Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 22 February 2025.
Those two away games at Brighton were tough, eh?
They really tested my support for the current regime. Let’s not make any mistakes about these two matches; they were two of the worst performances that I can remember seeing, especially when one considers the financial outlay that brought those players together.
Next up was an away match at Aston Villa. They are undoubtedly a pretty decent team, well drilled and well managed by Unai Emery, and so it is fair to say that I was rather underwhelmed about the trip up to Birmingham.
No, I’ll be clearer; I was dreading it.
However, my football brain since the Brighton game on Friday night had been mainly occupied by Frome Town rather than Chelsea with my attendance at two of my local club’s matches. A match at Walton & Hersham on the Saturday was followed with a home game against Gosport Borough on the Tuesday. On Saturday afternoon, a little before the 5.30pm kick-off in Witton, there would be another Frome Town game that would be in the forefront of my mind too.
Frome Town used to be a whimsical distraction from the serious business of supporting Chelsea Football Club, but my affection for my local team has grown in many ways over recent years.
As I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10.30am ahead of the trip to Birmingham, there was a little part of me that wished that I was, instead, planning my day around a visit to Badgers Hill at three o’clock rather than Villa Park at half-five.
Glenn had accompanied me to the Walton & Hersham match. He had travelled up on the Frome Town Supporters Club coach – we had a healthy following of around seventy fans present in the 624 gate – and then came back in my car. We both agreed that it had been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. Frome dominated possession early in the game, but the home team enjoyed the best of the chances. In the second-half, Callum Gould tapped in a low cross from Rex Mannings to send the away fans into ecstasy, but the home team deserved a point after hitting the post twice and got their equaliser via a penalty. Two Chelsea mates of mine who follow Walton & Hersham, Rob and Martin, came to watch the game with us and there was a predictable share of banter about our two teams. Rob had visited Frome with Walton and Hersham earlier in the season. It was an excellent afternoon in the fringes of outer London.
To top it off, at the end of the game, the Frome contingent joined in with the home side’s raucous anthem.
“Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.
Laced-up boots and corduroys.
Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.
They call us the Cockney Cowboys.”
On the Tuesday evening, there was a repeat of the opening game of the league season when Gosport Borough visited Badgers Hill. This was a frustrating evening as the home team enjoyed much of the possession but lacked a cutting edge in attack. It ended 0-0, in front of an attendance of 379. It was a decent enough crowd on a bitterly cold evening. This left Frome second-from-bottom in the league table, but with a “must-win” game on the horizon, a home game against Marlow Town, the team below them in the league placings.
It would have been nice to be able to attend both games; the day brought back memories of us watching Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm at 3pm and Aston Villa vs. Chelsea at 8pm last April.
We picked up Parky just after 11am and we were on our way.
With talk of Frome Town dominating a large portion of the morning chat, I warned the lads that I might have a very real conflict of interests in April. Frome’s planned last game of the season is a home match against league leaders AFC Totton – a game that we might need to win or draw to achieve safety – but Chelsea are due to play Everton at home that day. I told them that if Frome needed something from the Totton game, it is hugely likely that I would prioritise Frome over Chelsea.
There, I said it.
The moment has been coming.
Let’s hope that Dodge are safe by then.
We made our way, north, and just a few miles on from Strensham Services, I reminded Parky of a horrible moment in time just over ten years ago. On Saturday 7 February 2015, the two of us were making our way up to the away game at Villa Park. We had just stopped for breakfast at Strensham. Unfortunately, I received a call from a carer who had called in to assist my mother and had reported that my mother had taken a turn for the worst. We immediately did an about-turn, and I raced home. I reached a hospital in Bath just to see my mother be carried in from an ambulance and into A&E.
Ten years ago. It seems like five minutes ago.
I made good time on the drive up the M5, and my planned arrival at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at 1pm only mis-fired by a few minutes.
The plan was to spend around three hours at “The Vine”, which would allow the drinkers a nice period to sup some ales and talk bollocks, and another chance to taste their famous curries. Initially, we were not allowed in. The place was rammed with West Brom and Oxford United fans, and the doorman said there just wasn’t enough room for anyone else. However, Glenn worked his magic on another of the security staff and we slithered in.
Parky and PD supped up their beers, while Glenn and I sampled some food. Goat curry and pilau rice for me, all very nice.
There was talk of foreign fields. I am unable to get time off work to attend the away game in Copenhagen – I last visited it in 1985 – but PD and Parky are heading over, flying out from Bristol and staying four nights. I am sure they will have a blast.
At 2pm, the customers began to leave and walk to The Hawthorns. By 3pm, the place was deserted save for us four. It felt odd to see such a transformation in such a short amount of time.
Sadly, by 3.05pm, I heard that bottom-of-the-table Marlow were 1-0 up at Frome. Even worse, by 3.24pm, it was 0-2.
Bollocks.
Thankfully, at 3.30pm, Rex Mannings had pulled a goal back.
Frome Town 1 Marlow Town 2.
Game on.
At 4pm, we hopped into my car, and I headed east, right past The Hawthorns, and I wondered if this was the closest that I had ever been to a professional football match without going inside. This was marginally closer than those games that had taken place at Stoke City’s old Victoria Ground when I lived so close in the ‘eighties.
On the way to my “JustPark” spot just off Witton Road in Handsworth, we heard that Albie Hopkins had levelled the score down in Somerset. Just as I dropped the lads off near the Witton Hotel, we heard that Hopkins had nabbed another.
I punched the air.
Frome Town 3 Marlow Town 2.
Great stuff.
Sadly, by the time I had parked-up, Marlow had equalised. And that is how it stayed. Three consecutive draws for Frome in eight days. At least, Dodge had risen to fourth-from-bottom and were now just two points from safety. Back in late November, we were adrift by a country mile.
I took a few photos outside and made my way to the stadium, past those red bricked buildings that I have mused about in the past, and I found myself walking on a small section of a cobbled pavement opposite the old tram depot. Ahead, the bulk of Villa Park.
All the Chelsea tickets were digital for this game.
At 5pm, with my SLR smuggled in yet again, I was inside.
PD and Parky were in the lower tier of the Doug Ellis Stand, while Glenn and I were up top. Glenn and I swapped our tickets – which effectively meant that we had to swap our phones to appease an over-zealous steward – to allow me to sit, or stand, next to my good friend Terry. Terry was present at last season’s game at Villa Park. He is a local Birmingham native, and a former workmate. It didn’t seem ten months ago that we were stood next to each other at that entertaining 2-2 draw in late April last year. This would be my twenty-first visit to see Chelsea play Villa at their home stadium. I preferred the old Villa Park, no surprises there, but the new edition has grown on me slowly. I like the way that they have kept a few motifs from the old stadium, not least the off-centre tunnel which sits opposite the away section at the western side of the old Trinity Road Stand.
I can’t deny it, those old stadia that grew organically decade by decade, of which Villa Park is a prime example, still have a hold on me and I often lose myself in photos of old stadia, ancient terraces, those ornate grandstands, those sweeping terraces. Football stadia is my secret love, though I suspect that perhaps everyone has noticed by now.
Every stadium has a few secrets.
Villa Park?
It once used to house a banked cycle track and the upper reaches of the old north terrace used to consist of grass as late as the mid-‘seventies.
Football stadia, these cathedrals for the working classes, that come alive for a few hours every few weeks or so, have always entranced me. It’s an obsession within an obsession.
When I attended the Chelsea vs. Newcastle United game on Saturday 16 February 1985 – the latest in my 1984/85 retrospective – I wanted to document the current state of the Stamford Bridge stadium and planned to get into The Shed very early to do so.
My diary from that day brings back to my mind my match-day routine of my student days in Stoke as I travelled down to London. I caught the 9.20am train down to Euston, the fields full of snow. In fact, this was the only topflight game to take place on this particular day, such had been the devastatingly cold weather at this time. Maybe for this reason, I had hoped that around 30,000 might attend this fixture, but with hindsight I was being too easily influenced by the two massive games between the two clubs the previous season.
I caught a tube down to Oxford Circus and walked through Carnaby Street down to the “Aquascutum” shop at the bottom end of Regent Street – a couple of decades later, I would work with a woman who was a shop assistant there – with the intention of buying a trademark check scarf. Alas, the prices scared me to death. Scarves were a massive £55, and again with hindsight I suspect these were the cashmere variant rather than the normal lambswool, and I immediately realised that this price was way beyond my pocket.
Instead, keen to buy something in London on this bitterly cold day, I backtracked to Carnaby Street and purchased one of those leather and suede patchwork jackets that were all the rage at the time. Glenn had recently purchased one, The Benches was rife with them, I simply had to have one.
£32 later, I had one.
It’s the equivalent of £100 today apparently. That seems about right to be fair.
Incidentally, I eventually purchased an “Aquascutum” scarf a month later, for a much more pleasing £15.
After my spell of West End shopping, I set off for Stamford Bridge and met up with Alan, Leggo and Uncle Skinhead outside the ground. At 1.10pm I entered The Shed and ascended the steps to take the panorama that I had planned.
The photos show the original layout of the old place, and I am lucky enough to remember it in its glory years.
That central alleyway in The Shed, but also the one at the rear of The Shed, the super-high floodlight pylons, those steps that were cut into the terrace to enable access to the members’ enclosure at the front of the West Stand, the barricaded unsafe portions of both end terracing, the low sweep of the North Stand, the Empress State Building, the steel of the massive Darbourne and Darke East Stand.
The photos show the ragged state of the pitch and Stamford Bridge looks freezing cold to this day.
A Benches roll-call :
Richard, Dave, Paul, Alan, me, Leggo and Mark.
The game itself was not great. My crowd guesstimate was optimistic in the extreme. So much for 30,000. It was just 21,806. I made a note that around 1,500 Geordies were present, a good enough turn out in those days. The only goal of the game came on just two minutes. A Doug Rougvie cross from the left was headed out but Darren Wood swept it home from the edge of the box. Pat Nevin then hit the bar with a free-kick. The second half was poor, and I remember the highlight being the substitute appearance of Micky Droy as I was walking along the walkway at the back of The Benches to make an early exit into The Shed. Droy had not played a single minute of our previous campaign, the successful 1983/84 season, so this was a fine moment for the Chelsea fans present to serenade him and to let him know that he was loved. He came on for Gordon Davies, and my diary reports that his very first touch almost put Kerry Dixon through. Alas, also, I noted “Dixon was pathetic today.”
After the match, I caught the tube back to Euston via Notting Hill Gate and caught the 6.10pm train back to The Potteries.
I hope that the images of Stamford Bridge in 1985 bring back some sweet memories.
Incidentally, on Wednesday 20 January 1985, I set off from my flat in Stoke-on-Trent to attend the second leg of the Milk Cup semi-final against Sunderland. I bought a train ticket and then bought a ‘paper. Alas, I was staggered to see no game listed. I looked at a second ‘paper for clarification and again there was no game. It had obviously been postponed due to the weather. Thankfully, I was able to get my ticket refunded, but I returned home with my tail between my legs. I can’t imagine the same thing happening these days, eh? It illustrates how adrift I felt from the day-to-day London scene, marooned in Staffordshire.
Back to 2025, and the build-up to the game. A face from 1985 – Mark – was standing right behind me. I always remember that on one of my first visits to Villa Park in 1986 the two of us, arriving way early, did a massive perambulation of the entire site. The stand that we sat in was a much smaller structure than the current stand. The Witton Lane Stand was small, and a single tier. The Doug Ellis, on the same site, is much grander.
Glenn was down with Alan – another face from 1985 – a few rows in front of me.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucarella
James – Caicedo
Palmer – Enzo – Nkunku
Neto
“Or something like that.”
I wasn’t sure that placing Christopher Nkunku wide left would be of much use.
The usual pre-kick-off routine at Villa Park; “Crazy Train” and then flames in front of the Doug Ellis.
At 5.30pm, the game began with us attacking the huge Holte End.
We started brightly, with Enzo creating an early chance for Pedro Neto.
Alas, on eight minutes, Trevoh Chalobah seemed to land awkwardly after a leap for the ball and so was replaced by Tosin Adarabioyo.
A minute later, a quick Chelsea move was instigated by Moises Caicedo. Neto advanced down the right and he cut inside. I had my SLR to my eyes and saw the ball played across. Before I could blink, the ball was in the net, though I wasn’t sure if it had been scored via the boot of Neto or by another Chelsea player. I looked up to see Enzo looking quite delighted, so it was clear who had provided the killer touch.
The away choir sang his name.
“Oh, Enzo Fernandez.”
I liked the way we played in the first half. I thought that for much of it, Neto drifted wide to the right, and both Palmer and Enzo flirted with a central position. It certainly seemed a fluid system. We seemed to move the ball out of the defence a lot quicker and there was generally an upbeat mood in the two tiers of the Doug Ellis. In the first part of the game, there were a few neat inside-to-out passes from Reece James.
Villa, however, did create some chances, but Filip Jorgensen did well to block a couple of efforts from Ollie Watkins.
The home fans were quiet. Ridiculously so.
There was a decent curling effort from Enzo after good work from Nkunku. Cole Palmer advanced and sent a slow-moving shot just wide. There was an effort from Malo Gusto.
We were well on top and playing well.
Worryingly so.
A curler from Nkunku did not bother Emiliano Martinez.
At half-time, everyone seemed to be playing well, but Neil, stood next to Terry, was still not immune to worry.
“You just know that if they score the next goal, they’ll go on to win.”
I sighed and nodded in silent agreement.
At half-time, Marcus Rashford came on to replace Jacob Ramsey and occupied the same piece of terra firma that Nkunku had utilised in the first period.
The second half began, and Villa dominated early on. However, in the first eight minutes, Neto had two good chances to score. A fantastic piece of play from Caicedo set him up, but his shot was wide. Then, a lofted ball from Nkunku allowed another effort from Neto, but Martinez saved easily.
“If only.”
The away support continued to sing praises of past heroes, and I always think this should be done when we are coasting, winning easily, rather than in a close game.
“IT’S SALOMON!”
Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Matty Cash crossed out to Rashford, who volleyed across goal and Marco Asensio touched home. VAR upheld the goal after a hint of Rashford being offside.
Neil and I pulled “here we go” faces.
The Holte End came to life.
The stolen “Allez Allez” chant from Liverpool, but then the unique “Holte Enders In The Skoi.”
They were fucking loud.
Our play was withering away in front of my eyes. The Villa players seemed up for the fight.
However, on sixty-nine minutes, an effort from Palmer gave us hope, but it drifted just wide. Then, an even better chance came after Caicedo slipped the ball to the central Palmer. This looked a golden chance, especially as the advancing Martinez slipped. However, Palmer lost his footing too, and his shot was cleared by Ezri Konsa.
The deflated and disconsolate Palmer sat on the turf for several seconds.
Before Christmas, he would have finished, one suspects, with aplomb.
Seventy-five minutes had passed.
After the series of three Frome Town draws, I was contemplating calling this match report “Tales From A Week Of Draws.”
Jadon Sancho replaced Nkunku.
With five minutes to go, I think we all witnessed the quietest ever “One Man Went To Mow.”
But then, out of nowhere, came a loud and vibrant “Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea”, the Amazing Grace cut.
Stirring stuff.
On eighty-eight minutes, Villa broke and I sensed danger. I looked to the rafters and mouthed “here we go.” Thankfully, despite Rashford’s strong run and cross, Jorgensen spread himself and blocked well from a Villa player.
It seemed we were hanging on.
Alas, on eighty-nine minutes, a cross from that man Rashford on the left was volleyed towards goal by Asensio, close in, and despite my view being far from perfect, I sensed that Joregensen, despite his previous heroics, had let the ball squirm beneath him.
Fucksake.
Neil was indeed right.
“You just know that if they score the next goal, they’ll go on to win.”
There were a couple of late half-chances. In the very last moments of the game, we were awarded a free kick down below us. Reece James was waiting to take it. Yet, here we were, in the last few seconds of the game that had drifted away from us, and three or four Chelsea defenders were slowly walking to take their positions outside the Villa box.
Dear reader, I was fucking fuming. They weren’t even jogging, let alone sprinting.
“Look at these people!”
Just after, the final whistle blew, our third defeat in a row.
I stood, silent, for a few moments, and then packed my camera away. I said my goodbyes to Terry, to Mark, to Neil. Glenn came to meet me. Outside in the concourse, I spotted Uncle Skinhead brush past me, still going after all these years.
1985
PANORAMA
CHELSEA/esque 