Tales From A Night Of Ultras And Anti-Football

Posted on April 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Legia Warsaw : 17 April 2025.

For a long time, it looked as though I would not be able to attend the return leg against Legia Warsaw at Stamford Bridge. I had been selected to attend Bristol Crown Court for jury service from Monday 7 April, potentially until Friday 25 April, and if I couldn’t go, neither could Paul nor Parky. If my attendance at court on the day of the game was required, our three tickets worth £85 would be wasted.

Thankfully, on the Wednesday, I was released from duty, and I was able to walk, a free man.

I worked from 6am on the day of the game, but due to a variety of problems, I couldn’t collect the two of them until just before 2.30pm. With another 8pm kick off ahead, this would be another long day for me. I was up at 4.45am and I predicted getting home around 1am.

Despite the late start, I still dropped the lads near “The Eight Bells” at around 4.45pm. They were happy; they went off for a few scoops with Salisbury Steve, while I drove away to park further north in my usual spot just off Lillee Road.

On the slow drive through Fulham, I spotted some Legia supporters outside “The Brown Cow” pub on the Fulham Road, the first sighting of the day. First a girl in her late teens wearing a replica shirt, then two chaps with two young boys, the boys wearing Legia shirts, the two grown-ups not. I presumed that they were headed to the game.

There had been a lot of talk in the media, and on social media, about the presence of Legia supporters in and around Stamford Bridge on this night. Both Chelsea Football Club and the Fulham Police were, shall we say, concerned.

Chelsea had been on the front foot and offered Legia a much-reduced allocation of around 1,000 instead of 3,000. Legia retaliated with an allocation for us of just 740. Thankfully I heard of no trouble in Poland. It seemed that the local police kept the away support well protected. Additionally, despite a once fearsome reputation, the supporters following Chelsea in Poland were hardly battle-hardened hooligans. I suspect that the locals soon realised this and opted to give us an easy ride, a free pass. There would have been no kudos in attacking our – aging – band of supporters.

But that’s not to say that the game at Stamford Bridge would go without incident. I believe that ticket sales were restricted to people who had previously purchased seats this season, though of course there is a rather fluid purchasing pattern evolving of late. Touts who masquerade as Chelsea supporters would be purchasing tickets to then sell on to any Tomasz, Dariusz or Henrik.

As I drove past Fulham Police Station, I spotted a couple of police vans heading up to Stamford Bridge. I wondered what checks would be in place on the Fulham Road and at the turnstiles before the game.

I had a flight of fancy and wondered if there might well be a re-enactment of the famous scene in “The Great Escape” involving Gordon Jackson as he boards a train, and a sly German soldier says “good…luck” but this time the conversation takes place a few yards before tickets are due to be scanned around the Stamford Bridge stadium. I wondered if the phrase “powodzenia” would be answered with a reply in Polish, a surprised smile, a wink or befuddlement and a stony silence.

After parking at the same spot as on Sunday, I quickly visited “Koka” on the North End Road and gobbled down a four-cheese pizza. While I was eating, a medley of ‘eighties songs were being aired in the restaurant.

Which brings us nicely to 1984/85.

On Tuesday 16 April 1985, Chelsea played a home game against Aston Villa. I spent the day in my home village in Somerset and did not attend. My diary tells me that I hoped for a gate of 16,000. In the end, just 13,267 attended. We won 3-1 with goals from John Bumstead, Mickey Thomas and a Villa own goal. Our form was starting to improve after a poor month of results.

I rolled into the pub at 6pm and stayed until just after 7pm. On the Tuesday night, I had gambled and booked flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw for the potential final in this competition. Salisbury Steve had already booked seats a while ago, and now PD, Parky and yours truly were on the same flights. Should we reach the final, we would get to Wroclaw at just after midnight on the Tuesday and would leave at 10.35am on the Thursday, a stay of three nights. The price was just £105.

I feel that as a fan base we have an odd relationship with this new-fangled Europa Conference competition. When it first appeared in 2021/22, there was general scorn from us and from elsewhere in the football world. This seemed like a needless competition. Should teams finishing far from the top of their leagues really be rewarded with participation in a pan-European competition that would add games and travel to an already busy schedule?

I thought it too pathetic for words.

And yet, you look at the teams that have won it; Roma (under Mourinho, oh the irony of him poo-pooing teams playing in the Europa League, let alone this…), West Ham United, Olimpiacos.

Big clubs for sure.

When we qualified for this competition at the very end of last season, my main thoughts were : firstly, new cities, new stadia, new countries, new experiences. Secondly, I wasn’t massively bothered about winning it. In essence, it offered some potentially new life experiences, and I am all for that. And then I thought of our “we’ve won it all” boast, and I realigned my thoughts about winning another competition. Yes, let’s win it.

Almaty in Kazakhstan in December was a bloody magnificent experience, no doubt, but I have shied away for other destinations thus far. In the pub, we discussed heading over to Vienna for a semi-final against Rapid even though I have visited the city before, but Stockholm didn’t thrill us too much. Expenditure-wise, I have the two games in Philly to take care of, so this has been a major factor in me attending just one away game in Europe thus far.

The pub was quiet, and when we arrived at Fulham Broadway just before 7.30pm, it was as quiet as I have known on a matchday for years. On the walk up the Fulham Road, a group of around thirty policemen were assembled in three lines near the Oswald Stoll. That’s a rare sight indeed at Chelsea these days. There were more dotted around and about.

We had seen a glimpse of the team in the pub, and considering we were 3-0 up from the first leg, the strength of the team surprised me. It certainly felt odd to see Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson in the starting eleven, especially since they had started against Ipswich Town.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Dewsbury-Hall

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Jackson

I was in at 7.35pm to the sound of “Our House” by Madness, a lovely welcoming song. Above, not a single cloud in the sky. Opposite my corner, around a thousand away supporters were assembled, mainly in the upper tier of The Shed, but a little group of around thirty in the lower tier. The balcony wall was full of flags. Their dress code was black, white, grey. I soon came to the conclusion that those five Legia fans outside “The Brown Cow” were not in this section.

As kick-off approached “Blue Day” was played and then at 7.50pm, the Legia ultras, who had been virtually silent until then, started. For just a choir of just one thousand strong, they made a massive noise.

Then came “Blue Is The Colour” and I found myself joining in automatically, as if I could not stop myself. However – correct me if I am wrong – it seemed too short, an abridged version perhaps.

Then “Parklife”, then “Liquidator” – and this seemed like we were returning to our roots.

In the East Stand there were huge swathes of seats unused, the section of the upper tier towards The Shed especially. There were clear gaps in all other parts of the stadium too. What was the reason for this? An incorrect pricing structure? Were Chelsea fans content we would get through so there was little point in attending? A stringent admission process for this one game? One game too many?

The result was a surreal, odd, feel to the game.

European nights at Stamford Bridge in April and May used to be the stuff of legend.

That Hughes winner against Vicenza, the place wet but rocking. Going three-up against Barcelona in 2000. The tense struggle against Liverpool in 2005 and then in so many subsequent games. Iniesta in 2009. Barcelona again and a Drogba goal in 2012. A penalty shoot-out against Frankfurt in 2019. The list of games goes on.

This seemed like it was a lot less important. And European games should not be like this. These nights should be the pinnacle. And there lies the problem with the UEFA Europa Conference.

Dear UEFA,

Less is more.

More is shite.

Thank you.

Chris.

We attacked The Shed, and within two minutes, there was a horrible repeat of Sunday’s start. Cole Palmer was sent through, one on one with the ‘keeper. I sensed that he took a breath and relaxed – a good sign – but his effort was off target, and I murmured “here we go again.”

Not so long after, Palmer headed at the Warsaw ‘keeper Vladan Kovacevic after a shot from Christopher Nkunku was saved.

Alas, on ten minutes, a Legia player was able to run unchallenged and played in Tomas Pekhart. He pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen, no doubt inviting a lunge, and the result was a clear penalty.

In it went, despite our ‘keeper getting a good hand to it down low.

Bollocks.

I was surprised that there was no noise nor activity from anywhere in the stadium apart from the thousand in the far corner and a group of around a hundred in the middle tier of the West Stand, an area that is often used by visiting European teams. I guess it housed the Legia club officials, associates and executive club members. There didn’t appear to be any Legia fans in The Sleepy Hollow, though it would have been probably difficult to tell.

After the goal celebrations had ended, virtually all of the Legia fans – supporters, ultras, call them what you will – took their shirts off. Soon, the whole away section had turned pink, coloured with occasional deep blue ink.

I remember Leeds United having a fad for taking their shirts off at half-time at games a few decades ago, but this was clearly on a different scale.

The ultras are an odd phenomenon in Europe. The Legia lot put on a show at the first leg last week, and my friend Jaro – who grew up in Poland as a Legia fan but is now solidly Chelsea – was able to attend the game. He explained to me that the Legia ultras see themselves as the dominant partner in the player / fan relationship, that it is all about them, and woe betide any Legia fan who does not share their views.

It was so noticeable that the Legia support was 99.9% male.

Although impressive to watch, I am not much of a fan of the highly choreographed routines that they, and other ultra groups elsewhere, put on each game. Often, they ignore the actual game taking place in front of them. Capos will often turn their backs to the action and face their disciples. It is all about them.

I class this as backward thinking.

I much prefer our organic way of supporting the team in the UK, and the fact that we tend to favour more spontaneous, and humorous, shows of affection. We focus on the players and the game, and our chants rise and fall accordingly. If we hit a poor match, and the players need us. We get behind them.

Or we used to. In theory.

And humour is such a huge part of our game.

The reaction of The Shed to the sight of the pre-planned removal of shirts on the tenth minute of “get your tits out for the lads” is a great example of this.

On the pitch, there was nothing to get us excited. We were struggling. Sensing the need for some sort of positive input, Alan reached for the Maynards wine gums and shared them out.

On nineteen minutes, a dart behind our lines and the dangerous Ryoya Morishita drove a shot just past the post.

This was not going according to plan. We were poor. The passing was slow, nobody was moving for each other, the play was all in front of the Legia team.

However, on thirty-three minutes, Jadon Sancho advanced down the right and played a nice ball in to the feet of Marc Cucurella who easily stabbed the ball home.

I sat.

It was my least enthusiastic response to a goal for years.

Still, it was now 1-1 on the night and we were 4-1 up on aggregate.

With Rapid Vienna 1-0 up from their first game, it looked like we might be following up games against Panathinaikos (green), Shamrock Rovers (green), Legia (green) with them (green) and possibly Real Betis (green) in the final.

Claude Goncalves attempted an optimistic lob from maybe forty-five yards but was off target.

Our play was laborious and without pace nor imagination.

It was our version of anti-football.

I commented to Alan that “you wouldn’t cross the road to watch this shite if it wasn’t your team, would you?”

With that – seconds later – a brilliant ball from the otherwise quiet Palmer found Cucurella on the far post, with Nkunku alongside him. Between the two of them, we fashioned a chance that Cucurella tapped home.

Again, no celebration from me.

However, VAR wiped out the goal anyway.

As the first half ended, there were boos.

At the break, I chatted to a few friends and acquaintances.

“So shite.”

“If they were playing in your front garden, you’d close the curtains…”

At the break, Tyrique George replaced Nicolas Jackson who had been quite abysmal. I quite expected to Nkunku to take up a central space, but the substitute played in the middle.

We continued to struggle. I moaned to Alan that “we never play the unexpected pass” to which he replied “apart from to each other” and I laughed, but I knew exactly what he meant.

A white, red and green chequered flag was floated over a section of Legia fans in the far corner.

Down below, a twice-taken corner kick was floated in towards the back stick, where Goncalves was lurking. His shot bounced up off the turf and Steve Kapuadi was able to nod in from very close range with no Chelsea player close.

We were losing again.

Fackinell.

On fifty-seven minutes, a substitution that annoyed virtually ever Chelsea supporter present.

Off came Cucurella, our best player on the night by a country mile.

On came Malo Gusto.

Noni Madueke also replaced the virtually anonymous Palmer.

The home crowd, that had been sitting and standing without much in the way of positive support, was possibly riled by the treatment of Cucurella and decided to wholeheartedly roar the team on with a defiant rendition of the old second-half favourite, “Amazing Grace”.

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

It’s appearance at the game was much needed.

We had our best spell of the match, around the hour mark, and two shots came in quick succession, one from Madueke, one from George.

Then, the away section upped the ante and turned bright red with the appearance of around fifty flares. I, along with others, looked on in awe. In a sobering moment, I realised that the once feared – and fearsome – Chelsea home support had been reduced to watching in silent admiration at the latest in a long line of European opponents that had brought along thousands of loud and energetic supporters. We had seen it before with the likes of Olimpiacos, Napoli, Malmo, Frankfurt and Dortmund among others.

And here we were.

Our mouths were open, metaphorically, as we watched on.

I may not really agree with the ethos behind the Ultra movement but there is no denying that they certainly put on a show.

But I felt uneasy. I felt awkward that we had nothing in reply. It felt like we had been neutered. It felt like we were a passive bunch of voyeurs at some sordid party, onlookers with not a clue how to behave.

Dumbfounded.

Found out.

Was this what it was like to be passengers on a cruise ship full of middle-aged dullards passing by a Croatian nudist beach?

Not sure where to look, nor how to react.

Fackinell.

On seventy-three minutes, a great ball out of defence from James found Madueke who advanced and had two choices; to hit the ball at goal himself or pass square to George. He chose the latter, and the youngster tapped it in. Sadly, an offside flag had been raised, and I felt Tyrique’s pain as he looked to the sky in disgust. Madueke was the guilty party.

On eighty-three minutes, Pedro Neto took over from Sancho.

Just after, a shot on goal at The Shed End from an unknown Legia player was booted so high over the crossbar that I severely wondered if anyone in one-hundred and twenty years had been so far off target in a game at Stamford Bridge.

At the final whistle, there were boos and it surprised nobody.

This was, truly, one of the dullest Chelsea performances that I have ever seen. I have never warmed to Enzo Maresca, and my patience with him is at an all-time low. If I am honest, I am fearing our next match at Fulham on Easter Day, and I honestly do not expect us to win any of our last six league games.

The gate was just 32,549.

In the Conference League, we learned that we will be paired with Djurgarden of Sweden.

See you at Craven Cottage.

Tales From The Doug Ellis

Posted on February 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Tales From Forty Years Apart

Posted on December 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 December 2024.

The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.

“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”

My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.

I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.

You know what’s coming up, right?

Saturday 24 November 1984.

It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.

Saturday 1 December 1984.

On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.

I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.

Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.

I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things. There were around four thousand Scousers present.

Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.

This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.

Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.

Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.

Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.

I was ecstatic.

My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.

The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.

Altogether now :

“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”

On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.

Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.

And it was exactly forty years ago.

Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.

My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”

The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.

I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.

Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.

Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.

I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.

The minutes passed until kick-off.

I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.

It made me want to cry.

Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?

Fackinell.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.

The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.

The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.

I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.

Chelsea 1 Villa 0.

Get in.

Just seven minutes had passed.

The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.

I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.

There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.

There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.

Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.

On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.

Chelsea 2 Villa 0.

How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”

Oh we were all very happy at half-time.

Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.

Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.

I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.

And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.

There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.

On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.

Villa made changes themselves.

The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.

Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.

Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.

On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.

Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I spoke to Max, from LA :

“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”

The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.

On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.

It’s a good job he works in ballistics.

Chelsea 3 Villa 0.

Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.

One last change.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.

This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.

Everyone was happy.

We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.

Happy times for Al.

After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.

A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”

“Beatrix.”

“Ivo.”

“Otterley.”

It was the perfect end to a fine day.

Next up, a quick jaunt down to Southampton.

See you there.

1 DECEMBER 1984

1 DECEMBER 2024

Tales From Somerset And Dorset

Posted on September 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 14 September 2024.

Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.

My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.

Games on!

And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.

I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.

Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.

I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”

Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.

Thanks mate.

I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.

Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.

Or maybe not, eh?

Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.

First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.

“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”

Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.

On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.

In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.

During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.

I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.

Fackinell.

Back to 2024.

Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.

We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.

Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.

We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.

I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.

There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.

Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.

…little did we know.

The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.

“Is that a professional camera?”

“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”

“OK.”

I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.

I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.

Kick-off soon approached.

Flames, flags, smoke.

“Make some noise for the boys.”

Pah.

Us?

Sanchez

Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Veiga

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

First thoughts?

“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”

Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.

The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.

The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.

We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.

It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.

Sigh.

Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.

“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.

Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.

The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.

A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.

On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.

Penalty.

One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.

“Yeah, right.”

Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.

It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.

Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.

We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.

On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.

Tosin for Disasi.

Joao Felix for Madueke.

The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.

Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.

Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.

Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.

The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.

On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”

The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.

“Thank God there is no Game Three.”

Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.

Goal.

We exploded.

Talk about a “fox in the box.”

What a finish.

Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.

“Need to get a photo of this.”

I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.

I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.

Snap.

Phew.

I took the money shot.

There was still time for another Sanchez save.

The Sanchez and Sancho Show.

At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.

But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.

“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”

Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.

I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.

Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.

The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.

Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.

“Chim-chimeny, chim-chimeny, chim, chim, cher-oo.”

See you then, see you there.

Tales From A Doubleheader

Posted on April 30, 2024 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 27 April 2024.

Ahead of the 8pm game at Villa Park to the north of Birmingham city centre on Saturday 27 April, the pre-match drinking was spent in two pubs in Frome, Somerset.

Let me explain.

After Tuesday’s game at Tavistock. when the home side inflicted a 3-2 defeat to Southern League South league leaders Wimborne Town, all eyes were on Frome Town’s final game of the regular season against Bristol Manor Farm. A win for Frome and anything but a win for Wimborne at nearby Melksham Town would result in my local team returning to the Southern League Premier South for the first time since relegation in 2019.

So, despite Chelsea playing in Birmingham later that day, plans were set in motion to attend the Frome game too. A football double-header? It was simply an offer that I could not refuse.

I had never seen my two teams play on the same day and, if it was to happen, I always presumed that both matches would take place in London. In the days when Frome were playing in the division above, from 2011/12 to 2018/19, there would often be away games in the Home Counties or London itself. I myself saw a game at East Molesey between the Met Police and Frome Town in the autumn of 2018.

But here would be two games one hundred and sixteen miles apart. The distance did not worry me. In fact, I was looking forward to the challenge.

On this heavy day of football, I collected PD in Frome at 11am, then looped up to Holt near Melksham to pick up Parky at 11.30am. Just after midday, we were sat in “The George Hotel” in Frome’s historic Market Place.

On Facebook, I set things up.

“So, it all comes down to this.

This is my thirty-third Frome Town game this season. If it turns out to be my last, we will have made it.

Buzzing. Loads of friends going today. Perfect.

Stop dreaming of the quiet life.

UTFD.”

My good friend Kev – of sound Chelsea heritage, nurtured and honed in Basingstoke and London, and now recently Bristol – was staying in the hotel with his partner Sally and soon joined us. Kev, however, was wearing the colours of the visitors from Shirehampton; the oddly-named Bristol Manor Farm, supported by the Farmy Army, and ironically the team that defeated Frome Town 3-1 in a league play-off at Badgers Hill in 2022.

Kev and I, taking inspiration from the Flamengo vs. Fluminense derby in Rio, have named the games between our two teams as the “Far/Fro Superclassico” over the past few seasons and we have a shared love of the non-league scene. We only met up at a minor cup competition when the two teams met at Frome in 2017 despite being friends on Facebook for years, and having mutual friends all over the Chelsea universe. We settled down to some pre-match banter. Kev was meeting PD and Parky for the first-ever time, but he soon said that he felt that he has known them for years such is the power of social media. At 1pm, I drove us out of the town centre and up the hill towards the next pub, “The Vine Tree”, which is only one hundred yards from the Badgers Hill ground.

Halfway up the hill, Parky made a typically wry comment to a point that I was making and the whole car exploded with laughter. It was almost jolted into oncoming traffic.

“Well, there you go, Kev. That’s the Chuckle Bus for you.”

Once inside “The Vine Tree”, we were joined by my mate Francis, looking rather nervous ahead of the afternoon’s game, and we enjoyed a couple of drinks until it was time to walk up the hill to the stadium.

At about 2.30pm, we were inside, and it already felt like my prediction of a gate of just over 1,000 would be about right. I soon lost PD and Parky and found it hard to meet up with other friends such was the number of fellow supporters in all areas of the stadium. By the main entrance gate, I proffered my hand to the chairman but instead of grabbing hold of it and shaking it, he preferred to give me a big hug. That felt special.

Eventually I met up with the usual match day crew – Francis and I were joined by Steve and Louise, Tom, Rob, Darren, plus Rick from Portsmouth – and we took position on the lower slope of “The Club End” as the game began. An early free-kick to Frome, who were uncharacteristically attacking the home end in this first-half, allowed me to dash over and snap away with my SLR. There are no unyielding bag searches at this level of the game and thankfully no confiscation of cameras. Experienced midfielder George Rigg sent a ball in from out wide and the flight of the ball seemed to bamboozle everyone, not least Seth Locke, the former Frome ‘keeper, now between the sticks for Manor Farm. The ball dolloped in. Pandemonium in East Somerset.

Just after, we heard that Melksham were 1-0 up against Wimborne. At this exact moment, the Dodge were going up.

Alas, this was the highpoint of the game. The away team, dressed in all blue – yes, I was confused a few times – scored through Daniel Dodimead on fifteen minutes after a free-kick was fumbled. The visitors dominated the rest of the first-half, despite few chances for both teams. In Melksham, meanwhile, Wimborne had equalised.

This was a very tense affair.

In the second-half, the gang of us repositioned ourselves under “The Cowshed” at the other end of the stadium, but sadly saw Owen Brain drilled a rising free-kick in at the far post soon into the second period. Frome made some changes and tried to re-assert themselves but the team from Bristol were a tough opponent. We looked tired and leggy. On seventy-one minutes, more calamity. Our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips raced out to clear but lost his footing, leaving Dodimead with an easy lob into an open goal.

At this stage, Wimborne were 2-1 up, and I suddenly knew that I needed to be on my way to Birmingham.

I made my way through a noisy knot of away fans in a fine gate of 1,028 and signalled to PD and Parky, still watching in the “Club End” and with another Chelsea fan Dan – who would be coming to Villa with us – that it was time to make a move.

The guilt of me leaving early at two consecutive games – on 92 minutes at Arsenal, on 75 minutes at Frome Town – was not pleasant, but needs must. The priority now was to get to Villa Park for the 8pm kick-off. At 4.40pm, I pulled out of “The Vine Tree” car park knowing full well that I would be back in Frome for the league play-offs semi-final on Wednesday evening.

I made really good time en route to Birmingham. I even had time to stop off at Strensham, what a luxury. Dan updated us on the results.

“You won’t believe this. Frome ended 3-3.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. 3-3.”

The home team had scored two very late goals via James Ollis on eighty-seven minutes and substitute Reece Rusher on ninety-minutes to tie things up, and to maintain an unbeaten home record in the league for the first time since 1911. A fine achievement.

On Wednesday 1 May, it will line up like this :

Frome Town vs. Mousehole

Cribbs vs. Bristol Manor Farm

The winners will meet each other in the play-off final on Bank Holiday Monday, 6 May. If Frome make it, we will be at home. Within ten days, there could be three gates of over 1,000 at Badgers Hill. Non-league football is on the rise, gates are up at all levels, and who can stop it now?

There were no delays as I headed further up the M5 and then turned past The Hawthorns into the badlands of Birmingham. I dropped the lads off at the roundabout near Witton Station and doubled-back on myself to park up at my allotted “JustPark” spot.

It was 7.15pm.

I had made it.

Just like in 1986/87, I was attending my second of two games at Villa Park in the same season; on Wednesday 7 February we mullered Villa 3-1 in the FA Cup in our most complete performance of the campaign thus far. It didn’t seem five minutes ago since I made the short walk towards the Doug Ellis Stand. The bag-check was minimal.

“What’s that, a camera? OK.”

I had moved our tickets around so that PD could stand next to Parky in the front few rows of the Upper Tier. Meanwhile, I was further back, and alongside a former work colleague who was attending his very first Chelsea game. I have known Terry for the best part of twenty years and in the last couple of years he has very kindly been following my exploits on this website. Last season, as I mentioned the build-up to a game at Villa Park, he spoke to me about the years when he lived very close to the stadium at Perry Bar. If a spare ticket became available for this season’s game at Villa, I promised that he could come along. Recently retired, Terry lives to the south of Birmingham, and I had not seen him for a good six months. It was a joy to see him in the Chelsea section.

Terry had grown up in Erdington in a family of Villa fans, but had never followed them. This was his first-ever game at Villa Park. I explained to Terry how I got to know Ron Harris over the years, and Terry had a nice story for me too. Charlie Aitken, who played more games for Aston Villa – 660 – than anyone else, was Terry’s first landlord when he got married.

795 and 660, what a couple of stalwarts.

As the countdown to the kick-off took place, I was intrigued to see how a Chelsea “newbie” would react to a night of football, but with a Chelsea-esque feel.

After another flurry of flames, then fireworks, then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy – Osbourne, not Osgood – the teams appeared opposite.

Despite the late kick-off, this was a full house for sure, and the Chelsea section on two levels were pretty buoyant. My mate Rob was attending game number two of the day too; earlier he had seen his team Walton & Hersham beat Poole Town 3-0.

Mauricio Pochettino had selected the following.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Game number two began.

We attacked the Holte End in the first-half, or at least tried to. There was a brief foray into the Villa penalty box but after just four minutes, we were exposed. A Villa attack, virtually their first, broke down our left. Marc Cucarella scurried away to keep the danger at bay, but the ball was neatly transferred to the other side. Lucas Digne was free and in acres of space. Our marking was woeful. He found John McGinn, just inside and in a good position for a shot. His effort was miss-hit but took a big enough deflection of Cucarella and fizzed past a stranded Djordje Petrovic.

Just like at Arsenal on Tuesday evening, a goal from the right-hand side of our defence had left us chasing the game. And on this day of two games, earlier in Somerset, Frome had been 1-0 up after four minutes but here in Birmingham, Chelsea were 1-0 down after four minutes.

The Villa fans down to our right were cheering a second soon after, but we could see from our vantage place that Digne had only hit the side netting. Petrovic saved well from Ollie Watkins. We were struggling to find a foothold.

We were all cheering when Conor Gallagher sent a ball over for Nicolas Jackson to score – “he scored in the Cup game too, didn’t he?” – but our elation was stopped by the intervention of VAR. From my position up the other end of the stadium, it did seem like an offside.

We ploughed on, but our approach play was so laboured. Frustrations grew with each passing minute. Noni Madueke, who had begun brightly, drifted out of the game but Mykhailo Mudryk never ever got going. He received the ball in wide areas often enough, but exhibited no guile nor nous in making any telling contribution. Two identical efforts after cutting in drifted so high and wide of the goal frame as to be hardly worthy of the term.

We managed to conjure up a couple of chances, but a Cole Palmer chance went wide while Moises Caicedo hit straight at Emiliano Martinez.

I lost count of the number of times that Badiashile and Silva received the ball from virtually all of our players. It was as if the coaching team at Cobham had inverted the entire direction of play.

“Don’t worry about hitting Nicolas and Cole as early as you can lads, keep looking for Benoit and Thiago, that’s the spirit.”

This was hard to watch.

Then, a deep cross from the boot of Cucarella at the by-line was headed down by an unmarked Jackson but his effort bounced back off the base of the post.

I wasn’t impressed with the home team though; they seemed to be playing within themselves, seemingly content with a narrow lead.

Sadly, just before the half-time whistle, Villa enjoyed a very rare break. The ball was played simply to Morgan Rogers – “there’s always a spare man that side” – who adeptly struck low into the corner of our net.

Neither team had played well, yet Chelsea went into the break 0-2 down.

This was always going to be a tough game. And here we were, right in the middle of it and right up against it.

To my right, Cliff hoped that Poch’s half-time pep-talk, no pun intended, would inspire the troops, but this was said with his tongue well and truly in his cheek. I knew what he meant exactly.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking our end.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, we improved immensely. Madueke was full of running and trickery down below us, though was too reliant on his left foot to be truly sensational. A few chances came and went.

Cucarella.

Madueke.

Silva.

On sixty-two minutes, excellent Chelsea pressure in the Villa box from Palmer and Gallagher allowed the ball to run for Madueke. He wasted no time, hitting the ball as it came across his body with his left peg. The ball sped past the substitute Villa ‘keeper Robin Olsen and into the goal. We were back in it. The scorer ran off into the middle distance but seemed to be ranting at the Chelsea crowd at the same time. Answers on a postcard.

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

Chelsea continued to shine, and there was special praise for both Caicedo and Badiashile who grew with each passing moment. At last we saw crunching tackles from Caicedo. The Chelsea support were soon to applaud. We were playing with more bite, more hunger, and we found spaces in tight areas. Jackson never stopped running, a real handful for his markers. This really was much better.

There was a fine low save from Petrovic after a rare Villa break in front of the Holte End.

A few more chances. Everyone, of course, was stood, as we had been for the entire match. We urged the players on.

With eighty-one minutes played, Gallagher found a little space for himself and curled a magnificent shot towards goal with his left foot. The flight of the ball was perfection. The net rippled. We went doo-lally. We were level.

Fackinell.

On eighty-nine minutes, and with not a soul having left, the manager made two very late changes.

Axel Disasi for Silva.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

It had been another cool and calm performance from Silva. It had been the antithesis of cool and calm from Mudryk.

Palmer swept into the box but produced a fine save from Olsen.

A corner down below us. Palmer swung it in. A Villa header and the ball bounced high. Badiashile won a challenge and hooked the ball back in. Disasi the substitute seemed to arrive late but flung himself at the ball.

Snap – GOAL – snap, snap, snap.

To my left, Terry was punching the air like a loon, and I was too. What a comeback, what a game, and I was sure that one or two snaps of the screaming Disasi would make me happy.

Wild celebrations.

But then, the bloke behind me mentioned VAR and a push.

Of course. I remembered it now. The push by Badiashile. Yes. It looked unlawful. No shoulder charge, that.

The inevitable wait, but VAR spoke.

No goal.

Ugh.

So, there was modern football encapsulated within a few seconds.

Joy, pain, euphoria, annoyance, ecstasy, misery.

“You don’t get VAR shite at Frome Town.”

I said my farewells to Terry and the lads around me. I soon met up with PD, Parky and Dan outside. We hobbled back to the car and I began the drive home. We had enjoyed the second-half, not so much the first. We stopped to refuel at Hilton park, and I eventually made it home at about 2am.

It had been another long day, but it threw up a lot of fine memories.

Kev had left me a message that I did not spot until very late on :

“From Parky’s quip in the car onwards, it has been a day of comebacks.”

I smiled.

Next up, we play the old enemy at Stamford Bridge on Thursday.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham.

Makes you shiver with excitement, doesn’t it?

See you there.

Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea

Tales From A Crazy Game

Posted on February 11, 2024 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2024.

We weren’t expecting much from this FA Cup replay at Villa Park. Why would we be? In our previous two games we had conceded eight goals. There was, in fact, a real worry that we would become unstuck on a mighty scale.

I had worked an early shift, collected Paul and PD at 2.20pm, and then headed north. We stopped off at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at about 4.30pm. Our modus operandi was that if we were travelling over one hundred miles to watch a football game that we would probably lose, we had best find our fun elsewhere. The three curries, as always, went down a treat.

At around 6.45pm, I dropped the lads off as close to Villa Park that I could get and then double-backed on myself to park up. The plan was to walk all of the way around the stadium to take a selection of wide-angled photographs of the stands and to try to capture the essence of a midweek cup tie.

Villa Park, eh?

This is a ground that became synonymous with FA Cup semi-finals before the FA took the unfortunate step to host all semis at the new Wembley Stadium. We have played a few semis at Villa Park over the years dating back to our first one, a win, against Everton in 1915. There was then a long gap of fifty years followed by three games in quick succession. We then lost to Liverpool in 1965 and Sheffield Wednesday in 1966 before defeating Leeds United in 1967.

However, my first viewing of an FA Cup tie at Villa Park took place in early 1987. I travelled down to Birmingham with two mates from college in Stoke; Bob, Leeds United, and Steve, Derby County. I remember we posed for a photo outside the famous steps of the Trinity Road but the weather was too overcast and my camera was too cheap for the photo to be worth sharing. I had visited Villa Park for a tedious 0-0 draw in November 1986, but this cup tie was a great match. We had about 5,000 fans in a 21,997 crowd on the low terrace behind the goal and in the seats of the old Witton Lane Stand. We watched from the seats. We went 1-0 up in the first-half via John Bumstead but Villa equalised with twenty minutes to go via Neale Cooper. David Speedie then put us ahead on eighty-six minutes only for Steve Hunt to equalise again. We would win the replay at Stamford Bridge.

That game in 1987 was our last FA Cup tie against Villa on their home patch. However, we would play two semi-finals at Villa Park within six years during the Glenn Hoddle to Claudio Ranieri era.

In 1996, we assembled at Villa Park for the game against Manchester United. We were allocated the old Trinity Road Stand and three-quarters of the Holte End. Luckily, we had seats in the very front row of the upper tier of the Holte End, and I decided to take advantage of this position by creating a flag in honour of Ruud Gullit that I could drape over the balcony. Although the great man himself headed us into the lead in the first-half, United came back to win 2-1 with two goals in quick succession a quarter of an hour into the second-half via Andy Cole and David Beckham.

In 2002, our semi-final against Fulham was to be played at Highbury but our opponents took umbrage that the split of the 38,000 tickets at Arsenal’s stadium slightly favoured ourselves. They demanded that the game should be played at a stadium that allowed more equal allocations. Lo and behold, the two clubs from West London were forced to decamp to Birmingham on a Sunday evening with the game kicking-off at a ridiculous 7pm. I travelled up with a car load from Frome and we enjoyed a lengthy pre-match in the “Crown And Cushion” pub at Perry Barr. This pre-match is notable for the first-ever photo of Parky and myself together. We watched in the noisy upper tier of the North Stand as a John Terry goal just before half-time sent us to Wembley. The irony is that the attendance was only 36,147 and Fulham – of course – did not sell all of their tickets.

“Thanks, then.”

I took a few photographs on the walk through to the away end. Three police vans were parked on the roundabout near the Witton train station. Emiliano Buendia drove past in his car and some Villa fans close by went all weak at the knees. Amidst the throng of match-goers, a chap stood in the middle of Witton Lane with a “God Is Love” placard. I took outside shots of three of the stands but I did not fancy the trot down to the Holte End on this occasion. Time was moving on and I wanted to get inside to join up with the lads. I could sense an air of buoyancy amidst the home fans.

“The Giant Is Awake” is the current tagline at Villa Park and I suppose they have a point. They are playing their best stuff in years.

I was inside at about 7.30pm. As I spoke to a few fellow travellers in the concourse and in the seating area of the away section, nobody was confident.

I took my seat alongside the lads. We were towards the back of the lower tier and it was a decent view. Chelsea were given 6,298 tickets for this game as opposed to the standard 3,000 for league matches. It seemed that a fair few were going spare if the announcements on social media were a clue. I just hoped that there weren’t large swathes of gaps in our section. I soon realised that the split was around 3,000 in the usual areas of the Witton Lane / Doug Ellis but with around 3,300 in the top tier of the North Stand to our right.

There were occasional empty seats but this was a magnificent effort from our supporters. While the dynamics have changed – for the worse, for the worse – at home games, thank God that the football calendar can occasionally throw up an occasion like this where the bedrock of the club can get a chance to follow the team en masse.

The minutes ticked by.

There were a few rock anthems as the 8pm kick-off approached. Surprisingly, “Hi Ho Silver Lining” was aired – as it was at Wolves – but then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne took over as the teams were spotted in the off-centre tunnel.

Villa then overdid it a bit. Not only were there plumes of smoke by the tunnel, but flames all along the pitch by the Doug Ellis Stand and – fackinell – fireworks in the sky above the stadium.

Not to worry, the six thousand Chelsea fans had a response.

“CAREFREE!”

On a serious note, all of this manufactured noise before kick-off might well look good on TV and it might excite children, but the problem is that it doesn’t allow for atmospheres to sizzle along nicely resulting in a crackling crescendo of noise – self-generated – at kick-off. Maybe those days are gone forever.

Sigh.

Our team? No Thiago Silva. No Raheem Sterling.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Chilwell

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Jackson

There were a few mumbles and grumbles about the starting positions of Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson, but – noticeably – nobody was bemoaning the absence of Raheem Sterling.

OK. Everyone stood. Not many gaps in the immediate area. A few late-comers. Many familiar faces. I still wasn’t confident, but here we go. I tried to juggle photographs with shouts and applause for the team.

“CAM ON YOU BLUE BOYS.”

The Chelsea players formed a pre-match huddle, and while they waited for captain Ben Chilwell to join them, I spotted Cole Palmer looking over at the Chelsea support in the Doug Ellis Stand. He seemed to be in awe :

“Bloody hell, they have turned up tonight alright. There’s thousands behind the goal too.”

However, not all parts of Villa Park were full. I soon spotted hundreds of central seats in the executive areas opposite not being used. That was just odd.

Soon into the game, with Villa attacking our end, a long cross found Alex Moreno unmarked at the far post, but rather than attempt an effort himself he decided to head the ball back across the six-yard box. A defensive head cleared.

It was a lively start to the game with Chelsea breaking with speed and intensity. Malo Gusto linked with Noni Madueke and worked the ball in to Palmer inside the Villa box at the Holte End. His shot was an easy take for Emiliano Martinez.

There was a header, shortly after, from Enzo but his compatriot Martinez easily fielded this effort too.

On eleven minutes, we won the ball out on our left. I stood on tip-toes to watch the move develop. Inside to Conor Gallagher who spread the ball into the path of Jackson. He ran and ran, and played a low ball towards Madueke. Although surrounded by Villa defenders, he wisely took a touch before knocking it back into the path of Gallagher. The shot rose steeply but we erupted when the net rippled.

Pandemonium.

Bodies and limbs everywhere. I had no hope of taking a shot of the players celebrating away in the corner.

We were winning. Fackinell.

I was so aware that Conor’s lack of goals is often cited by many as a major-downside. So I was doubly happy that the goal came from him. Lovely.

Villa came into the game but Djordje Petrovic thwarted their couple of attempts on goal including an angled volley from Ollie Watkins.

We continued to purr. On twenty-one minutes, Disasi found Madueke in tons of space. He turned and pushed the ball wide into the over-lapping Malo Gusto. His cross into the box – a relatively low trajectory – was met by the leap of Jackson. His angled effort crashed into the goal.

We were 2-0 up, oh my bloody goodness.

I saw the players celebrating through the forest of arms but I managed to cajole a photo or two out of my camera.

The away support boomed as we continued to dominate. I was really shocked by the lack of noise coming from the home areas though.

Nothing. I heard nothing at all.

We, not surprisingly full of it. However, songs about Willian, John Terry, Frank Lampard and Cesc Fabregas? Really? Save those for the last five minutes of games when we are winning 4-0 plus please. The Willian one was a real shocker.

I took great pleasure in seeing Enzo get more and more involved. Just two examples of his play; the first a cushioned control of the ball with his instep that screamed quality, the second, a first-time transfer of the play from left wing to right wing that told me that he was full of confidence.

Alongside him, Moises Caicedo was enjoying his best game for us, adeptly swatting Villa breaks, tacking hard, turning and passing. And then Gallagher, a one-man search-and-destroy unit, full of energy and running. It was a very fluid and powerful midfield indeed.

The natives were restless and I was loving it.

Chilwell, finding himself on the right, moved inside and unleashed a shot that whizzed just past the near post.

On thirty-three minutes, Madueke hugged the far touchline as he accelerated away after picking up a loose ball level with our penalty box. He skipped past a challenge and continued his run. He passed to Palmer whose shot was at a relatively easy height for Martinez to save.

On a rare break, Watkins set up John McGinn, but Petrovic tipped it over.

At the half-time break, there were nothing but happy faces among the travelling army. It had been, no doubt, the best half of the season by far. Against a decent team, too, let’s not forget.

Ozzy serenaded us with “Crazy Train” once again as the teams took to the pitch for the second-half.

The home team began brightly and I can honestly say that after a quick attack in the first minute I heard the Holte End for the first discernible time.

“Yippee-aye-eh, yippe-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

We applauded them.

On fifty-four minutes, a foul on Enzo. The free-kick was a long way out. I wanted Palmer to take it, but Enzo stood with Chilwell. Chilwell peeled away and Enzo took aim. As did I.

Snap.

I looked up to see the ball fly over the wall and dip majestically into the top corner with Martinez beaten.

What a goal.

The away sections again boomed.

Zola-esque.

I snapped his euphoric run down to our corner. I sensed the meaning of his actions immediately.

“Look at me. I’m Enzo. I’m staying.”

Ah, bloody lovely stuff.

I instantly forgave him for the yellow card that followed him taking his shirt off. Sometimes emotion gets in the way of accountability and rational thought.

The Chelsea supporters on the side stand piped up.

“North Stand. Give Us A Song. North Stand North Stand Give Us A Song.”

Lovely stuff.

We were through. And we just could not resist a nod to our next opponents.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

Amongst all this, a word for the much-maligned duo of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Their best games for ages too. There was even a song, only a few days after many for rubbishing his recent performances.

“Brought us back a centre back. Benoit Badiashile.”

We’re a fickle bunch aren’t we?

On sixty-five minutes, a song for a former player that I could fully get behind.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Some late substitutions :

72 : Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

75 : Raheem Sterling for Madueke.

Moreno rose at the far post but his looping header landed on top of the net rather than inside it.

More substitutions.

81 : Thiago Silva for Palmer.

87 : Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

Villa had a late flourish and in injury-time, Moussa Diaby coolly slotted in at the Holte End.

Aston Villa 1 Chelsea 3.

A roar at the final whistle. What a night. Roared on by over six thousand our team rose to the occasion and played some gorgeous attacking football. Why can’t all away games be like this?

Leeds – you are next.

2023/24 FA Cup Round Five

Blackburn Rovers vs. Newcastle United

Bournemouth vs. Leicester City

Chelsea vs. Leeds United

Coventry City vs. Maidstone United

Liverpool vs. Southampton

Luton Town vs. Manchester City

Nottingham Forest vs. Manchester United

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Brighton & Hove Albion

Walking out of the stadium after the game brought back memories of other away triumphs over the years. Everyone was singing – “sign him up for eight more years, Chelsea boys are on the beers” – and I sensed a swagger in our step, that good old Chelsea swagger of old. There’s nothing like it. We walked back to the car and we followed the old rule of being able to walk wherever you want after an away win.

Up to the roundabout, out into the road, the cars can stop for us.

The swagger was back.

1996

2002

2024

1996 – Part 2.

It came to light after the game at Villa Park that a sports photographer – working for “Action Images” – had taken a photo of my “Ruud Boys” flag from behind the goal.

I spotted that a cropped version of it soon appeared in a copy of “Total Football” later that year.

I didn’t ask for royalties.

1996 – Part 3.

The former Wimbledon striker Dean Holdsworth once had an affair with glamour model Linsey Dawn McKenzie. At a game at Selhurst Park in the 1996-1997 season – I wasn’t there – the Chelsea fans were full of rude comments about this romantic liaison. In the “Daily Sport” newspaper – that beacon of journalistic integrity – the following day, there was a photo of Linsey Dawn McKenzie (baring all) with a headline to the effect of “How dare Chelsea fans be rude to both Dean and me?”

The editor chose to illustrate her tirade at the Chelsea fans with a picture of some Chelsea fans, set just behind a large photograph of Linsey Dawn and her quite substantial charms. The photo that the editor chose was from the Villa Park semi-final. It was the photo of my Ruud Boys flag. Or rather, a close-up photo of Glenn and me (looking, strangely, straight at the camera). The story goes that Glenn was sitting with his workmates during a tea break when one of them opened up the middle pages of his “Daily Sport” to exclaim –

“Hey, Glenn – there’s a picture of you and Chris Axon next to Linsey Dawn MacKenzie here.”

Next up, a game at Selhurst Park once again; Crystal Palace away on Monday evening.

See you there.

Tales From Us, Villa And The Cup

Posted on January 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 26 January 2024.

After a League Cup tie on the Tuesday, we now had an FA Cup tie on the Friday. Two cup games within four days, both at Stamford Bridge, 460 miles for me to navigate, it’s tough at the top.

Of course I enjoyed the 6-1 triumph over Middlesbrough on Tuesday, but I was certainly not getting carried away with the amount of goals that we scored. It was, after all, only Middlesbrough, a mid-table Championship team.

I was sure that if we managed to score against a far more formidable side in the FA Fourth Round tie, I would be celebrating more wildly.

But halfway through Friday morning I was struggling. After finishing the blog for the Middlesbrough game at 10pm on Thursday night, I was up at 4.45am on Friday in order to work an early 6am to 2pm shift in the twin worlds of logistics and office furniture. At about 9.30am, I was bloody hanging, stifling yawns and finding it hard to concentrate. I was dreading the drive to and from London. I would not be home again around 1am in the small hours of Friday / Saturday night. Thankfully the arrival of some pods for our office coffee-maker breathed new life into me.

I picked-up the chaps outside the pub opposite work and set off, feeling fine, feeling happy that work was over for the week, a Chelsea game a reward for my sleep-starved existence. The clear blue skies and bright sunshine invigorated me further and I was actually able to drive to London with a deep sense of contentment.

Alas, mind-numbing traffic congestion as I approached the Hammersmith roundabout halted our swift progress. I eventually dropped two of my passengers at “The Eight Bells” at 4.45pm and the remaining one outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge at just before 5pm. After parking up in virtually the same spot as on Tuesday, I dropped into “The Anchor” take-away for an unplanned saveloy and chips. It warmed me up, and gave me some fuel on a cold night in SW6.

I walked to West Brompton tube and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I spent from 6pm to 7pm in the company of PD, Glenn, Salisbury Steve and London Luke. Rich, from St. Albans – we go back to The Benches in 1984 – was there with his daughter Amber, nineteen, and James, fourteen. It would be James’ first-ever game. I had picked up tickets for the three of them from friends in the US who had bought them to raise their loyalty points for a game later in the season. The tickets came from Jacksonville to Axonville.

Boom boom.

Appearing at “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at the Bridge was a first for us. The place was full of regulars. On the tube up to Fulham Broadway, it was no surprise to see Villa fans in our carriage.

“Yippy-aye-ay, yippy-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

The weather was bitter, much colder than Tuesday.

There was a welcoming tune that greeted me as I reached the seats.

“Blue Monday” by New Order.

I was behind the goal in the Matthew Harding Upper again, but a few rows nearer the front and a few yards closer to the goal than on Tuesday. It honestly felt like only five minutes ago since I was last at Stamford Bridge.

In the match programme, Rick Glanville had written a very interesting article about Chelsea Football Club’s early desire for Stamford Bridge to host FA Cup Finals after it became apparent that Crystal Palace was not an appropriate venue. Lo and behold, we almost played in the first FA Cup Final – in 1920 – to take place at Stamford Bridge. Sadly, we lost 1-3 to Aston Villa in a semi-final that took place at Bramall Lane in Sheffield. That year, Villa defeated Huddersfield Town 1-0 in the final, a game in which my grandfather may have attended. I penned a few pieces about this in the 2019/20 and 2020/21 FA Cup campaigns.

My first viewing of an Aston Villa FA Cup tie against Chelsea took place in early 1987, an away game that ended 2-2. We won the replay 2-1.

The next FA Cup tie against Villa was of much more importance.

The 2000 FA Cup Final was always going to be a very special occasion. The final tie of the 1999-2000 competition was to be held at the original Wembley Stadium – chosen for Cup Finals after Stamford Bridge’s little run from 1920 to 1922 – for the very last time. The venerable old stadium, dating back to 1923, had hosted so many important and memorable football games in its eight decades. In its latter years, it was showing its age, but the thrill, for me anyway, of seeing the famous twin towers on FA Cup Final days evoked wonderful memories of past games and past glories. However, I totally understood the need to update the national stadium. As the season developed, I hoped that we would end up there for one final hurrah.

Season 1999/2000 was an eventful season for Chelsea Football Club. For the first time ever, we embarked on our first every Champions League journey. After winning a qualifier against Skonta Riga – I went to the home leg, not the away game – we were drawn in a group with Milan, Galatasaray and Hertha Berlin. I went to all home games, but no away games.

At the time, my job involved shift work and so I could not always get time off work to follow the boys. I still went to thirty-eight games, my highest-ever total, beating the thirty-five games of 1997/98.

In the league, despite walloping the then European Champions Manchester United 5-0 at Stamford Bridge, we flattered to deceive, finishing in fifth place and a hefty twenty-six points behind United who romped home. In the League Cup, we were sent packing in our first tie, a 0-1 home defeat by Huddersfield Town.

We qualified for the second Group Phase of the Champions League and were grouped with Lazio, Marseille and Feyenoord. I went to the game in Rome, a dour 0-0 draw. Winning that second group set us up for a semi-final with Barcelona. I was lucky enough to go to both games; sadly, a mad 3-1 victory at home was matched by a 1-5 reverse in Catalonia.

As the latter stages of the season were played out, Chelsea made solid progress in the FA Cup. We won 6-1 at Hull City – old Boothferry Park – then enjoyed a run of home games, and victories, against Nottingham Forest, Leicester City and Gillingham. This set us up for a semi-final against Newcastle United at Wembley. Two Gus Poyet goals sent us into the FA Cup Final in a very fine game that would have graced the final itself. Our opponents on 20 May 2000 would be Aston Villa who had beaten Bolton Wanderers on penalties in their semi-final at Wembley.

However, the FA Cup wasn’t all plain sailing that season. For the first time that I could remember, the all-important Round Three was played in early December, though I forget the reasoning, and this was met with a formidable backlash. Also, Manchester United were forced to compete in the inaugural FIFA World Club Championships in Brazil in January 2000 by the FA and so withdrew from the 1999/2000 competition. United drew a lot of flak for withdrawing but, in reality, their hands were tied. In hindsight, one wonders why United could not have entered a youth team in the FA Cup to give the competition some dignity. In my mind, the 1999/2000 FA Cup was played out with an asterisk against it.

It had been a decent campaign for Chelsea and I just wanted us to win the FA Cup against Aston Villa to give us some sort of reward for the season. Unfortunately, I found myself coming off a week of nights, finishing mid-morning on the Friday, and was rather tired as we assembled for a pre-match drink or two at “The Princess Royal” – no longer there – near St. Johns Wood tube station and Lords Cricket Ground. There were probably more Villa fans in the pub than us.

“Ugly bunch, aren’t they?” whispered Daryl.

We had our usual pre-match chat and I think I wasn’t the only one who was a mite nervous. In 1997, it felt that fate – Matthew Harding – was on our side, but this one was too tight to call. Villa, playing in their first FA Cup Final since 1957, had finished just one place below us in the league table.

We caught the tube up to Wembley and posed for photos in front of the gleaming white Twin Towers. We had the same end as in 1997. That would hopefully count for something. FA Cup Finals are always linked to odd superstitions.

Our team?

Ed De Goey

Mario Melchiot – Frank Leboeuf – Marcel Desailly – Celestine Babayaro

Roberto di Matteo – Didier Deschamps – Gus Poyet – Dennis Wise

George Weah – Gianfranco Zola

The normal right backs Albert Ferrer and Graeme Le Saux were both injured. The Aston Villa team – playing in peculiar broad stripes – included David James, Gareth Southgate, Dion Dublin, Benito Carbone and Paul Merson. Merson, the Chelsea fan, was making his second Wembley appearance against Chelsea in barely over two years. Of course, the much-loved Gianluca Vialli was our smart-dressed manager at the time. Note George Weah’s white boots.

In truth, this was a poor game. The first-half was very mundane with precious few strikes on goal. Chances increased after the break with Chelsea enjoying more of them. Midway through the second-half, Dennis Wise scored for us with a close-in prod after a James fumble and the place erupted, limbs everywhere. Sadly, after the euphoria there was misery as we saw that the goal had been disallowed for off-side. From a Gianfranco Zola free-kick on our left, there was another James fumble. Roberto di Matteo was on hand to quickly hook the ball into the roof of the net from close range. We celebrated again but it always felt like it wasn’t with the same intensity of the first disallowed goal. It seemed that all of our energy had been expelled when that Wise effort went in.

Strange game football.

God knows what we would have made of the spectre of VAR in 2000.

After the game, we witnessed some marvellous celebrations from the Chelsea players, who were as relieved as the supporters that the long season had harvested some silverware. For some reason, we all assembled at a pub near Paddington Station after the game. I think that the idea was to give the lads who were not staying up in London for the parade on the Sunday a little send-off before they caught the train west. We saw a few lads from Frome off. Glenn and I went back to stay at Alan’s flat in South London.

This FA Cup lark was alright, wasn’t it?

We had won in 1997 and again in 2000.

These were great times to be Chelsea supporters. I just tried not to think about that bloody asterisk in 2000.

Oh, one last remark about the two centre forwards from 2000.

George Weah was President of Liberia from 2018 until earlier this week.

Dion Dublin currently presents “Homes Under The Hammer” on the BBC.

Weah won that battle, no asterisk required.

We met Villa in one more FA Cup tie, the 2010 semi-final at Wembley. We used to drink in “The Duke Of York” for Wembley games in those days and seven of us memorably showed up in Lacoste polos. Snappy dressers, eh?

The game was an easy 3-0 win with us watching way above the halfway line, with all of the goals coming in the second-half. Thankyou Didier Drogba, Florent Malouda and Frank Lampard. It was a vital step in our march to the domestic double in 2010.

I am not sure how many Villa fans were in the 50,018 crowd at the 1920 FA Cup Final, but there were six thousand Villa fans at Stamford Bridge in 2024. They had the usual smattering of flags, but were not wearing quite so many colours as ‘Boro on Tuesday.

I was seated at 7.30pm.

“Disco 2000” by Pulp.

If this was a deliberate dig by the Chelsea DJ at Villa regarding the 2000 FA Cup Final, then fair play. I remember that in the late ‘nineties, in the car to and from Somerset to Chelsea, we changed the words.

“We’ll win the league by the Year 2000.”

It later became “we won the Cup in the Year 2000.”

We had seen the line-up, but Levi Colwill was injured pre-match. It resulted in a last minute change.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Silva – Badiashile

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sterling

The pitch was watered right up until the last minute. Water gave way to flames. The players entered the pitch. Chelsea in royal blue and navy tracky tops, Villa in claret ones.

The game began.

We began OK, but then Villa had a little spell. A really well-worked free-kick (memories of John Sheridan in 1991) was played by the Villa captain John McGinn out to Alex Moreno out on the Villa left. His cross was met with a “down and up” header by Youri Tielemans (our nemesis in the 2021 FA Cup Final), but Djordje Petrovic palmed it over as the ball bounced up off the deck.

Phew.

Soon after, a short corner was worked inside and Moussa Diaby unleashed a shot at goal. The ball was deflected by Alfie Gilchrist into the path of Douglas Luiz, who tapped in from a few feet out. The Villa players ran off to celebrate down below PD, Parky and Co., and their fans roared.

However, after what seemed an absolute age, VAR chimed in. A handball? No idea. No clue.

We waited.

And waited.

No goal.

Phew.

No celebrations from me though.

This seemed to spark some life into us and we improved. At around the twenty-minute mark we had a lovely little spell. We admired a great move from Raheem Sterling to Enzo to Cole Palmer – a beautiful flick – and a pass that set up Noni Madueke. However, his studied low shot was met with a fine save by Emilio Martinez. A Villa defender made a balls-up of passing to his team mate after good pressure from the lively Conor Gallagher. The ball ended up at the feet of Palmer, but he was found wanting with a tame shot at goal, again cleared by Martinez.

Ugh. Martinez. The memory of that “non-Final” on the first day of August in 2020.

On thirty minutes, Sterling set up Palmer who reached the by-line but the incoming cross was somehow blocked. Raheem was having a mixed game. Sometimes you just feel that he often dribbles at players as his first thought rather than looking up to assess other options. He seems obsessed in beating opponents. On the other side, Madueke was full of flicks, turns, spins, but they didn’t always work out to the greater good.

It looked odd to see the central Palmer playing adrift of the others. He looked like he was sweeping up behind the Villa paring of Ezri Konsa and Clement Lenglet. A few years back, supporters would have wondered what on earth he was doing.

It was an intriguing half and I was enjoying it. After the disallowed goal, Villa seemed to go into their shell. We, however grew stronger and more confident.

Good work from Madueke in front of Parkyville and the ball was rolled back to Sterling, finding himself on the right flank, but his cross was headed by Benoit Badiashile straight at Martinez.

At the break, I was happy with our performance against a decent team. At times our passing was a little too slow for our liking. I couldn’t help think about that old adage about any move having a crucial moment when the ball has to be played. That moment was reached, and ignored, too many times for my liking. Our slow passing – at times, not always – seemed to allow the momentum to be lost. In the middle, Enzo and Moises Caicedo solid and involved, while Gallagher must have covered almost ever blade of grass on the pitch.

The Villa fans began loudly but soon quietened. Our noise wasn’t bad, especially the first twenty minutes.

There was music at half-time.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division.

“There She Goes” by The La’s.

The second-half began. More decent stuff from us. Down the left, Enzo slid in Gallagher and the ball fell to Palmer on his favoured left foot. He guided the ball towards goal but it was always drifting past the far stick. A long cross from Matty Cash on the right was headed over by Moreno, unhindered, at the far post.

Midway through the half, Martinez’ clearance hit Palmer’s heels but he was unable to connect with the ball as it dropped back down to Earth. Groans from everyone. A huge chance had been missed.

In the first-half, Villa’s play seemed to drop away after their goal was disallowed. In this second-half, our performance seemed to lack lustre after this miss. Perhaps it was tiredness.

On 65 minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced the steady Gilchrist. The back four was realigned with Disasi moved to right back, Badiashile in the middle with Silva and Chilwell out left.

Cash was proving to be a handful and the full back was then set up by Ollie Watkins but, thankfully, his low shot was saved well, down low, a Petrovic speciality. The save was warmly applauded. From a corner, Konsa slashed wide of the framework. Villa were enjoying a good spell, but I was pleased that the home crowd noted their ascendency and dug in and provided the loudest support of the night.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

I could hardly believe my eyes as I saw Petrovic going long at goal kicks as the second-half continued, a sure sign that players were tiring.

On 77 minutes, Armando Broja replaced Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Madueke.

We seemed to be shot as an attacking force and neither of these latest two subs were able to make their mark. We defended resolutely.

A late sub, on 89 minutes, saw Carney Chukwuemeka replace Enzo.

It stayed 0-0.

We would have to reconvene at Villa Park in a week and a half’s time. So be it. At least we will be in the draw for Round Five.

As I left, the final song of my night rang out.

“Brimful Of Asha” by Cornershop.

Ah – a nice bit of symmetry. One of my friends from Wembley 2010 – Simon, pictured in the white polo, third from the right – directed the video of that song, a hit from 1997.

On the drive back in the car – a decent finishing time of 12.50am for me – we wondered how many we would get for Villa Park.

“More than the usual 3,000 no doubt.”

“Wonder if we will have enough time to pop into ‘The Vine’ too?”

Next up, back to the league and an away game at Anfield on Wednesday.

See you there.

2000

2010

2024

Tales From The Warm Cloak Of Friendship

Posted on September 25, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 24 September 2023.

On the drive up to London early on Sunday morning, none of us were feeling confident of a pleasing performance against Aston Villa.

“Just can’t see where the next goal is coming from.”

“If we are driving back down the M4 tonight with a 2-0 win behind us, I will be absolutely amazed.”

“Tough game ahead.”

Elsewhere in my football world, things were a little better. Since Chelsea’s lifeless and underwhelming 0-0 draw at Bournemouth, I had witnessed two Frome Town games.

On Tuesday evening, in wet and blustery conditions, I watched with my Canadian cousins Kathy and Joe and a few friends – eight of us in a line – in the small main stand at Badgers Hill as Dodge met Plymouth Parkway in an FA Cup replay. Despite wet and blustery conditions, we watched transfixed as the home team won 2-1 with a great performance that included grit and determination and no little skill. James Ollis scored both goals. There was even a very late penalty save from Kyle Phillips to preserve the victory. It was, I am sure, one of the most enjoyable games of football that I have ever seen in Frome. A circle was completed that night since Kathy’s parents, Mary and Ken, met us at Stamford Bridge in August 2001 for the home opener against Newcastle United. They watched in the West Stand and loved it. Twenty-two years later, another game brought the family together once again.

On Saturday – the start of yet another two-game weekend – I travelled down to Salisbury to see Frome visit Bemerton Heath Harlequins in the FA Trophy. Here, the visitors were victors again, with another two goals for Ollis and one for the mercurial talisman Jon Davies.

I think there’s a tendency at lower level football to allow players – your team’s players, your players – a little more room for error than in the professional game; to be a little more lenient, to not get irate with every single mistake. For starters, the standard is lower, there are bound to be mistakes. Why would any spectator get on the back of such players? Of course, the gates are lower too (312 on Tuesday, 109 on Saturday) and to see a supporter glowing with incandescent rage in such surroundings would surely be frowned upon. The supporter in question would be labelled a fool. And the supporter would look stupid too.

However, at the top level of football, supporters seem to enjoy berating under-performing players at the slightest opportunity because greater levels of skill are expected. Oh, and their salaries. The salaries alone allow for constant abuse right?

I know what type of “support” I appreciate.

I arrived at “The Eight Bells” just after the pub had opened at 10am and The Smiths’ “The Queen Is Dead” welcomed me in.

“Has the world changed or have I changed?”

Quiet at first, the boozer soon filled up. The lads from Kent soon showed up, always full of smiles and laughs. They had heard that Frome Town’s next game in the FA Cup – the third qualifying round – was to be at Ramsgate next Saturday.

“Are you going, Chris?”

“Hope so, yeah.”

“Bloody hell. It’s a long way from Sevenoaks, let alone Somerset.”

Phil, Kim and Andy were all to tell me at various stages during the pre-match that the UK’s biggest “Spoons” is in Ramsgate. Kim also had a funny story from his last visit to Ramsgate.

“We were in this boozer and a bloke comes in and asks if the pub is doing Sunday Roasts. So the barman says ‘sure, I can do a beef or chicken’ and the bloke asks if there are any vegetarian options. The geezer goes ‘well, I can do you exactly the same but without the beef or chicken’.”

Howling.

How odd that we were in the “Town of Ramsgate” pub before the West Ham away game last month. My FA Cup travels will take me from Cornwall to Kent this autumn. I love the early rounds of the FA Cup.

Glenn and I wolfed down a full English.

Bacon, sausage, fried egg, hash browns, baked beans, fried tomato, mushroom, toast and butter.

Perfect.

I was enjoying this pre-match, as always, and was sat with Parky, Salisbury Steve, PD and Glenn. I looked from wide left to wide right and saw only blokes in our half of the cramped bar. There were around fifty in view. Only one was wearing official Chelsea gear.

…talk about “old school.”

While I was waiting for a friend to arrive, I stepped outside the pub for a few minutes. My ‘phone wasn’t logging on to the pub’s wi-fi connection and I wanted to see if I had missed any messages. As I stood outside, I flicked on “Facebook” and found myself reading a post from my friend Gary, originally from Fulham but now living in Torquay, about his trip to London but also about his increasing alienation from Chelsea Football Club. Halfway through his post, I looked up to see him walking by, no more than five yards away. I never see him down this part of Fulham. What a small world. We had a little chat, a little grumble about the way the club is being run, and we centered on the abandoning of the away coach travel subsidy. It is a subject close to Gary’s heart since he used to run up to five coaches to most Chelsea away games in the late ‘eighties and ‘nineties. “Gary’s Coaches” have gone down in Chelsea folklore. We spoke about how the modern game has increasingly left us cold. Over the past few weeks, I have mentioned to many that the “warm cloak of friendship” is the major reason why I still go to Chelsea. This club just doesn’t seem like my club any more. New ownership. New players. There is not a great connection these days. It was so noticeable that those who went to the “Legends” game while I was in Italy a fortnight ago really enjoyed themselves and many mentioned the special relationship that they enjoyed with those players from that era. I find it hard to warm to this current lot, this current bunch. Funny game, football.

Not long after, my friend Phil, and his brother Richard, arrived in the now heaving pub. Phil is originally from South London, just south of the river, but has been living in the United States since 1973. I have known him since a memorable weekend in Chicago in 2006 when Chelsea played in the MLS All-Star Game. We have met up on many a US Tour though, like me, he didn’t go to any games this summer.

“Why are we playing a team with the calibre of Wrexham?”

Phil has been loyally reading these match reports since they first appeared around fifteen years ago. Phil’s “thing” is to pick one particular phrase that I have used in each report and to simply repeat it. I wonder what phrase it will be from this week.

Anyway, thanks for your continued support mate.

I had managed to grab a last minute ticket for Phil and – luckily – the seller’s father drinks in “T8B” too. It was an easy exchange to set up.

At 1pm, we set off for the ground. With the increased security at games now, I had devised a new way of smuggling both my camera and lenses into the stadium without getting stopped by the line of stewards. Large cameras are now clearly on the list of banned objects at Stamford Bridge but I won’t let the bastards win. I can’t give the game away completely, but I hid my camera and lenses using a system not dissimilar to the way that newly excavated soil was hidden from the camp guards in “The Great Escape.”

I was inside at 1.30pm.

What with the amount of injuries that had hit our squad, the team that Mauricio Pochettino chose looked surprisingly familiar.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

With Alan absent, Rob from Melksham came down to sit next to me.

So, 2012 & 2021 vs. 1982.

The game began.

As is so often the case, we began brightly. Aston Villa looked happy to hold back allowing us the ball. Early on, a good move found Raheem Sterling in the inside-left channel. His touch let him down.

I mouthed “terrible first touch.”

My neighbours agreed.

Budgie : “Terrible first touch.”

PD : “Terrible first touch.”

I leaned over to PD.

“That needed the touch of a silk glove.”

“Like the way you’d touch a woman.”

I laughed.

“Not the way you would touch a woman mate. The ball would have cleared the stand roof and the hotel.”

PD howled.

The first quarter of an hour was all ours, but Villa had unsurprisingly led the singing.

A chant of “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” (you know the tune) was met by ironic cheering from the away fans.

On twenty minutes, much against the run of play, Robert Sanchez reacted magnificently to Lucas Digne’s rasping and dipping volley that was knocked out to him from a corner.

“Typical. All us, but they have the best shot on goal.”

Just after, a great ball from Mudryk set up Nicolas Jackson into space but his shot was well saved by Emiliano Martinez, the ball creeping past the near post.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

We dominated play with occasional bursts from the two wide players.

“Don’t forget the ball, Mudryk.”

The same player then bottled a tackle and the resultant shot was deflected wide.

The quiet atmosphere improved when a semi-decent “Cam On Chowlsea” swept around the ground.

Glenn was annoyed that Pochettino was sat for most of the game. He wanted him prowling the technical area.

“Nah, he’s paid a lot of money for that dug out seat mate. Why should he stand?”

On thirty-four minutes, a long pass from Axel Diasi found Malo Gusto who then cut the ball back to Enzo. His shot faded and drifted just wide.

On thirty-eight minutes, a long corner was headed back to Nicolo Zaniolo – who? – but his fierce volley was magnificently thwarted by a great Sanchez reaction save. Top marks indeed.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Mudryk continued to cause a few moments of worry in the Villa defence as the half ended and at last there was noise in the stands. After a fine Sterling cross, a Disasi leap and clean header hit the back of the net but was immediately called back for offside. There was an air shot from Sterling when he found himself close to goal at an angle.

It had been a frustrating half, and the two saves had, worryingly, kept us in it.

At half-time, nobody was shocked that we hadn’t scored.

The second-half began as brightly as the first. Sterling, running on to a lovely long ball, carried it too far and virtually ran in to Martinez at the near post. How frustrating. Jackson went close from a delightful chip from Enzo but was ruled offside anyway. A great ball from Silva, splitting the atom, found Sterling but his shot was blocked again. The same player was then ruled offside again. Again so frustrating.

Fackinell.

Then, calamity. I didn’t really see it, but a tackle by Gusto on Digne. A yellow. Then the boffins in Stockley Park ruled a second look. But then the same boffins weren’t sure. Back to the referee. Back to the pitch. What a fucking farce.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

A delay. We knew how this was going to end.

A red.

Fackinell.

Surprisingly, the offence was shown on the TV screen; this doesn’t usually happen. At first glance, I concentrated on the contact between studs and leg.

If I had seen further replays, which I didn’t, I would have seen the player get the ball first.

In 1965, 1975, 1985, 1995 and 2005 it would not have been a red card.

I hate modern football.

It looked like Armando Broja was about to come on – presumably for Jackson – but the sending-off changed the plan.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

Ben Chilwell replaced Mudryk.

There was applause.

For Mudryk? For Chilwell? Probably for both.

I noted how Jackson was through on goal, a one-on-one, but showed no signs of being able to out-muscle his defender and glide, Drogba-like, on towards goal. Maybe that time will come. I won’t hold my breath.

Enzo, for the second game in a row, was really poor.

The two teams exchanged half-chances.

On sixty-eight minutes, some substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Enzo, oh Enzo.

Cole Palmer for Jackson.

But then a lightning-quick break from Villa. Ollie Watkins raced through and Levi Colwill managed to stay with him and block with a perfectly-timed tackle. Sadly, the ball bounced back to Watkins who drilled the ball home from the tightest of angles. I struggled to see how the ball had crept in.

Bollocks.

Just after, a fine bit of football. A searching ball from deep from Cole Palmer found Chilwell down below us. He advanced but his low shot was hacked away by Martinez.

On seventy-nine minutes, Broja replaced Moises Caicedo, his first game since another useless friendly.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning” sung the Villa support.

The last phase of the game consisted of more Chelsea offside decisions and another Sanchez save, plus half chances for Broja and Disasi. A shot from Palmer was blocked.

“Sterling has got worse as the game has progressed, Rob.”

Despite the extra eleven minutes at the end, we never looked like scoring.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Tales From Fool’s Gold

Posted on April 2, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 April 2023.

April Fools Day In Fulham

There are three games to detail in this edition; two from 1983 and one from forty years later. Let’s do things chronologically.

On Saturday 19 March 1983, Chelsea played a London Derby against Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park. With Chelsea eager to pick up as many points as possible from the remaining games of the Second Division season to stave off relegation to the Third Division we could only eke out a 0-0 draw.

The Palace team included on-loan full-back Gary Locke who had played over three-hundred games for Chelsea after his debut in 1972. Locke played more games for Chelsea than Gianfranco Zola, Graeme Le Saux, David Webb, Micky Droy and Gary Cahill, but I fully expect there are folk reading this who have never heard of him. I guess this is normal, if not a little sad. I spoke with Bill from Toronto before the Everton game about this. He confirmed that many of the newer Chelsea supporters that he encounters simply have no care in the world to learn about parts of our history.

Gary Locke played in the very first Chelsea game that I ever saw in March 1974 and his performance is the only one that I can honestly remember much about; in the second-half he was playing right in front of me in the West Stand Benches and I recollect a succession of well-timed sliding tackles to thwart Newcastle United’s attacks down their flank.

Also playing for Palace was Jerry Murphy, who would make a move in the opposite direction in 1985. I was getting good at the “guess the gate” sideshow. I predicted 14,000. It was actually 13,427.

A week later, on Saturday 26 March 1983, Chelsea played Barnsley who were managed by the former Leeds United defender Norman Hunter. In the “Forward Line” section – it took the place of “The Talk Of Stamford Bridge” for programme aficionados – there was a desire for the club to finish in a better final placing than the twelfth spot of 1982. The club was currently in thirteenth place, but just six points above a relegation spot. There was news that our star player Mike Fillery was seeking a move to a team in the top flight and was therefore recently placed on the transfer list.

In the 1981/82 and 1982/83 seasons I subscribed to the home programmes and I eagerly awaited their arrival right after games. These days we are bombarded with official club information via the internet and endless social media offerings. In those days, the programme was everything. It was our only link to the club. I devoured those small match day magazines with an absolute passion.

In the Barnsley edition, there is a two-page spread featuring Paul Canoville who had recently scored two against Carlisle United. Needless to say, these were the first goals scored by a black player for Chelsea. Until then, Canners was our only black player. Sadly, the letters page contained two pieces from supporters complaining about racist abuse aimed towards Canoville at recent games.

On this day, Barnsley went in 1-0 up at the break and went on to win 3-0. My diary doesn’t detail any great shock nor surprise at this reverse. The gate was just 7,223. It was getting easy, so easy, to guess our home attendances. The most recent five home fixtures produced depressing figures.

Cambridge United : 7,808

Derby County : 8,661

Blackburn Rovers : 6.982

Carlisle United : 6,677

Barnsley : 7,223

Our substitute was debutant Keith Jones who replaced Clive Walker. Not only was Jones our second -ever black player, but he was the first player to reach the Chelsea first team who was actually younger than me. He was born on 14 October 1965, three months after me.

I was seventeen, coming up to eighteen in July. I remember that this game provided a particularly sobering moment for me; that someone younger than me was now playing for my beloved Chelsea. I found it hard to cope with the thought that I would be supporting and cheering on a lad who was younger than me.

At that moment, I may well have uttered my first-ever Chelsea “fackinell.”

As an aside, I had played football for my school teams from 1976 to 1982, but had drifted away from playing in 1982/83. There may have been occasional games within the school, but I think my competitive football came to an end in 1981/82. Regardless, the presence of Keith Jones in the Chelsea team had undoubtedly meant that I had missed the boat to become a professional footballer or a footballer of any standing whatsoever. That a lad younger than me was infinitely better than me at the tender age of seventeen had left me somewhat deflated. I still find it hard to forgive him.

Forty years later, our underwhelming season was starting up again after a fortnight break with another 5.30pm kick off at Stamford Bridge.

Aston Villa, who have won only twice in twenty years at Stamford Bridge, were to be the visitors.

There was no great sense of enthusiastic anticipation as I made my way up to London in the morning. The driving was tough going – “hello rain, hello spray” – but I made good time and dropped PD and Parky outside “The Eight Bells” at around 11.45am. All of us were not expecting much of a spectacle. In fact, the mood was pretty sombre. Sigh.

“Just can’t see us scoring” was a familiar lament as the day developed.

I was parked up on Bramber Road at around midday and the first three hours of my day at Chelsea would be spent meeting up with friends from Edinburgh, New Orleans and Dallas. But first, I wanted to involve my third passenger in a photo that I had been planning in my head for a month or so.

I have written about the Clem Attlee Estate before and how it has undoubtedly housed thousands of local Chelsea fans since its inception in the late ‘fifties. The tower block that overlooks the Lillee Road, consisting of three wings, dominates the first few minutes of my walk down to Stamford Bridge. I’ve taken a few photos of it in the past. On this occasion I wanted to pay homage to our gritty past and so I arranged for Ron Harris to stand in front of two of the building’s wings.

I hope you like it.

For the next few hours, I chatted with some pals.

First up, Rich from Edinburgh, visiting Chelsea again, this time with his uncle’s son Matt, on an extended holiday from his home in Perth in Western Australia.

A few former players were milling around.

There were plenty of laughs as Bobby Tambling told a lovely story about Terry Venables scaring Eddie McCreadie to death at a hotel in the Black Forest while on tour in West Germany. McCreadie was apparently scared of ghosts, so Venables borrowed a pair of Bobby’s black pyjamas and hung them outside McCreadie’s window as a storm was raging outside. A window was rattled, and McCreadie pulled the curtains back and screamed in horror much to the amusement of those in adjacent rooms.

Next up, Jonathan from Dallas, a chap that I was meeting for the first time, but who has been reading these ramblings for a while, and whose daughter was to be one of the team of mascots for the day’s game. The wait was long; eleven years. Initially his son was on the list, but COVID got in the way of his turn and was now, sadly, too old for mascot duties. The baton was therefore passed to his sister. I enjoyed chatting with Jonathan about a few topics. We briefly touched on the recent rumours, unproven, about Chelsea re-igniting the option of moving to Earls Court. Although a stadium upgrade is likely, and needed if I am honest, I’d prefer the current regime to sort the bloody team out first.

Lastly, my good friend Stephen – visiting from New Orleans with his wife Elicia and her friend Makeda – arrived at about 1pm and I handed over tickets that I had been keeping warm. I last saw Stephen in his home town of Belfast ahead of the Super Cup game. It would be Madeka’s first-ever Chelsea game.

As ever, Ron gave the same welcome that he gives to all Chelsea virgins : “if we lose, you’re not coming back.”

It was a pleasure for me to have the briefest chats with Ken Monkou. I first saw him play in August 1989. He would go on to become our player of the year that season.

At about 2.30pm, I sped off down to Putney Bridge tube to meet up with the lads – and lasses – again. There was subdued talk of the game. Bill from Toronto was back for another match, this time with his wife Beth Ann, her first one too.

I chatted mainly to Andy and Sophie. We centred on the current state of affairs at Chelsea, but also yakked about Vincent Van Gogh, my relatives’ migration to Philadelphia in the nineteenth century, visiting Canada and our combined love of Bournemouth. It’s not all about football.

Despite the desperate state of our play at the moment, I loved Sophie’s reaction to the news that she had been sorted with an Arsenal ticket. It is surely a mess of a club right now, but nothing beats going to a game. She punched the air and smiled wide.

I had earlier said to Andy that “I can’t understand people who say they want the season to end. I bloody don’t. It’s what I live for, this.”

Andy was surprisingly upbeat. Sophie and I questioned his sanity.

There were a few Villa fans on the tube back to Fulham Broadway. They were full of song and were singing praises of Unai Emery and John McGinn on the train and as they alighted at our destination. I inwardly sniggered. Well, you would wouldn’t you?

I was in at 5pm. The troops slowly appeared. My chat with Oxford Frank was predictably down beat.

“Just can’t see us scoring.”

The team?

Don’t ask.

Kepa

James – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Enzo – Chilwell

Felix – Havertz – Mudryk

The appearance of not only Reece James but Marc Cucarella in a back three while both Benoit Badiashile and Trevoh Chalobah were on the bench was unfathomable. This forced Ruben Loftus-Cheek as a far from convincing right wing-back on us yet again. Oh my life. I was hoping for a better performance from Mykhailo Mudryk in this game than in recent others. I wanted to see more of the Anfield Mudryk than the post-Anfield Mudryk. At least Enzo and Felix, two bright points surely, were playing. I prepared myself to be frustrated by Kai bloody Havertz yet again.

Before the teams appeared, a brief chat pitchside with John Terry and Roberto di Matteo, chatting about a “Legends” match versus Bayern Munich to raise money for the Royal Marsden Hospital, where Gianluca Vialli received treatment in his battle against cancer. John Terry joked he would play in his full kit.

There was a decent crowd; less empty seats than against Everton a fortnight earlier. Of course Villa had the standard three thousand. I was eerily aware that this was all happening on April Fools’ Day. I wondered what sort of headlines were waiting to be written. Our last game on this day of the year was the achingly depressing defeat to Tottenham in 2018.

The game began.

We were back to normal, attacking The Shed in the first-half. Without knowing it at the time, a wild effort from Mateo Kovacic after just two minutes set the tone for the rest of the evening. I can barely remember a shot from relatively close to goal that ended up so high in the upper tier. Soon after a shot from Mudruk inside the box was blocked by Emiliano Martinez. We were dominating the early exchanges but with some irritating early evidence that things might not go our way. Kai Havertz took an extra touch inside the box, as he often does, and invited an easy block. There was a scissor kick from Kovacic, similar to his fine goal against Liverpool last season, but on this occasion the effort almost went out for a throw-in.

Off the pitch, this game began quietly and continued the same way.

On the quarter of an hour, Ollie Watkins slid a shot wide in the visitors’ first attack. Just after, John McGinn slammed a shot from outside the box that hit the bar. A minute later, a ball was lofted towards Watkins, but two Chelsea defenders were drawn to the ball. It was my opinion that Kalidou Koulibaly, seeing the whole of the play, should have shouted down Marc Cucarella’s hurried chase to head the ball. Instead, the Spaniard’s touch just set the ball up nicely for Watkins, who had run from deep, to lob Kepa.

A voice nearby blamed Kepa, but it was hardly his fault.

So here we were again, dominating possession, finding it hard to finish, and a goal down.

The rest of the half continued in much the same way. If I am honest, our approach play was quite decent at times. Two players took my eyes as always; Enzo showed an eagerness on the ball and an ability to spray passes into space. And Felix exhibited fine skill at times, his happy feet taking him away from markers in tight areas. On the flanks, there were two different stories. Although he was away in the distance, Ben Chilwell looked to be doing all the right things at the right times, yet Ruben Loftus-Cheek forever looked a square peg in a round hole. His inability to cross the ball was annoying everyone.

The chances mounted up. The fleet-footed Felix forced a save. Then there was a lofted ball to Havertz that he chested down and volleyed, but the shot was straight at the ‘keeper. After a fine pass from Kovacic, a weak shot from the disappointing Mudryk. Loftus-Cheek continued to frustrate on his unconvincing forays down our right. He kept doing the simple things badly.

With half-an-hour played, Stamford Bridge was yet to warm up. I hadn’t joined in with a single song, nor had the majority of others.

We were ghosts again.

Kovacic as playmaker once more, this time a fine lofted ball towards Chilwell who advanced inside the box but slammed an effort against the woodwork. Half-chances came and went as the first-half continued. Chelsea’s approach play continued to hit some nice notes but we had no hint of a cutting edge.

Another Havertz effort was saved by Martinez. Late on, a dink into space from Enzo – becoming his trademark – set up Chilwell to head the ball in.

YES!

Sadly, our joy was short-lived when a tug on Ashley Young – who used to be a footballer – had been spotted.

There were muted boos at the end of the first period.

That a dirge from the hum drum Coldplay was aired at half-time just about summed it all up.

Our finishing had certainly been lukewarm.

I was waiting for a freshen-up – the footballing equivalent of a wet wipe to tidy up our grubby finishing – in the form of substitutions at half-time but there was nothing.

Attacking our end, the Matthew Harding, I was to appreciate the fine play of Chilwell at closer quarters. Soon into the half, he turned beautifully but shot weakly.

Just after, the Matthew Harding woke up, and me too.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I am ashamed to admit that this must be the latest in a game that I have ever got involved.

Fackinell.

On fifty-six minutes, we failed to clear a corner and the ball was worked back to the onrushing McGinn, galloping in at pace. I caught his shot, sadly, on film. It flew into the net, with Kepa well beaten. This was only their fourth or fifth effort on goal yet they were 2-0 up.

Another “fackinell.”

And I was mocking their “we’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn” chant at the tube station.

More fool me.

With that, at last some substitutions.

N’Golo Kante for Loftus-Cheek.

Noni Madueke for Mudryk.

“Off you go, Ruben.”

But, but, but…what of the shape now?

Madueke at wing-back, Reece still inside, but Kante appeared to be playing off Havertz and alongside Felix in a front three.

Oh my fucking N’God.

Our play actually deteriorated.

Madueke cut inside but curled one over. Kante shimmied nicely but pushed a low drive wide. This was desperate stuff. The mood inside Stamford Bridge was horrible. It wasn’t top level toxicity, but the natives were not happy.

Our play and chances continued to frustrate us.

“You don’t know what you’re doing” rung out.

It got worse.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

I thought to myself…”why wait until then?”

And I was only half-joking.

Two more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Christian Pulisic for Cucarella.

In the last few minutes, the setting sun behind the West Stand produced a ridiculously warm glow to the metalwork on top of the towering East Stand and the bricks of the hotel and flats behind the Shed End. It gave the whole place a strange feel, almost ethereal.

Fool’s Gold anyone?

At the end of the match, the boos descended down from those who were still in their seats. Many had left.

I met up with Elicia and Madeka underneath Peter Osgood’s boots and put the borrowed season tickets safely away.

“Sorry that we lost. Sorry it was so quiet.”

“Oh my. There were some angry people near us.”

“I can imagine. I bet you heard some bad words, right.”

“We did.”

It was a grim walk back to the car.

Surely there are not many Chelsea supporters left who would be saddened if Chelsea pulled the plug on Graham Potter?

Next up, a terrifying game with Liverpool at home.

See you there.

Heroes And Villains

Tales From The Villa And The Vine

Posted on October 17, 2022 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 16 October 2022.

It was a relatively late start for me. The 8am alarm sounded and I then collected the Gruesome Twosome by 9.30am. All three of us had chosen black tops – Fred Perry, Ben Sherman, Robe di Kappa – and as we stopped in Melksham for the first McBreakfast for absolutely ages we looked like the senior members of some “ultra” battalion.

Kinda.

Milan was still dominating my thoughts when I woke and over the first hour or so of the journey up to Birmingham. This is often the case, eh? The thrill of a European trip is difficult to forget easily. I soon told PD “I will be honest; I am trying my best but I am finding it hard to get up for this game. It’s a bloody good job I am not playing.”

I stopped for a coffee at Frankley Services on the M5 and I was soon turning off at West Bromwich.

To my right, the angled floodlights at The Hawthorns were easily spotted – “one of only three grounds where Chelsea have won the league, lads” – and the sighting of the stadium from half-a-mile away brought back immediate memories of Milan. On the elevated A4, approaching the end of our journey last Tuesday morning, I was keeping my eye out for the San Siro roof which I knew was a few miles to my right, to the south. Lo and behold, despite the grey and hazy view, I found it relatively easy to catch the ridiculously huge roof beams appearing in a void between some rooftops.

My heart jumped in Milan. But my heart jumped in West Bromwich too as I quickly remembered one of the finest nights of recent memory.

I dropped the lads off about a five-minute walk from the away turnstiles at Villa Park but then turned around and drove three-quarters of a mile north to my usual parking spot for Villa at Perry Barr. On the mile-long walk south, I noted that the horrible walkway – an underpass and a footbridge over the busy A34 – was no more, thus cutting a few valuable minutes off my approach to Villa Park. “The Crown & Cushion”, where we enjoyed a very boozy pre-match before the 2002 FA Cup semi-final, had been razed to the ground a few years back.

There were no real pre-game plans on this occasion. There aren’t too many pubs to the north of Villa Park and beers aren’t served in the away end.

This always was going to be a quick smash and grab raid against Aston Villa.

There is red brick everywhere on the way to the stadium. The terraced houses on Willmore Road where I parked for maybe the tenth time in a row, Perry Barr Methodist Church, the houses on Aston Lane, the Aston pub, the old tramway building and then of course the surrounds of Villa Park itself. Alas, the old Trinity Road stand with ornate gables was demolished in around 2000, but its design features are mirrored in the huge Holte End at the southern side of Villa Park. These days the only terrace in town is the steps which lead up from Witton Lane to the base of the Holte End. These steps are speckled with deep claret railings. Squint and it almost feels like an old-style football terrace.

I needed to wait a while to pass over a spare ticket.

I made it in at 2.02pm.

Phew.

The sun was beating down. My God it was hot. My choice of a black wool pullover seemed rather ridiculous. I sidled in alongside Gal, John and Parksorius.

The team? I tried to work it all out. With Reece James out, we wondered who Graham Potter would play at right wing-back if he decided to choose that system. We wondered about Ruben Loftus-Cheek. As I peered out into the bright sun, I attempted to piece it all together.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Cucarella

Sterling – Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Chilwell

Havertz – Mount

Aubameyang

I think.

Before I had time to ponder it all, Tyrone Mings headed a cross from Ben Chilwell up rather than away, and Mason Mount, lurking centrally, was able to pounce. He adroitly touched the ball past Emilio Martinez. Luckily enough, my camera captured it all.

Aston Villa 0 Chelsea 1.

A dream start, eh?

I looked around at Villa Park. It is a really fine stadium. It has been modernised but it still feels like an old ground because the four stands are reasonably different. The oldest current stand at the north end of the ground may not last too long though. There are plans to bulldoze it and build afresh with an even larger two-tiered structure in its place. An acquaintance, who lives nearby, had evidentially been invited in for a hospitality gig in the North Stand. He sent over a ‘photo of former Villa players Tony Morley and Kenny Swain who were in one of the lounges and were now hosting some guests. These two players had taken part in Villa’s European Cup triumph against Bayern Munich in 1982.

Ah that year again.

On Saturday 16 October 1982 – forty-years ago to the very day – Chelsea lost 0-3 at Ewood Park against Blackburn Rovers. The gate was a paltry 6,062. It was that bad that Alan Mayes made his first appearance of the season.

There is no punchline.

I was really happy with our start. In addition to the early goal, we were moving the ball well and the whole approach to attacking seemed to hark back to a more free-spirited time. We were looking to attack in a variety of ways.

Long and short. Over the top. Sideways into space.

And despite my ambivalence on the way up, I was absolutely enjoying this game. I was on it and hopefully not likely to fall off.

But then, imperceptibly, the home team grew into the game and for the rest of the first-half we were second best. There were defensive errors – Cucarella was the main culprit but even Silva on occasion – as Villa ran at our retreating backline.

A cross from the Villa left resulted in a melee at the back post. A header crashed against the top of the bar.

Kepa had already been involved before we were treated to three magnificent saves during the same move as Villa peppered our goal. The second one, especially – down low – was magnificent. The third save, in the end, did not matter as an offside flag was raised.

Regardless, our ‘keeper was cheered loudly by the Chelsea contingent.

“He’s magic, you know.”

An errant pass from the poor Aubameyang let in Danny Ings. Kepa was equal to a strong shot, pushing it away for a corner.

The best was yet to come. On the half-hour, Ings headed at goal from close in and I absolutely expected a goal, the equaliser. From right underneath the cross-bar, the Spanish ‘keeper managed to claw it out. I always cite a Carlo Cudicini save at Tottenham as the best save that I have ever seen by a Chelsea ‘keeper but this might well have beaten it.

I was in absolute awe.

“He’s better than fuckin’ Thibaut.”

We had spotted that Loftus-Cheek was now asked to deploy the right wing-back berth with Sterling further forward. Mount withdrew deeper. Both players then initiated a fine move, our first for a while. Loftus-Cheek strode out of defence and passed to Mount. The ball was moved on. A strong run from the previously quiet Kai Havertz was followed by a pass to Raheem Sterling.

“Curl the fucker.”

Curl it he did, but the ball smacked the bar.

Ugh.

At the break, we all knew that we had rodden our luck.

“Getting roasted here Gal. On and off the pitch.”

Potter reacted with some substitutions.

Kalidou Koulibaly for the battle-weary Cucarella.

Dave for the weak Havertz.

The team was re-jigged.

We were soon treated to a John Terry-style chest pass from the current “shirt 26 wearer” Koulibaly. I am sure that I wasn’t the only one who noticed JT’s trademark resurfacing.

The Chelsea crowd were giving the Villa manager some Ba-llistic pain with a certain song from 2014 being repeated again and again. This was followed up with a chant that was also aired in Milan last week.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

Now, I can concede that Internazionale might well have a claim to “own” the Italian city. But I wasn’t having Birmingham City being the top dogs in our Second City.

I turned to Gal : “Maybe they are including West Brom too, a joint bid.”

Chances were shared at each end.

Further changes ensued.

Conor Gallagher for a quiet Aubameyang.

Jorginho for Kovacic,

“Kovacic has run about today but he hasn’t done too much, Gal.”

On sixty-six minutes, a run into space by Mount resulted in a foul by Mings the merciless.

“I fancy this, Gal.”

Mount sized it all up. His dipping free-kick was perfection personified.

Goal.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Aston Villa 0 Chelsea 2.

Phew.

Steven Gerrard was again getting it in the neck.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning…”

On the right wing, down below us, Gallagher mirrored the current government with a quick U-turn to free himself of his marker. A fine searching cross found the head of Sterling but his downward header bounced past the near post.

In the last minute, one last sub.

Armando Broja for Sterling.

I fancied us to score another to rub salt in the wound, but it stayed at two.

Phew.

I’ll say it again.

Phew.

“That’s five wins in a row now, John.”

“Four clean sheets too.”

“Unbeaten in six.”

“Off to a great start, Potter, eh?”

Mason Mount, with his first two goals of the season, took the eye, but Kepa – surely – was our star man. Without him, we could have been 3-1 down at the break. Conor Gallagher injected some energy and movement when he came on. Thiago Silva was excellent. Kalidou Koulibaly looked like the footballer that we thought we had purchased rather than a mistake waiting to happen. I liked Ruben Loftus-Cheek too; steady, though I am not sure that when he runs with the ball he is deceptively fast or deceptively slow. The negatives were Cucarella, Havertz and Aubameyang.

On the walk back to the car, PD mentioned the now missing underpass by the A34 as being the location of an almighty ambush by some Villa lads after the mad 2-2 draw on the last day of the season in 1990/91.

As is so often the case, we called in at “The Vine” at West Bromwich for an early-evening curry. PD enjoyed his Lamb Madras. Parky and I had the same dish, Manchurian Chicken. All very tasty, all immediately served within five minutes of ordering. I was just surprised that Michelle, Dane and Frances didn’t show up.

Please come back into the top flight West Brom so we have another excuse to stop off.

It was a decent drive home.

I was back inside at about 8pm.

Next up, our sixth game of nine in October is on Wednesday at Brentford.

I will see some of the lucky ones there.

Outside