossed the middle part of the half. Joas Acheampong, who has lots of admirers within our support, made some fine tackles and blocks. The pugnacious Cucurella, on the other flank, too.

I took two photos of a free kick that was awarded to us out on our left. First, Enzo standing over the ball focussing on the task ahead, and my photo in focus too. Second, the ball rebounding in a blur off the crossbar, with Kinsky beaten. Alas, too blurred to share. It again needed a TV replay for us to realise a ‘keeper had not managed to get a hand on the ball and that the goal’s frame saved the defending team.

The Tottenham support was gloriously quiet.

Tel was playing with one thigh ridiculously exposed, and it looked like he had tucked one leg of his shorts into his Y-fronts. I wondered if this was his thing, his superstition; maybe a little like how Wayne Grettzky used to tuck his NHL jersey in on one side.

The visitors enjoyed a fair proportion of the ball in the first half but didn’t look composed in possession. They rarely troubled us.

Daryl told me how he changed trains on his way in from Essex at Tower Hill, and that there were no eastbound trains on the District Line for a while. Apparently, a voice on the Tannoy announced that there was a points failure at West Ham.

I still don’t know if he was serious or not.

Late on in the half, a lone strike from Palmer whistled wide of the far post.

At the break, the consensus was that we had played well enough and that Tottenham were poor. Gallagher had not really been too involved. Out of interest, we had heard early in the evening that Bournemouth were beating City 1-0, and although this news did not go down too well, just imagine what the N17 contingent made of it; not only was their game going against them, but Arsenal were close to gaining their first league title for over two decades.

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

Tottenham had more of the ball, and their supporters reacted with a sustained period of noise. Their small selection of songs was aired; you know the ones.

Their infamous “Yid Army” chant was loud, and I still feel uneasy hearing it.

Richarlison was involved in two half-chances and for a while, we had seemed to shrink into ourselves a little. However, as the noise from the away section grew, I was really pleased and proud with the way that the home crowd responded so loudly.

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

I made my own special little contribution.

“Get in the game Chels.”

Someone must have heard me; we dug in and reacted nicely.

We were on the back foot no longer.

On sixty-seven minutes, we gathered possession from an errant Tottenham pass and Palmer was able to roam forward into lots of space; I picked up my camera, sixth-sensing a special moment. I caught his run on film. The ball was played out to Neto on the right, and he spotted two Chelsea bodies at the back post. Perhaps the cross was aimed at Delap, but Enzo was able to knock the ball back towards Santos as it fell short.

He swiped at the ball, I clicked my camera, Kinsky was beaten and the net rippled.

The place roared and so did I. I jumped up to the platform to my left and punched the air with both fists. I then realised that the scorer was running towards Enzo, down below us, and my camera clicked into action.

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

Our goal arrived at just the right time.

For a few moments, Stamford Bridge resembled the Stamford Bridge of old, and I buzzed at the greatness of it all.

If only all atmospheres could be like the one enveloping our famous old ground.

Just after, Tottenham made a triple substitution that included James Maddison and his COVID hair.

Sadly, on seventy-three minutes, a ball came in from the Tottenham right and there was a smart back-heel – from afar, it wasn’t unlike that of Semenyo at Wembley – that played in Richarlison. Both Daryl and I were hoping that an off-side flag would be raised, but no. The former Everton man slotted it home.

The lead was now slender; 2-1. It meant that if Tottenham scored one more, they would be safe from relegation.

A substitution was made on seventy-four minutes; Trevoh Chalobah for Acheampong.

What followed was a super-nervy period of over twenty minutes, taking in the seven minutes of injury time. Rarely have I felt so consumed by nerves and anxiety.

Elsewhere, Manchester City scored a ridiculously late equaliser, but the damage was done; Arsenal were Champions.

Yawn.

This was the match that counted.

On eighty-one minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced Fofana.

In an almost comedic moment, Delap was put through on goal in a race with a defender, but he too easily brought his hands up and blatantly pushed his combatant. What a bloody fool. He was booked.

This is a familiar Delap ploy. I remembered similar actions at Wrexham and Wembley; coming on as a late substitute, his first actions in both games were to manhandle an opponent with a shove in the back.

Pathetic.

A friend in the US soon sent me a WhatsApp message:

“Chris. Serious question. Have you ever seen a lower IQ player at Chelsea than Delap?”

I didn’t reply immediately but soon told him; “nerves in tatters.”

Three more substitutions took place on eighty-nine minutes, and I seriously doubted if this was wise.

Alejandro Garnacho for Neto.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

Shim Mheuka for Delap.

We were now Delapidated, but hopefully not dilapidated.

The game continued, and there seemed to be attack after attack on our goal. Thankfully all the Tottenham moves came to nothing, but we had to rely on a strong Hato block on Maddison near the goal to preserve our lead.

The final whistle was met with relief by everyone, and I soon posted on “Facebook.”

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

And nothing illustrates this more than our almost inhuman dominance over Tottenham Hotspur, especially in SW6, over the past thirty-six years.

I walked out past the Osgood statue, I remembered the #9 pump at the services, and I over-heard a fellow fan utter that it was a “good-ish game” and I knew exactly what he meant.

It wasn’t always top quality, and it was contested between two average teams.

Well, one average team.

But it seriously didn’t matter. We had beaten Tottenham. Their one point for safety had evaporated in the evening air. Our mighty home record against them continued unabashed.

But, oh my nerves.

See you on Sunday on Wearside.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur.

League Games @ Stamford Bridge.

1/12/90 to 19/5/26

W – 23

D – 11

L – 1

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.

A 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.