Tales From “Bloody Hell, Chelsea”

Posted on December 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 27 December 2025.

I wasn’t happy that there was no Chelsea match on Boxing Day 2025. I was also annoyed that there was no Frome Town game on Boxing Day 2025. It seemed that the natural laws of football in the festive period were being flaunted.

At least, I suppose, travel was easier on the Saturday.

I was able to enjoy a little lie-in and picked-up PD at 9am and Lord Parsnips at 9.30am. Outside, it was bitterly cold.

I did admit to PD that a substantial part of me wished that I was off to watch Frome Town play a local derby at Shaftesbury at 3pm rather than drive the three hours up to Fulham yet again for the match against Aston Villa. Frome had won eight league games in a row and, after a fine win at home against Exmouth while I was in Newcastle last weekend, were now five points clear at the top. A visit to a new ground, just forty minutes away, did seem really alluring.

We breakfasted “on the hoof” and made our way to London. Above, no clouds. Ahead, not too much traffic. I dropped the chaps off at 11.50am near “The Eight Bells” and then drove through Fulham to park up at midday. I had a few moments to myself. I had to decide between my warmest coat and my small camera or another coat and my SLR. I didn’t fancy suffering for my art and dropped my Sony “pub camera” in the pocket of my “K-Way” jacket and slowly walked down towards Stamford Bridge. I stopped off at “Café Ole” for a cappuccino. There was another, small, bite to eat too. I then spent a few moments outside the West Stand, taking photos of the pre-match scene. Although the game was still four hours off, the place was getting busier by the minute.

I spent a few minutes talking to a few folks in the bar area of the Copthorne Hotel, then made my way back to Fulham Broadway to catch the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the usual suspects were crowded around our usual table. It was a tight fit; eight of us were crammed in on chairs, stools and a settle. My friend Eliot – last seen in NYC in July – arrived with his son Skinny, and we caught up a little.

We spoke about the difficulty in obtaining tickets these days, and this turned into a memory of playing Barcelona away in 2000 when we both shared stories about how we got in that day. Eliot managed to get in without a physical ticket – it’s a long story based on bravado and luck – while I had managed to obtain a ticket from Chelsea’s official allocation – only 1,500 – using that long-forgotten piece of antiquity called a fax machine.

The group left the pub surprisingly early at around 4.15pm. There was a noisy group of Villa fans on the same train.

The news from Shaftesbury was varied. The home team had a player sent off early on, we went 1-0 up, they equalised, we went 3-1 up with a quarter of an hour to go but the home team scored two in the last ten minutes to share the points.

Balls.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 5pm.

All day long I had been saying how difficult this game would be. We were playing an in-form team here, and I probably would have been happy with a point.

The surprising news was that Benoit Badiashile was given a start.

Fackinell.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Alongside me were Clive and PD, and thankfully the temperatures were not so Baltic as first thing. All the teams in and around us had won, albeit narrowly.

Two classic kits on show, the match began.

The game bristled to life and in the first two minutes, Moises Caicedo looped the ball towards Cole Palmer who gracefully brought the ball down. Alas his shot spun wide of Emiliano Martinez’ far post at the Shed End.

Soon after we were treated to a magnificent sprint from Reece James to win the ball from some poor unfortunate Villa midfielder, and the crowd roared its approval. The break was thwarted, just sensational stuff.

Then in the next minute, Villa’s first foray into our half, but Badiashile was strong in thought and strong in tackle, which is not always the case.

I liked the way that Alejandro Garnacho and Pedro Neto were occupying the far reaches of the width of the pitch.

“Chalk dust on their soles.”

It meant that Villa was stretched. We just needed to hit them early and hit those spaces.

Villa shouted about “empty seats” but nobody rose to the bait. The home crowd was, mainly, docile.

On the quarter of an hour, it really was all us. I could only really remember that Badiashile block.

A shot from Enzo was walloped wide.

On twenty minutes, a rapid succession of shots and stabs at goal from us in the Villa box were unrewarded as defenders lunged at balls to block.

I turned to Clive : “nice game of football this, we are playing well.”

Although the home support was hardly prolific, at least the players were awarded with the old “Amazing Grace” chant.

You know the words.

On thirty-three minutes, Garnacho to Neto and a header back to James, but the blast fizzed just wide.

On thirty-seven minutes, a corner in front of the Villa lot. Reece James curled a slow cross towards the six-yard box.

I snapped; a blur, too blurred to share.

To our amazement the ball bounced on the turf amidst a crowd of players and up into the goal, Martinez totally befuddled.

GET IN.

Had it gone straight in? I wasn’t sure. For that matter, neither were the players. For the first time that I could remember, the celebrations were split.

Joao Pedro and Enzo sped off towards Parkyville and collapsed on each other. Meanwhile, all the remaining eight outfield players rushed over to celebrate with Reece James. The goalscorer was announced in the stadium as Reece James. Or was it? My instinct to take a photo of the two rather than the eight was proved prescient; the Brazilian did indeed get the final touch.

We were in front.

Lovely stuff.

A few “THTCAUN/ COMLD” exchanges were shared.

Beautiful.

An effort from Palmer was saved by Martinez, and then Villa sent over a free kick from John McGinn that Joao Pedro hacked away. Honestly, they had hardly troubled our backline the entire half.

I spoke to a few friends at half-time in the stadium, and via messages in the US, and we had all agreed how enjoyable that had been.

One friend suggested that I had probably made copious notes on my mobile phone throughout the first period.

He was correct.

But, deep down, there was a tangible fear that we couldn’t keep it going and that this match would turn into one of our recent “game of two halves” scenarios.

What Chelsea would prevail?

It felt as though a whispered stadium announcement would not be amiss.

“Please take your seats for the Second Act.”

Within the first minute, a tantalising cross from Garnacho down below us in The Sleepy Hollow caused havoc in the Villa defence. I presumed that former Chelsea player Ian Maatsen had cleanly headed it behind for a corner, but there was a shout for a handball.

No penalty.

But then, almost imperceptibly, the away team improved.

I yelled “don’t let them get a foothold, Chels.”

Their star of the moment Morgan Rodgers shot at goal – their first real chance – but it was deflected wide.

Just after, a hell of a break; initiated by Sanchez. Palmer to Joao Pedro to Palmer, a cross to Garnacho but a sliding clearance from McGinn at the far stick. A minute later, a curling cross from James caused Martinez to twist and claw it away.

On fifty-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella set up Garnacho but the chance was spurned.

I spoke to Clive : “one of these days, Garnacho will hit the target.”

We were weakening a little now and our passing – “triangles of torture” – were tending to get the fans frustrated, and the players were losing confidence with each minute.

On the hour, Unai Emery made three changes.

Ollie Watkins for Buendia.

Jadon Sancho – who? – for Malen.

Amadou Onana for McGinn.

The Villa fans, sensing a revival, stepped up their support. I was hoping for something to match it from the home stands, to roar the boys home, but it was not coming.

A fine break from Villa, but a great block on his knees from Sanchez foiled Boubacar Kamara.

On sixty-three minutes, a poor clearance from Badiashile was easily intercepted and the ball was worked from Rodgers to Watkins. Sanchez raced out, but the ball was edged home.

Bollocks.

I was impressed that there was an immediate and loud response.

“COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.”

But Villa were on top now and we had to rely on two excellent saves from Sanchez. Efforts from Maatsen and then Watkins were blocked by our ‘keeper.

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

Now it was time for Maresca to retaliate.

Three substitutions of our own.

Malo Gusto for Cucurella.

What? Alongside James, our best player. I was dumbfounded.

Estevao Willian for Palmer.

What? Cole had a mixed game but is always a threat. Unless injured, he had to stay on.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Garnacho has tons of tantalising potential, but I do wonder if he is going to be labelled as another Phil Driver, Jesper Gronkjaer or Mykhailo Mudryk.

Then, another one.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Within two minutes, Delap was given a yellow and then ran around a lot without really ever getting involved.

A couple of chances were exchanged. Enzo tumbled in slow motion and a weak free kick was given to us in prime Reece James territory, but his shot thumped against the wall.

Again, I was pissed off that there was no wall of noise to roar us home.

On eighty-two minutes, PD left to walk back to the car. I left my seat and sat on the step above the walkway to allow him space to leave. Just as PD walked by, I saw a corner float in from the left and I shouted “FREE HEADER!”,

Not only a free header, but a free-goal, Watkins again.

Bollocks.

The Villa contingent roared again and I looked around in bewilderment.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

There was a wasteful cross from Gittens, and we all moaned.

Villa had the best of the last few minutes. Caicedo uncharacteristically lost possession and Sanchez came to the rescue again. There was still time for another, superb, low save from Sanchez from a free kick. Honestly, if it was not for our ‘keeper, we quite probably would have lost 1-4 or worse.

Villa had made a lot of noise as their second half improved, and they ended the match with songs about winning the league. However, they reserved their loudest chant for their hated rivals Birmingham City. And by God, it was loud.

Ah, this was horrible. We had played so bloody well in that first period, yet we crumbled after the hour mark. What team are we? A blinkin’ frustrating one for sure.

As I trotted down the steps, I was reminded that on Boxing Day 2024, we were 1-0 up at home to Fulham yet lost 1-2 after a second-half collapse. And here we were again, experiencing the same Chelsea “fade” as twelve months previously.

I caught up with Big John, and I reminded him how we had wondered at the break if our first-half form would continue in the second, and we shrugged that Chelsea shrug.

“See you Tuesday.”

“You will.”

We now find ourselves a massive ten points behind Aston Villa and we are hanging on grimly to a fifth position that looks like being the best we can hope for this season.

At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.

As I started to drive home on the elevated section of the M4, past Brentford’s ground, I was pragmatic and philosophical. Although this defeat had hurt – and there were real feelings of disappointment with the manager and the lack of atmosphere – I had a moment to myself thinking of all of the times that my father had driven on this section, how many times I had driven along here, of all of my mates driving these miles over the years, and how lucky we have been to be able to do all this.

Schmaltzy shite?

Maybe.

But it is Christmas.

Oh – and Martin; I made more notes in the second half.

Tales From A Black Night

Posted on December 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

Leeds United vs. Chelsea : 3 December 2025.

Subtitled : To ‘ell and back.

I will be totally honest – or in modern parlance, “NGL” – here. I had been dreading this trip ever since I heard of this season’s fixtures.

Even as the game became close.

And that is somewhat surprising, bearing in mind our recent little upturn in the home games against Barcelona and Arsenal.

No, sorry everyone. A midweek trip up to West Yorkshire on a Wednesday evening in December filled me with dread. For starters, I was short on holiday, so was only able to take two half days to accommodate this troublesome journey. However, it got worse; I was still recuperating from the bug that had hit me hard the previous week.

The day began for me at 6.30am with an alarm call to get me up and ready to work an 8am to midday shift.

I eventually got away, with PD and Parky as my trusty passengers, at 12.15pm. Thankfully there were clear skies overhead. I am not quite sure how I would have possibly coped with heavy rainfall and dodgy visibility. So, that was a huge positive.

Not long into the journey, PD shared the news that Marvin Hinton had passed away the day before. This fine servant, who played as a full-back and then a centre-half and was probably our first-ever sweeper on occasion back in the mid- ‘sixties, played an important role in our much-loved teams from that era. “Lou” played 344 times for Chelsea and came on as a substitute against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final and replay. Sadly, I never saw him in a game. He was known for his cool and calm style of play. He was eighty-five.

Rest In Peace Marvin Hinton.

We stopped briefly at Strensham Services. Thankfully I was feeling reasonable and we pressed on.

I spoke about the evening’s match.

“It’s weird. They will be singing ‘Doris Day’, while we will be singing ‘Dambusters’ and long may it continue.

It’s a cracking rivalry, even now.

At around 4pm, we decided to call in at a familiar pub on our travels; The Windmill at the Tabley Interchange on the M6. We were distraught to see that the property was closed and for sale. All three of us had really fancied some of their robust Northern grub. We then decided to aim for The Kilton Inn near Mere, another old favourite used for games in the Manchester area – including on Saturday 30 April 2005 – but they weren’t serving food until 5pm. Thankfully, our luck improved when we stumbled across The Plough at Hollins Green – a good sign for the evening’s game, surely – where we stopped from 4.30pm until 5.15pm.

Food was ordered and devoured.

In-keeping with the day’s travel and the evening’s game, we dined on traditional no-frills fare.

PD : Cheese and onion pie and chips.

Parky : Cottage pie.

Chris : Lancashire Hot Pot.

The pub was decent. It’s very close to the northern banks of the Manchester Ship Canal. The food was hearty and filling. The staff were friendly, if not slightly bemused that we were en route to Leeds.

We edged through some slow-moving traffic but then found ourselves back on the same road that we had used to get to Burnley ten days previously. Once on the M62, the traffic cleared, and I soared up and over The Pennines.

I made good time. We passed over the highest spot on the UK motorway network near the Lancashire / Yorkshire border then descended towards Leeds. As I drove on, the lights of the city and then the lights of Elland Road lured me in.

I was parked up at 6.30pm at a private car park; the price was a reassuringly cheap £6.

We had made it.

The former “away” pub The Dry Salters is now closed, so we had no options before walking to Elland Road, which was a good twenty-five-minute walk away. There’s nothing much around Elland Road. It’s a decent place to reach in a car, but it’s a long way out of the city centre, with hardly any pubs nearby.

Stamford Bridge it ain’t.

The temperature had dropped. Locals rushed by wearing the trademark white, yellow and blue bar scarves.

My K-Way jacket and Yankees cap fought to keep out the chilling temperatures.

I had to meet Lewis, a friend of a friend of a friend, to pass over a spare, and this was eventually accomplished at around 7.30pm.

In I went, and I was soon reminded that the bar area in the away concourse is strangely carpeted, a remnant of when this stand was for home fans only.

Up the steps, down the steps, and I quickly found my place alongside John. I said “this place doesn’t change much, does it?” and he soon mentioned the Don Revie carpet.

Revie loved getting the Leeds squad to play carpet bowls – that’s not a euphemism, I hope – and I wondered if this odd practice even took place in the crowded confines of Elland Road.

We had good seats, near the player’s tunnel. I soon spotted PD in the front row. He was sat a couple of seats away from a guy that Parky was sat next to at Burnley. During the TV coverage, Parky was spotted by many friends in the US and I was sent some screen shots. The chap next to Parky had a bizarre ‘seventies hairstyle…long blonde locks…and a mate said that an image of him was used to initiate a “reddit” thread during the game.

There were comments of this bloke’s resemblance to Jimmy Saville. In Leeds, on this night, he made the very wise choice to wear his hair in a ponytail. However, one poor chap within the Chelsea support nearer the noisy buggers in the South Stand, who must have had a passing resemblance to the infamous Leeds native, was the target for much abuse throughout the game.

John and I chatted about how ridiculous the 8.15pm kick-off was.

The irony was that Arsenal were playing Brentford at 7.30pm. If one game had to kick-off, why not that one, with most of the crowd travelling in from the South-East.

An evening game in West Yorkshire is bad enough, but not 7.30pm, not 7.45pm, not 8pm but 8.15pm?

It’s taking the piss on a monumental scale.

The team was announced.

Enzo Maresca rang the changes, and how. Nobody was happy.

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

With Caicedo on a ban, and James simply not chosen, I wondered if the team had enough guts.

The home team boasted a mysterious bunch of unknowns – Ampadu, the captain, and Calvert-Lewin aside – including Peri-Peri, Bijoux, Boogle, Nacker, Stuck and Stack.

“Marching On Together” boomed, and the noise was impressive.

The two teams appeared in front of us, and it irked me that Chelsea chose to play in the all black “Millwall badge” monstrosity. When Chelsea plays at Leeds, we should always wear blue. Maybe with yellow socks to remind them about 1970.

As for Leeds, what with their hatred for all things Mancunian and Lancastrian, the flash of red of their shirt sponsor looked out of place too.

The noise didn’t let up as the time reached 8.15pm.

I posted on Facebook : “Let’s Win This For Lou.”

Leeds began on fire. A shot from Ao Tanaka was dealt with by Robert Sanchez, but a corner in the sixth minute was swing in and Jaka Bijol leaped clear to head home, unchallenged, from an angle ahead of the near post.

“Here we bloody go.”

After ten minutes or so, we looked so lethargic in possession.

Where was the fire, the intensity, the hunger?

On fifteen minutes, a half-chance for Joao Pedro at the old Gelderd End, now the Don Revie Stand. Funny, back in the day, I always knew it as The Kop, not the Gelderd End. I only heard of this name relatively recently.

There was an almost witty exchange on fifteen minutes.

Chelsea to Leeds : “Champions of Europe, you’ll never sing that.”

Leeds to themselves : “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

This is their stubborn nod to the 1975 European Cup Final in Paris against Bayern Munich when a Peter Lorimer goal was controversially chalked off for offside, only for Bayern to win a tight game 2-0.

Fifty years ago. Fackinell.

The irony is that I wanted Leeds to win that night; these were the days when things were less tribal, and when – as a young kid – I wanted all English teams to be victorious in European finals.

I remember us singing “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe” as we exited the stadium in Munich in 2012, but we haven’t sung it since to my knowledge.

Estevao was only really involved with his trademark shimmy inside and I wondered if he would be found out if this was to be the only trick up his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Leeds were winning tackles and second balls with an admirable, yet gut-wrenching, intensity. Our midfield was missing, perhaps on the Pennines or somewhere.

Shots were aimed at Sanchez from all angles. They were out-fighting us and out-shooting us.

“And go get your father’s gun, shoot the Chelsea scum.”

We improved slightly but our shots on goal were woeful. Jamie Gittens seemed unsure whether to stick or twist; to dribble past his man, or to pass. He looked lost.

Leeds were full of it.

“Even bloody Calvert-Lewin looks a handful tonight.”

Benoit Badiashile seemed to slow down to a crawl when in possession. And it didn’t help that he probably touched the ball more than any other player as the first half progressed. His passes were never positive. It was excruciating to watch.

On thirty-nine minutes, there was some terrible pre-meditated nonsense from Estevao. After losing the ball, he kicked out at a Leeds player from behind and was rightfully booked.

Prick.

In the last couple of minutes, Leeds won a loose ball as Chelsea struggled to clear and the ball ran nicely to Tanaka, who struck a magnificent shot into the corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared again.

Memories of our equally awful performance under Thomas Tuchel in the August of 2022 came racing back. We lost 0-3 that afternoon.

At the break, we were at a real low.

What a lacklustre first half, nobody more than 4/10.

“Sort it out Maresca.”

At half-time, Howard Wilkinson slowly walked onto the pitch to say a few words to the Leeds faithful. How I remember our battles with his Sheffield Wednesday team in the early-to-mid ‘eighties, and of course I remember him leading Leeds to that 1991/92 championship. It was the last Football League title and – get this – Wilkinson is still the last English manager to win the title in England.

That’s pretty damning if you ask me.

As I heard him speak, I remembered that excellent midfield of David Batty, Gary Speed, Gordan Strachan and Gary McAllister. In truth, elsewhere that Leeds team contained mediocre players – maybe Tony Dorigo is the exception – but I was just happy that they pipped Manchester United that season. My college mates Bob and Trev went to many Leeds games that season. I thought of them too; friends since 1984.

I was having a wistful moment and found myself clapping the Leeds manager, no doubt out of respect for some fine memories of a time when football was another ball game in another age. A few other Chelsea fans of my generation clapped too.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile.

Pedro Netro for Estevao.

On forty-seven minutes, a cross from the Leeds right found Lukas Nmecha but Sanchez made an outstanding point blank save.

Three minutes later, we worked the ball out to Gittens who surprised us all by sending over a very good cross that evaded everyone and found Pedro Neto arriving at the far post. He adjusted himself and did ever so well to slot the ball in from a very awkward angle. He raced away, heading for the bench, pointing and gesturing and one can only imagine what he was saying to the management team.

We momentarily played some incisive stuff, and the fans noted the difference in intent.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Liam Delap fired wide from an angle.

“Come on boys.”

On the hour, more changes.

Cole Palmer for Delap.

Alejandro Garnacho for Gittens.

Eight minutes later, the Argentinian raced away down the left, in front of the baying home fans who remembered his Manchester past and set up Cole Palmer who had typically dropped into some space at the front of the goal.

I expected him to score. John expected him to score. The twat behind me who had been calling virtually every Chelsea player a “c**t” expected him to score. My mates in South Philly and in South London expected him to score. Johnny Dozen from Southern California, watching to my right in the paddock, expected him to score.

The shot went wide.

I held my head in disbelief.

On seventy-two minutes, Chelsea suicide. We found ourselves doing our best “after you, Claude” routine, passing the ball around inside our box, but looking increasingly inept with each nervous pass. Leeds put us under pressure. Tosin dillied and dallied, and dallied and dillied, and lost his way, and the ball. Leeds had two aggressive players on the last man. Ilia Gruev stabbed at the loose ball, Sanchez blocked, but Calvert-Lewin pushed the ball home.

Leeds United 3 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

In the last ten or fifteen minutes, many Chelsea fans evacuated both levels of the stand, but I had to stay to the end. I rarely leave early.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Joao Pedro.

No doubt recycling a chant aimed at Manchester United fans, the South Stand sang at us.

“It’s a long way to London when you’re shit.”

It wasn’t to be.

The whistle blew and that was that.

What a terrible performance.

In retrospect, the manager’s selection – and by the looks of it, his motivational pre-match speech – were way off.

To the Chelsea fans inside Elland Road, we appeared to be in completely the wrong frame of mind. Whereas the home team were full of aggression from the off, we seemed to be treating this game like any other.

Simply selecting a sub-par eleven and hoping for the best was never going to work at Elland Road.

Is anyone at modern day Chelsea aware of the dislike they have of us?

Amongst all of it, Sanchez kept us in it with some super saves, and he can’t really be blamed for the goals. Garnacho was a big positive when he came off the bench. And I think he ought to have started. He knows what the atmosphere at Leeds is like. Less so the young and still inexperienced Estevao. Enzo was poor. Santos too. That midfield was devoid of bite.

Elland Road is a very tough venue for us.

Since our first visit in 1927, in all games, our record is this :

Played : 53

Won : 8

Drew :15

Lost : 30

Two seasons ago, the two teams met in a Youth Cup game. The club was concerned that Leeds knew all about the rivalry, but the Chelsea boys didn’t. To remedy this, the 1970 replay was shown to the squad at Cobham, and the staff ensured that the players were suitably motivated. We won the tie easily.

I bet Maresca didn’t even know about the 1970 cup replay.

We slowly walked back to the car, and I got going at around 11pm. On the return home, there were roadworks on the M5 and so I was pushed down the M1 to Leicester and I was forced to come down the Fosseway – hello again – and over The Cotswolds. At Cirencester, there was a road closure, and the diversion signs took me everywhere but the right direction. At 2.45am, I found myself creeping around the streets of Cirencester trying to find an escape route.

I eventually reached home at 4am.

6.30am to 4am.

Bloody hell.

We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…

Tales From A Beautiful Game

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 October 2025.

As with the last time that we played Liverpool at home, on Sunday 4 May, we had decided to forego our usual pre-match in “The Eight Bells” in favour of “The Tommy Tucker” because of logistical reasons. The closure of the District Line was again the cause, but we didn’t mind one iota. This pub is only fifty yards from Fulham Road and serves as a decent enough substitute for our usual boozer a mile or so to the south.

I was hoping that it would prove to be a lucky omen since we defeated the newly crowned champions 3-1 on that sunny day five months ago.

The day had begun in deepest Somerset with the rain lashing down outside, and with low dark clouds above. The outlook looked bleak.

Thankfully, the weather improved as I drove to London with PD and LP, so that by the time I was parked up, the skies were clear. Walking to the pub was a lot easier than I had expected with blustery gusts of wind the only negative. As soon as I reached the bar, I spotted Tommy Langley and we enjoyed a brief chat before he darted off to the stadium to commence his pre-match hospitality routine.

I stayed in the pub from 1pm to 4.30pm, and a few acquaintances joined us at our table, all of whom seemed to be called Steve or Dave.

We semi-watched the Leeds United vs. Tottenham Hotspur game on the TV screen that faced our table.

I was on the “Diet Cokes” of course and occupied myself with occasional peeks at my phone to see how my local team Frome Town were faring at Willand Rovers in Devon. During the week, on the Wednesday, I had enjoyed a cracking game of football between Frome Town and Bristol Manor Farm, our great rivals. My hometown team eventually prevailed 3-2, with a late goal from new fan favourite George Dowling, who rifled home on eighty-eight minutes after seeing an early 2-0 lead collapse. This gave Dodge our fifth win out of five in the league this season. Sadly, Willand won 1-0 and so I was downbeat about that.

With virtually every single Chelsea fan that I had chatted to expecting a loss against Liverpool, but hoping for a draw, I prepared myself for a bleak afternoon.

As I made the short walk from the “The Tommy Tucker” to Stamford Bridge, the wind was still blustery, and I was pleased that I was wearing my light jacket to fend off some surprisingly cold bursts.

I smuggled my SLR in using “Method 9/F” and quickly made my way up to The Sleepy Hollow.

It was 4.45pm. As I took a few photos of the dormant stadium from the very back row above our seats, waiting for things to liven up, I recollected a few things from that Liverpool game last May. It would prove to be dear Albert’s last-ever Chelsea game, and I thought back to him once again.

As friends drifted in, I chatted away, but none of us thought we would get much out of the game.

Enzo Maresca had chosen this starting eleven :

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

With the appearance of the teams from the East Stand tunnel, we were treated to fireworks exploding from both roofs of The Shed and the Matthew Harding. The air turned a hazy blue/grey for quite some time, and the whiff of sulphur permeated our nostrils.

At 5.30pm, the game began.

Liverpool began brightly, and as they attacked our end, it gave the Chelsea supporters the chance to boo the new Liverpool striker Aleksander Isak at close quarters.

Then Chelsea began to make inroads, and there was an opening for Malo Gusto but he fluffed his lines when presented with a chance.

With an extended “sesh” having taken place in the boozers around Stamford Bridge – I had deposited the lads outside the pub at 12.15pm and they didn’t leave much before 5pm – there was a tipsy atmosphere inside the ground, and the noise was excellent, a complete improvement to the horrible Brighton atmosphere.

We had started to move the ball around well, with the two wingers looking mustard.

However, on fifteen minutes, a fluid attack took place in the centre of the pitch, well away from Messrs Garnacho and Neto.

Benoit Badiashle pushed the ball forward to Gusto, supplementing the midfield as is the style these days, and he in turn played the ball forward to Moises Caicedo. There was no shortage of red shirts around him, but he deftly created space and advanced. He pushed the ball on, gave the impression that he was about to let fly, but touched the ball again, possibly putting defenders off balance or of kilter, and let fly with a blast from twenty-five yards. As soon as he had taken that extra touch, the Red Sea had parted, and I was right in line with his thunderbolt as it slammed into debutant Giorgi Mamardashvili’s goal.

Euphoria from me, euphoria from everyone, and I was up and celebrating like a loon, only slightly troubled that I didn’t get a snap of the goal. I followed Caicedo’s triumphant run past Parkyville and into the corner, buzzing all the while.

What a stunner.

Bollocks to the pre-match gloom, we were 1-0 up.

Liverpool had their share of possession in the ensuing half-an-hour, but we did not let them create much at all. We were playing the best football of the season thus far, not allowing the red-shirted players much space, and kept the ball well when in possession. Enzo seemed revigorated in that first-half, but Caicedo was even better. Out on the wings, the tireless Neto kept asking questions of their left back, while Garnacho, right in front of the Scousers, was lighting up his wing with some nice movement.

There was a powerful block by Badiashile from a Dominik Szoboszlai shot. The often-derided defender was surprising us all with an accomplished showing alongside the equally impressive Josh Acheampong.

On thirty-three minutes, Liverpool found themselves in our box, and a shot was hacked away by the ever-reliable Marc Cucurella.

There was a lung-busting, and quite thrilling, run by Neto down his right flank, and he eventually cut the ball back into the box, with Virgil van Dijk beaten, but the chance went begging.

Just after, Garnacho curled an effort just wide.

By this stage, the three-thousand Mickey Mousers in the far corner were as quiet as I could remember.

Garnacho went down inside the box, but after a VAR review, the play resumed.

Isak headed the last chance of a pulsating half over Robert Sanchez’ bar.

We were supremely happy at the break.

Soon into the second half – I timed it as just twenty-one seconds – Chelsea lost possession cheaply and the Liverpool substitute Florian Wirtz set up Mo Salah, who had struggled to get involved in the first period, but the Egyptian striker fired wide.

Sensing a dip in our play, the Chelsea spectators at Stamford Bridge turned into Chelsea supporters and noisily got behind the team with a barrage of noise.

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

This warmed my heart.

The visitors improved and enjoyed a spell on top, and Sanchez saved a long shot from Ryan Gravenberch. Then, a one-on-one race between Salah and Badiashile, but our former striker fired over with his usually trusted left-foot.

Ten minutes into the half, Badiashile was injured and was replaced by Romeo Lavia, with James sliding back alongside Josh in the centre of the defence.

Then, two quick chances down below us. Garnacho took a long ball down to perfection but his intended pass inside to Joao Pedro was poor. Then a lovely flowing move that began with Lavia and ended with Cucurella’s floated cross towards the far post, but Pedro Neto’s header was deflected over.

This was a great game.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t hating modern football quite so much.

A dink from Neto, and Enzo wide.

Sadly, on the hour, Liverpool crossed from our left and it looked like Cucurella’s leg changed the flight of the ball slightly.

I found myself commentating.

“Oh deflection…here we go…goal” as Gakpo rifled it in past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

So, back level, and it felt like we had been hard done by.

There were further changes.

On sixty-seven minutes, Acheampong was injured and was replaced by Jorrel Hato. I found it odd that Hato didn’t come in for Badiashile, but what do I know?

At this rate, Tommy Langley will come on to play in our patched-up defence.

This was a pulsating game, though, and it seemed to be in the balance.

What next?

On seventy-five minutes, I could hardly believe seeing a triple substitution.

Estevao Willian for Garnacho.

Jamie Gittens Pedro Neto.

Marc Guiu for Joao Pedro.

We went on the offensive again. It seemed to be Chelsea attacking at will now.

Gittens to Enzo, a cross that begged to be converted, but the chance passed.

Next up, a sublime long pass from James found Gittens, looking lively, and he brought a decent save from Mamardashvili. Estevao picked up the loose ball, danced towards goal, and floated a shot towards the far post that Mamardashvili managed to get fingertips on, and I managed to snap that exact moment.

With minutes passing by, PD asked for his stick and left early. He needs a good half-an-hour to slowly walk back to where I collect him on Lillee Road.

The Chelsea chances still piled up. A shot from Caicedo – shoot! – and Mamardashvili (I am sick to death of typing out his name) nudged it over the bar.

A corner from the far side, Enzo unable to convert with a difficult header.

I wondered if PD was not too far away from the stadium that he could hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the increasingly mesmerized home support.

Szobososzlai – the hirsute Hungarian henchman, a certain woolyback if his legs are a clue – then shot wide at The Shed End.

The assistant linesman signalled seven minutes of extra time.

PD was surely out of earshot now.

The lively Estevao sent over a magical cross towards Enzo, who contorted his body to fashion a header, but although Mamardashvili was beaten, the ball struck the post.

Ugh.

Ninety-six minutes were on the clock and PD must have reached the North End Road by now.

The last moments of this super game began.

An amazing move from the right of our defence, right through the team, found Cucurella on the left, who passed outside to Gittens, then to Enzo, who now controlled the ball amidst a crowd of opposing players. He waited and chose his moment. He spotted the run of Cucurella. The Spaniard whipped in a cross towards the far post, and I looked up. To my amazement and joy, I saw Estevao arrive, sliding and off-balance, but within a blink of an eye, the young Brazilian had the coolness of mind to push the ball over the line.

Mamardashvili was beaten.

The.

Crowd.

Exploded.

I pumped the air with my fists, bellowed some primaeval roar, lost in the moment. I then tried to remain cool to snap the melee over on the far side. What a scene. What madness. What a goal. What a finish. What a win.

I would later learn that PD had heard the roar along the North End Road.

“Chelsea Dagger” played, and I hated it, and the fans bounced along and I hated it more. But there were crazily mixed emotions, and I loved the buzz of it all. We were all taken to another place.

There was, worryingly, a mere whisper of VAR involvement, and the guy in front of me looked very concerned.

No. They can’t do that to us surely? Was Cucurella off? Surely not.

No.

The goal stood.

The whistle blew.

Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1.

I bloody love you, Chelsea.

Next up, “One Step Beyond” and everyone losing it.

I stayed behind for a few minutes, more than usual, long enough to hear “Blue Is The Colour” begin.

After a chorus or two, we made our way down the stairs in the north-west corner, and one song dominated.

“Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Do do do do – do do do do do.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.”

Out on the Fulham Road, a sea of noise.

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

…like something from the ‘seventies.

Ah, what a beautiful, beautiful feeling.

What a beautiful game.

Tales From A Weekend Away

Posted on May 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025.

“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”

With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.

And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.

It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.

I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.

At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.

Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.

We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.

There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.

We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.

Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.

We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.

Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.

So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.

Ah, 1985.

The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.

I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.

For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.

I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.

I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.

I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.

I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.

Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.

A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.

I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.

Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.

After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.

The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.

In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.

Euphoria.

Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.

“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”

We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.

Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.

However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.

This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.

Let’s get back to 2025.

The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.

A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.

At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.

Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.

I eventually crawled in at around 2am.

I think.

On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.

“It’s ten thirty mate.”

“Fackinell.”

My immediate thoughts?

“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”

“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”

“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”

“Never again.”

We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.

The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.

There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.

“The trophy room” I replied.

“But there is no Tier Eight.”

“Exactly, I replied.”

*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.

I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.

I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.

Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.

I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.

I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.

With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.

Before I knew it, the game had began below me.

Quick, the team.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.

I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.

There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.

Fuck it.

The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.

“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”

I felt crushed so soon into the game.

And I thought of Albert.

To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.

We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.

Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.

This was horrible.

And I thought of Albert.

On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.

Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.

Sigh.

We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.

This was a really odd game.

I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.

I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.

I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.

“Sorry mate.”

He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.

Bless him.

At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.

And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.

Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.

On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.

“It’s all us now.”

The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.

“It’s Salomon!”

A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.

On seventy-five minutes, two changes.

Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia

Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah

God know who was playing where.

The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :

“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”

Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.

The home fans roared again :

“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”

On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.

FACKINELL.

That was our chance.

There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.

Bollocks.

At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.

So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.

I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.

Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.

STOKE ON TRENT : 11 MAY 1985

NEWCASTLE ON TYNE : 11 MAY 2025

Tales From Chelsea At Fulham

Posted on April 22, 2025 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 20 April 2025.

We were amid a solid run of games in London. Our local derby at Craven Cottage against Fulham was our seventh league game of nine consecutive matches in the capital. So, there was something very familiar as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky early on the morning of Easter Sunday.

The mood in the car, however, was not particularly positive. I certainly thought that we would lose against our quiet neighbours. We have struggled of late, and Fulham would be no pushovers.

My Easter weekend had started poorly. On Good Friday, I watched as Frome Town played Dorchester Town, and the Dorset promotion-challengers had brought around three-hundred supporters to boost the crowd to a fine 708 at Badgers Hill. This was a fine pulsating football match, and it went 0-1 (a penalty), 1-1 (Albie Hopkins), 1-2 (a penalty) and 2-2 (Sam Teale) until former Portsmouth, Ipswich Town and Bournemouth striker Brett Pitman pounced in the eighty- ninth minute. At 2-2, our safety was still possible, but at 2-3 we feared the worst. When I snapped the second equaliser, close-in, we had all hoped that our complete comeback was on, and a remarkable survival mission was back on track.

Sadly, the following day, the results went against us and Frome Town were relegated to the Southern League South.

It was expected, but still painful.

However, one moment stuck with me as I slowly wandered back to my car after the match on Friday. Around two hundred of the away supporters had been massed in the small covered seated stand at the eastern end of the ground and so when Pitman slotted home that last minute winner, their support roared and made one incredible racket. It brought it home to me how passionate the supporters at Step 3 can be. It was, admittedly, a horrible moment but also a life-affirming moment too.

On the Monday, I dropped the lads off close to the Eight Bells and drove off to park up. Walking to the pub took ten minutes from my spot on Ringmer Avenue, I took a photo of the neat and well-maintained town houses of Fulham and posted the view onto Facebook with the title :

“Fulham. This hotbed of football.”

This was a sideswipe at Fulham, that most benign of clubs, but also a tongue-in-cheek comment about us too, since we are also based in Fulham, and are seen by outsiders as being soft Southerners with no edge, no passion and no gravitas.

Chelsea Football Club, though undoubtedly a global phenomenon now, are centered on the twin boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham, but also Kensington and Chelsea.

It’s perhaps odd for outsiders – of the club, of London, of the United Kingdom – when they realise that our club is in Fulham. I suppose we take it for granted. I differentiate it all out of necessity.

I go to Chelsea, but I drink around Fulham.

Most of the drinking spots at Chelsea are in Fulham.

We very rarely drink in Chelsea.

We sometimes drink in Hammersmith.

We very rarely drink in Kensington.

We alight at Fulham Broadway tube station.

Stamford Bridge is in Fulham.

Chelsea are policed by Fulham Police.

“You’re going home in a Fulham ambulance.”

Chelsea is a Fulham club.

To add to this state of confusion, “The Eight Bells” is deep in Fulham but is never a Fulham pub. When Chelsea plays at home, it is steadfastly a home pub, when Fulham plays at home it is an away pub.

On the last few yards of my walk to this cozy pub, the bells of All Saints Fulham could be heard, an unlikely backdrop to a few hours of drinking and banter, laughter and smiles.

Unlike at Chelsea home matches, most of the chairs were stacked away to provide more standing room for punters, since Chelsea would undoubtedly flood the three away pubs in this area close to Putney Bridge tube station.

The pre-game was excellent. The four of us were joined by two long-standing US friends, Johnny Dozen and Cesar from California, and I also met up with Joe, from Virginia, for the first time. Joe lives right next door to my big friend Jaro, and he loves the intimate atmosphere of our home pub which he had visited once before. To complete a quintet of US supporters, Frank from Philadelphia was in attendance with his daughter, a follower of this blog, and a chap that I think I conversed with before on one social media platform or another.

This was nice.

My two friends Rob and, er, Rob, were in attendance too, and so there will be eight of us meeting up in the US again in two months: Joe, Frank and his daughter, Johnny Dozen, Rob, Rob, Glenn and I.

From Phulham to Philly.

Phackinell.

While others were quaffing copious amounts of ales and lagers, I was knocking back God-knows how many pints of “Diet Coke”.

At just after 1pm, we set off for the short walk over to Fulham Palace and Bishops Park and onwards towards Craven Cottage. However, firstly I commandeered the troops for a nice photo outside the boozer.

We split up a little outside the away turnstiles and I enjoyed a few moments to myself.

Along with the closeness of the main stand on Goodison Road, this is probably my favourite piece of terra firma on our away trips.

The ornate, red-bricked façade of the main stand, the Johnny Haynes statue, the black and white paintwork depicting “Fulham Football Club” on the cottage which dates from 1780, the neat, terraced houses leading away from the stadium, the quintessential Englishness of it all.

It was all very Fulhamish.

DJ was spotted hawking “CFCUK” on Stevenage Road.

“Only a pound.”

There was wisteria on the walls of an immaculate house on the corner of Finlay Street. I took a photo of this against a backdrop of the Johnny Haynes Stand and the cottage.

I mentally dubbed Fulham “Wisteria FC.”

And wondered if we should be called “Hysteria FC.”

There always seems to be panic and drama and commotion and noise at our club. In contrast, Fulham just keep floating on.

Smuggling my SLR into Craven Cottage is my easiest away challenge, and this was no exception. On this occasion, I took my place with my Sleepy Hollow companion Clive while Glenn watched alongside Alan and Gary. We worked out that this was my first trip to Craven Cottage with Glenn since a trip in November 2004 when we thrashed the home team 4-1.

Where does the time go, eh?

I looked around. At last, the Riverside Stand is complete, bringing the total capacity up to around 28,000. It’s a decent looking stand, though I miss the view of the river. Fulham must be the only stadium where one of the stands, The Riverside, has a better logo than the club itself. After Legia’s over-simplistic “L”, I was reminded of the awful “FFC” of Fulham.

I had spoken to many before this game and virtually everyone expected a poor performance from us, and many expected a loss. I reminded a few mates of the infamous walk that Rafa Benitez was forced to do at the Brentford away game in 2013, loudly berated by our fans on four separate occasions, when the dugouts were on the opposite side of the pitch much like at Craven Cottage. I wondered, should we lose, if a toxic atmosphere would again engulf the away end and Enzo Maresca would be haunted forever by Craven Cottage.

The kick-off at 2pm came close. The teams appeared from the corner, and there were the usual flames in front of the Riverside Stand. I yawned a hundred yawns. I saw that the home fans to my left were already flapping their carboard “noise-makers” in the air.

Modern football eh?

The teams lined up.

Fulham in white / black / white.

Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

Chelsea attacked us in the Putney End and this isn’t usually the case in the first-half. It’s a bit of a misnomer this, since Putney is on the other side of the Thames. I am not sure why “the Fulham End” couldn’t suffice.

In the first ten minutes of the game, our end was full of noise, and I strained to make out the words of a new song.

Eventually, I worked it out.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Tune : “Voulez-Vous” by Abba.

Early on, there was a hearty “One Man Went To Mow” that got everyone involved, a battle song from the early to mid-‘eighties that always seemed better when we all used to sit until ten, but I guess things evolve and change.

Ah, the mid-eighties. Here we go.

Exactly forty years ago to this very day, Chelsea were playing at another away venue, but this time in the West Midlands and not West London. On Saturday 20 April, Chelsea visited The Hawthorns and beat West Bromwich Albion 1-0 with a goal from Kerry Dixon in front of just 11,196. I didn’t go to this one, but I remember Glenn went with Swan. It was another win in our recent resurgence.

In deepest Fulham, up the other end – the Hammersmith End – Fulham had a goal from Ryan Sessegnon quickly chalked off for offside.

There’s no doubt that we enjoyed most of the ball in this first quarter of the match, but good heavens it was tough to watch. Again, we found it hard to get behind the home defence. Nicolas Jackson reached the six-yard box and stumbled at a ball that was an easy grab for Bernd Leno. Crosses missed intended targets. Cole Palmer’s shot was saved. A Reece James free kick caused no problems.

In the stands, much to my annoyance, past heroes were serenaded, when the players currently on the pitch should have been prioritised.

“It’s Salomon!”

On twenty minutes, Reece James was put under pressure by two Fulham players and I immediately sensed danger. Sessegnon passed to Alex Iwobi. As he set the ball up for a shot, I spoke.

“Here we go, goal.”

And I watched the ball find the far corner.

Sometimes that sixth sense unerringly works, and it often works when other teams score. It must be a Chelsea thing. Fackinell.

The home fans made a bit of noise but nothing special. However, after their last-minute win at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day, they were now chasing their first-ever league double over us.

Encouraged by their goal, Fulham came more into the game, but Robert Sanchez was not threatened too severely.

Our play was marked by the usual slow and ponderous style of the second part of this season. Tensions rose in the away end. I didn’t see much to be happy about. Palmer looked a little lost. Not as lost as James, however, who once appeared to be positioned in left midfield. On the half-hour mark, I was screaming my displeasure at Levi Colwill who took a stupid swipe at a Fulham player from behind on the half-way line and received a booking.

“Stupidity!”

We hardly created any chances in that tepid and turgid first half. It brings me no pleasure to report that the word “turgid” is being used increasingly by Chelsea supporters this season.

Yes, Maresca was given a rough reception as he strode quickly over the pitch on the way back to the away dressing room in the corner. I was surprised that it was not more venomous.

On this first-half showing, I rated no players more than a 5/10. Reece was, quite literally, all over the place. I commented that it was, unfortunately, playing out just like I had glumly expected.

Clive and I stood, shell-shocked by it all, and we acknowledged the Fulham DJ cheeringly playing a song by Ian Dury.

“Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly.

Good golly, Miss Molly and boats.

Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet.

Jump back in the alley and nanny goats.

Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domenica camels.

All other mammals, plus equal votes.

Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willie.

Being rather silly and porridge oats.”

Oh boy.

“Reasons to be cheerful?”

I should have got back in to bed.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

As we attacked the Hammersmith End, the Hammersmith Palais, the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith flyover, our play improved slightly. However, I soon commented to Scott that “our players look as bored as we do.”

There was a shot from Palmer straight at Leno.

In front of us, a rare Fulham attack but Gusto did ever so well to stretch out and block a shot on goal. Gusto has suffered this season, and I wonder where on earth his form from the last campaign has gone. On his day, he is a cracking player.

Neto, getting more involved on the right, saw his shot stopped by Leno, who was becoming the busier ‘keeper by far.

As the second half continued, a wide variety of songs rang out from the Putney End. Initially, the “Frankie Lampard scored two hundred” annoyed me as it was a typical example of a song being sung at the wrong time. I always say this is fine when we are winning easily and we can relax and serenade older players, but not when we are losing and playing poorly. It just seems odd to me.

Songs involving Dennis Wise, John Terry, Willian and, inevitably, Salomon Kalou were aired too.

After a while, I became less irritated and just appreciated the effort that the Chelsea fans were putting in to supporting the club, if not the current team.

The past has been bottled and labelled with love, but let’s support the players on the pitch.

Our chances increased. A shot from Sancho, a save from Leno after a Cucurella shot, plus another shot from Palmer that missed the target.

On seventy-eight minutes, Tyrique George replaced the disappointing Jackson.

His song was aired again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Five minutes later, we worked the ball in from the right and it reached George just outside the box. His shot was hugely instinctive, and we watched, disbelieving, as the ball was swept into the left-hand corner. It was such a sweet finish.

Strangely, I hardly celebrated, as my first reaction was “about bloody time” but immediately after I lifted my camera and tried to snap the young scorer’s celebrations. The one photo I took was blurred, and is not worth sharing, but I soon realised that Tyrique’s celebrations matched mine.

There weren’t any.

He was just keen to get back to his own half and get going in search of the winner.

What a fantastic attitude.

All around me, arms were being pumped into the air and the Putney End was bouncing.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Neto, really involved now, forced another save from Leno.

Six minutes of extra time were signalled, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, in all blue, now. Gusto, a great addition in the second half, seemed to pull up with a hamstring problem on the far side and was replaced by Tosin, who was booed by his former fans.

In the third minute of injury time, a fantastic flowing move with quick passing worked the ball down our right flank.

Enzo to Caicedo to Enzo to Palmer to Enzo.

A square pass to Neto, free inside the box. He touched the ball and used its spin to set himself up. He turned on a sixpence and slashed the ball goalwards – just as I snapped – and the venom and velocity were just too much for Leno to cope with.

The net rippled.

The Chelsea end erupted again.

I punched the air.

I remember thinking “I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB” and then pushed my camera in between some bodies to capture the scorer’s wide smile as he ran back towards us in the Putney End.

What a terrible game, but what a magnificent final fifteen minutes.

One song dominated now.

“ONE TEAM IN FULHAM.”

Over the Easter weekend, there had been two very late goals. At Frome Town on Good Friday, it had gone against me. At Fulham on Easter Day, it had gone in my favour.

I wonder what the ecstatic mass of Chelsea supporters celebrating wildly as the Neto shot hit the back of the net looked like to the Fulham support in the Hammersmith End.

At the final whistle, there was an old school vibe to the Putney End as the team acknowledged our support, and – of course – the focus was on Tyrique, who looked so very happy.

Bless him. This was his moment, and I simply cannot begin to imagine what was going through his mind as he stood, at times a little bashful, in front of us all.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Lastly, my final photo of Frome Town this season. Chasing an equaliser, I captured this glancing header from the Town captain Sam Teale that bounced into the goal against Dorchester Town on Good Friday. Alas, it wasn’t enough to save us. I hope that Chelsea fans from all parts of the football world have enjoyed my tales of Frome’s first season back at it’s highest ever level as much as I have writing them. In a way, the sense of adventure has mirrored my recollections of Chelsea in 1984/85, when we again found ourselves back in the top division after, like Frome, a five year break.

I love the fact that Frome’s support continues to grow around the world.

Up The Fucking Dodge.

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on February 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From Two Trips

Posted on November 2, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 27 October 2024.

This was the oldest fixture in my particular book of Chelsea games. My first-ever game was Newcastle United at home in March 1974. This one would be my forty-third such fixture. In all of those previous forty-two matches, Newcastle’s record at Stamford Bridge has been wretched.

Chelsea have absolutely dominated this fixture.

Won : 28

Drew : 10

Lost : 4

Unlike my record at Anfield the previous Sunday, this was championship form.

With a 2pm kick-off at HQ, we were headed to Stamford Bridge once again. At 7am, I collected PD and Glenn. Alas, Parky was unable to join us on this occasion.

This was would be home game number 878. If I stop and think about the magnitude of those numbers, I feel slightly light-headed.

For a change, I drove up via the “southerly-route” to London, skirting Warminster, over Salisbury Plain, past Stonehenge, onto the A303, onto the M3 and in to London itself, past Twickenham, past Rosslyn Park rugby, past the Marc Bolan memorial at Barnes, and over Putney Bridge, where I dropped the lads off at around 9.10am. I was parked up at 9.20am, just two-and-a-half hours after leaving my house in Somerset.

There was a quick breakfast at “Café Ole”, and I then joined PD and Glenn in “The Eight Bells” at just after the 10am opening time.

During the Anfield report last week, there was talk of PD and Glenn and the Southampton away game in 1984. That loss, on the back of another loss against Watford and a draw at Millwall, meant that I was starting to get a little concerned about our form. Whereas we had stormed to promotion from the Second Division previous season, our early 1984/85 performances were rather mixed.

Forty years ago, again to the day, on Saturday 27 October 1984, Chelsea played Ipswich Town in a First Division game at Stamford Bridge. Thankfully, we won this one 2-0 in front of 19,213. I didn’t attend this one. I spent the day in Stoke, and heard about Kerry Dixon’s two second-half goals on my pocket radio. Darren Wood, one of only two signings since the previous campaign, made his debut in this match. On the same afternoon, Everton beat Manchester United 5-0 at Goodison, and the football world sat up and took notice. They had won the FA Cup against Watford in May and were starting to impress.

Soon after I arrived in the pub, the first of a few mates called in. Johnny Twelve, from Long Beach in California, fresh from the game in Athens, squeezed his considerable frame alongside us. With Johnny a Dodgers fan, and me a – rather lapsed – Yankee fan, there was a little talk of the World Series which was being played out in Southern California and the South Bronx.

Luke called by. Then Jimmy The Greek, full of interesting tales of his recent holiday in Sicily. Then, Tim from Melbourne, deep down in the Southern Hemisphere, accompanied by his mate Nigel from the slightly nearer Southern reaches of Merton. It was fantastic to see Tim again – another Yankee fan – after a few years. Glenn and I had met him over in Perth for our game in 2018.

Next to arrive was Rob from Hersham. I was only with Rob last Tuesday. He had driven down to Frome with two mates to attend the Frome Town vs. Walton & Hersham game. I met up with them in an old hostelry in the town centre and we then watched a thoroughly entertaining match. Frome went 1-0 up, only for the away team to equalise and then go ahead. As the fog descended, Frome kept going with dogged perseverance and, backed by the noisiest crowd this season, grabbed a deserved equaliser via Curtis Hutson. The gate was only 294, but the noise of the crowd and the commitment of the players produced a life-affirming moment. The clawing fog added to the drama. I really enjoyed this match.

This was followed by an away game on the Saturday at Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales. Pen-y-Darren Park, which hosted Football League football in the ‘twenties, has been on my list of “must-do” football venues for a while. On a gorgeous autumnal day, I appreciated the drive over the new Severn Bridge and the drive alongside the River Taff – parts of the scenery reminded me of a few drives through Appalachia – and I enjoyed the stadium even more. It is a beauty, and a monster of the non-league scene.

Believe it or not, as the weekend was approaching, I mentioned to a few close friends that I had been looking forward, in all honesty, to the trip to Pen-y-Darren Park more than the trip to Stamford Bridge. I am not sure if it shocked me, but I think it shocked them.

This was to be visit #1 versus visit #878, after all.

I think that helps to explain it a little.

Alas, Frome succumbed to four second-half goals to lose 0-4, and to cause more tremors of concern for our future in our current division. As if to rub salt in the fresh wounds, I had to endure “Liquidator” as we exited the deep terraces of that classic non-league ground. The locals had been friendly enough, though. Walking back to the car, I chatted to two Merthyr stalwarts about the game and as I stopped to get inside my car, one of the old chaps offered me a few “Roses” chocolates for the return drive home. You don’t get that at West Ham or Tottenham.

Rob and Johnny Twelve were joined by the other Rob – they come as a pair, these two lads – and Jimmy was joined by Doncaster Paul and his son. Lastly, Josh from Minneapolis appeared for one last pint before it was time to leave.

The more the merrier, I say.

At just after 1pm, were soon on the District Line train to Fulham Broadway.

This was another beautiful day, and the sunshine was a lovely addition. There were a few noisy Geordies making their way to the away section as I made my way in. I reached my seats at 1.40pm, just right.

This was a busy day of football in the nation’s capital.

Arsenal vs. Liverpool.

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

Crystal Palace vs. Tottenham Hotspur.

West Ham United vs. Manchester United.

London’s five biggest teams, plus the powerhouses from the north-west. I have a feeling that this series of fixtures would not have been similarly scheduled forty years ago.

Our team?

Sanchez, Gusto, James, Chilwell, Fofana, Lavia, Caicedo, Madueke, Palmer, Neto, Jackson.

Of course, the big surprise was seeing Reece James at left-back.

In the away team were our former players Lewis Hall and Tino Livramento.

The usual three songs were played.

“London Calling.”

“Park Life.”

“Liquidator.”

The twenty-eighth anniversary of the passing of Matthew Harding occurred during the week and so a large flag was displayed in the stand that bears his name.

RIP Matthew.

Never Forgotten.

At 2pm on a beautiful Sunday in SW6, the game began.

Soon in to the game, there was advice from Alan sitting alongside me to Noni Madueke, who had been set up by Nicolas Jackson.

“Cut inside and ping it.”

The shot was fired at the ‘keeper Nick Pope.

Soon after, just as PD and Alan were reminiscing about Phil Driver and his best-ever Chelsea performance in the 6-0 win against the Geordies in 1980, Jackson slid the ball to Cole Palmer, who – from a difficult angle – managed to gently steer a low shot in off the far post.

I celebrated, I took photos of the celebrations, but Alan was stalling his celebrations for the moment.

VAR.

A wait.

No goal.

Hmmmppphhh.

It annoyed me that a detailed explanation of the VAR decision appeared on the TV screens a full ten minutes after the event.

Not to worry, we were playing well and dominating the game.

On eighteen minutes, I was watching through my camera lens and was able to take a succession of key photos as a dreamlike move developed. Malo Gusto won the ball and played it to Palmer. Our kingpin, our sublime orchestrator, turned and soon spotted the forward movement of Pedro Neto. His pass dissected not only two Newcastle defenders but the space-time continuum. In fact, the space-time continuum has still not recovered, and has been scratching its head ever since. The ball was played to perfection. However, Neto needed to ride a possibly wild tackle from Fabian Schar and then took one touch before gliding the ball across the penalty box, thankfully devoid of defenders, and the perfectly-time run of Jackson resulted in a solid first time prod into goal.

GET IN.

The talk of 1980 had probably been working away subconsciously, because I immediately likened it to the Gary Chivers goal, played along vaguely similar lines, from that 6-0 game in October 1980.

Alan and I were bubbling over.

“They’ll have to come at us now, pet.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

Newcastle briefly threatened, but we kept going. Neto shot at Pope, and then did ever so well to dig out a cross that Gusto failed to convert.

The away team improved a little and enjoyed a few chances, and just after the half-hour mark we allowed the Newcastle team far too much space. A move developed down below me. Harvey Barnes passed to Hall and his low cross was touched home by Alexander Isak, who had not been spotted by Reece James. Had the captain, recently under fire, switched off? It would appear so.

Bollocks.

VAR could not save us.

It took over ten minutes for the explanation of that decision to appear on the TV screen.

I loved the way that Moises Caicedo won a tackle, got a give and go with a team mate, and rampaged forward before shooting over. These rare displays of direct football are a nice change to the lateral pass-pass obsession.

If there is space in front, exploit it.

Who can forget that ridiculous touch from Palmer on the half-way line that almost defies description? This was another time/space mystery as he poked a ball past a defender, into space, only for him to carry on with the ball as if the defender was invisible.

What a talent.

During the half, which was extended by a mighty seven minutes, there had been two instances of utterly woeful distribution from Robert Sanchez. I wonder if that man has shares in the company that makes defibrillators.

There was, also, one memorable occasion when he rushed out to head a bouncing ball away, but we all expected the ball to bounce over his head, cartoon-like.

Oh boy.

It was 1-1 and tantalisingly level at the break, though I thought we had edged it.

Soon into the second-half, the impressive Romeo Lavia nicked a ball from a Newcastle player in the centre-circle. Alan had just offered me a bar of chocolate, but a good Chelsea move was developing here. The ball was now at Palmer’s feet, not so far away, and he took off. I had just broken off a chunk of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, and was just about to pop it into my mouth, when I had a brain flash.

“If we score here, either that chocolate is going to fly out of my mouth or I am going to choke.”

I threw the chocolate to one side.

With that, Palmer nonchalantly drilled the ball in between Pope and post.

GET IN.

What a goal from Cole.

Stamford Bridge was noisy again.

At least I caught his celebrations on film.

Soon after, a fine cross from Noni but a header from Neto hit a post, though I thought that it was excellently saved by Pope at the time.

Madueke drove inside from the right but a shot was saved easily by Pope, who was the busiest ‘keeper at this stage.

There were a couple of substitutions.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Madueke.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

On seventy minutes, it appeared that luck was on our side as a header from Isak ended up at the foot of a Chelsea defender who was on hand to clear. Soon after, a similar goal-bound effort was hacked away too.

Marc Cucarella for Gusto.

Christopher Nknunku for Jackson.

In exactly the same way that I appreciated the songs and chants of encouragement from the Frome die-hards against Walton & Hersham, I loved the fact the Chelsea support reached a crescendo in those last fifteen minutes when we could all see that the away team were searching for a way to get an equaliser. That is what support should be all about.

It’s not rocket science.

Isak, after another “episode” from Sanchez, really should have nabbed that equaliser as he rounded the ‘keeper with an open goal ahead of him. Thankfully, the combined forces of Colwill and Caicedo saved the day.

Stamford Bridge roared its approval.

In the closing moments, nobody around me expected VAR to uphold a penalty decision after Nkunku went down.

No penalty.

In the last moment of drama, deep into a further six minutes of extra time, Joe Willock rose at the far post but his header back across goal was headed dramatically over his own bar by the returning captain, James.

Phew.

On a day of lovely losses for both Tottenham and Manchester United, Chelsea momentarily appeared in fourth place. And although, I had been looking forward to the trip to Merthyr marginally more than the trip to London, there is no doubt that I was more emotionally involved in the Chelsea game than the Frome one. If we had conceded a late equaliser, I would have been crushed.

This was a fine win against Newcastle. All of the plaudits were for Cole Palmer but I loved the way Lavia and Caicedo dominated the midfield. Praise for Jackson too, once again a scorer.

A quiet week lies ahead for me, with no trips to Brislington with Frome nor Newcastle with Chelsea.

I need the rest.

Next up, for me, two aways at Sholing near Southampton and at Old Trafford, near Manchester.

See you in the away ends.

GOAL ONE

GOAL TWO

Tales From A Few Fleeting Moments

Posted on May 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 19 May 2024.

This was turning into a very enjoyable end to the 2023/24 season. The last five days of it were packed full of Chelsea. On the Wednesday, we travelled down to Brighton and on the Sunday, there would be the final game against Bournemouth. But tucked into the middle, on the Friday, was a bonus day.

The Chelsea Foundation, who look after former players through the Chelsea Players Trust and oversee the club’s charities, education projects and Chelsea in the wider community, recently found out that we have been taking Ron Harris up to Stamford Bridge on match days since the autumn of 2021. As a gesture of thanks, they invited a gang of us up to the Cobham training centre. They gave us a range of dates to choose from, and it transpired that Friday 17 May was the best fit. You can just imagine our elation. I was lucky enough to visit Cobham way back in 2008 with a few friends from the UK and the US, but this would be a first visit for my match-day companions from the West of England; Glenn, PD and Parky. We went up in one car. In the other car, was the Harris family; Ron, his daughter Claire, her partner Dave, Ron’s son Mark and Mark’s young son Isaac. Joining us at Cobham was Gary Chivers, Ron’s match-day companion, who was with his young daughter.

We had an absolute blast on a perfect sunny day. We met academy chief Neil Bath, and a few of his staff. We chuckled when Ron introduced Paul to the academy hosts as “my minder.” You know you have made it in life when Chopper Harris calls you his minder.

The day started off in 1970. Let me explain. Recently, the youth teams of Chelsea and Leeds United met in a cup final, and there was a concern that the Leeds youngsters would be more “up for it” than the Chelsea lads. To rectify this, to illustrate the very real rivalry that exists between the two old enemies, the lads were shown footage of some of the tastier moments from the 1970 FA Cup Final Replay. We loved seeing the film, none more so than Ron, and there were many funny moments as we watched tackle after tackle, with legendary players clashing, a real blast from the past. It must have had the desired effect as Chelsea won the game 5-3. We saw footage of the youngsters’ match; there were some fine goals but some rugged tackles too, Leeds didn’t stand a chance.

In a surreal moment, we hopped into a fleet of little golf buggies and embarked on a tour of the huge complex, making sure that we didn’t crash into the players’ expensive cars. Not for the first time I found myself driving Lord Parky. We spotted the first team in a training session away to our right. The complex is massive. A full forty people are on the ground staff alone.

We spent a few moments with Cesc Fabregas who happened to be visiting the training ground. I told him that all four of us were at Burnley for his Chelsea debut in 2014 for “that pass” to Andre Schurrle. There was then a frantic period as the current first team squad made their way to the changing rooms. Each one, though, met with Ron Harris, and we tried our best to say a few words to as many as possible. Ron spent quite a while with Conor Gallagher and Cole Palmer. I took the usual smattering of photos. Nicolas Jackson was especially friendly. Loved his attitude. My big moment came when I tentatively approached Thiago Silva for him to sign a recent home programme; Tottenham, the great man on the cover. He took time to painstakingly sign in his unique way with his name, number and a flourish before handing the programme back to me.

“Obrigado.”

I was happy. Mission accomplished.

I must admit that Reece James looked a little sheepish after his sending-off against Brighton. We managed to spend an incredible five or six minutes with Mauricio Pochettino, who spoke easily and naturally with us as if we had known each other for ages. He talked about the development of the team, the way things have started to gel, and plans for the US Tour in the summer. He could not have been nicer. I loved the hug that he gave Ron Harris.

“We hope you are here next season, Conor.”

“So do I.”

We were treated to a lovely lunch in the same canteen as the academy players. PD tucked into a FAB ice-cream on the house, an image that will make me laugh for years.

Everyone that we met were so polite, so attentive, so personable and there was a cool and calm professionalism about the entire complex. We left on an absolute high, sure that the immediate future of our club was in good hands. I drove the boys home, almost not wanting the day to end. We stopped off for a couple of early-evening pints at a pub alongside the canal in Devizes. It was a fantastic end to a perfect day and it totally restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club.

Sunday – Munich Day – soon arrived and we were on our way to London at a ridiculously early time. Despite a 4pm kick-off, I was up at 5.30am to pick up PD, Ron and Parky by 7.30am. I dropped Ron off outside the main gates at about 9.45am and I was soon parked up. I spent a little time chatting to a few friends on the Fulham Road and at Stamford Bridge. I was quick to relay the positive vibes from Cobham. There was a quick and impromptu photo-call with Ron at the hotel with some friends of a friend from Dundee; their first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge and they were boiling over with excitement.

On a day when Thiago Silva would be making his last-ever appearance in Chelsea colours, I made sure that I took a few photographs of his image on the wall by the West Stand forecourt.

Then, a tube down to Putney Bridge to meet the troops in the pub. Friends from near and far joined us, and I detected a happier atmosphere in the boozer than is always the case. We were, after all, chasing our fifth win a row, and the confirmation of European football in 2024/25.

The global scope of Chelsea’s support was well-represented.

Russ – Melbourne, Australia.

Brad and Sean – New York, US.

Richard and Matt – Edinburgh, Scotland.

Sara and Danny – Minneapolis, US.

Even and Roy – Oslo, Norway.

Kyden and Jacob – Tampa, US.

No drinks for me of course, but the lads were filling their boots. The laughter boomed around “The Eight Bells.” At around 3pm, we set off for the final time of this roller-coaster of a season.

A tube to Fulham Broadway, a walk up to the turnstiles, the sun out, where is there a better place on Earth?

Chats with a few folk who sit close by. Again, positive vibes. The end of season run-in was not as problematic as we had feared.

The team?

In order to accommodate Thiago Silva, Malo Gusto was unfortunately dropped. Mudryk was out after his injury at Brighton. He was the one player that we did not clock at Cobham.

Petrovic – Chalobah, Silva, Badiashile, Cucarella – Caicedo, Gallagher – Madueke, Palmer, Sterling – Jackson

The surprising thing was that there had been virtually no mention of the title race. Was Manchester City’s win against West Ham as straightforward as we were hoping? Only time would tell. However, the outside chance of Arsenal winning the title for the first time in twenty years was lurking in the back of my mind, and maybe others too. I think we made a pact with each other to keep silent. I also had a whimsical notion that Tottenham would do the ultimate “Spursy” thing and fall on their own sword at Sheffield United, thus giving us the chance to finish above them.

There were colourful displays at both ends of the pitch devoted to the captain for the day.

Thiago Emiliano da Silva.

The great man signed for us while we were ensconced at home under COVID, and I did not see him play for Chelsea in the flesh until the FA Cup Final in May 2021. Just a few weeks later, I remember watching out in Porto as he fell to the floor in the closing moments of the first-half. Inwardly, I shared his tears as he pulled his shirt up over his face before walking off. Thankfully, we scored just three minutes after and he would win his sole Champions League medal after all. Since then, he has been a colossus, a giant, a cool leader at the helm of an oft-troubled defence and team and club. We will miss him so much.

Anyway, the game began.

In the opening few moments, Stamford Bridge was a noisy cauldron in celebration of Thiago Silva. His standard two songs rang out and we all joined in.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

“He came from PSG.”

After all that had happened the previous week, I found it difficult to fully concentrate on the game that was being played out on the gorgeous green of Stamford Bridge. I felt a little tired, a little dazed. Was this one game too far for me?

This was my eighty-seventh game of the season.

Chelsea 51; for the first-time ever, I had not missed a single game.

Frome Town 35; my most-ever, beating last season’s twenty games, and an absolute belter of a season.

Exeter City 1; and quite easily the worst of the lot, my reward for going to a game in which I had zero interest.

We began brightly, and there was a shot from Nicolas Jackson and one from Cole Palmer. Both did not trouble the away ‘keeper Neto. The first was hit right at the ‘keeper, the second drifted past the far post. Raheem Sterling was buzzing around, and it was a nice reminder of how he can play if he is in the mood.

In the opening fifteen minutes, we had completely dominated possession, possibly at the 90% level. But in the stands the noise had been reduced to a whisper.

“Football in a library” sang the three-thousand Bournemouth supporters.

Yep, guilty as charged.

Sterling went down inside the box, but VAR adjudged it to be a clean challenge.

On seventeen minutes, Jackson poked the ball forward perfectly into space for the lively Sterling to chase. Neto was out early and cleared, but was under pressure from Conor Gallagher. The resulting swipe lacked direction. The ball reached our half, where it found Moises Caicedo. The midfielder pushed the ball forward, just over the half-way line, and thumped a high ball towards goal. With Neto scrambling back, and a spare Bournemouth defender chasing too, the ball perfectly nestled into the Shed End goal. I will be truthful, it looked a goal as soon as it left his foot.

GET IN.

I captured his jubilant run and leap. What a way to score his first Chelsea goal.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

We heard that Manchester City were 1-0 up and then 2-0 up within twenty minutes.

“We’re gonna have a party…”

The away team attacked occasionally, but we didn’t seem in danger. I made sure that I took a few photos of Thiago Silva down below us.

The away fans were still moaning.

“1-0 and you still don’t sing.”

I was still struggling a little to get into the game and our players looked a little tired. Bournemouth seemed to improve as the first-half continued. A speculative long-range shot from Ryan Christie glanced the top of the bar, there was a block from Trevoh Chalobah, a save from Djordje Petrovic.

At the end of the first-half, we heard that Arsenal were losing at home to Everton and there was a sudden input of noise.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

But then the mood changed when it became City 2 West Ham 1 and Arsenal 1 Everton 1.

Please God, no.

At the break, we were relatively content. With just a point required to secure European football once more – out of the question for me and many others until very recently – we were on track.

On forty-eight minutes, the seemingly rejuvenated Sterling was put through in a wide position and danced his way down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and into the box.

“Go on, Raz.”

From a ridiculously tight angle he finished beautifully, although Neto will be annoyed at the ball going right between leg stump and off stump.

Barely thirty seconds later, Bournemouth scored when a shot from Enes Unal was deflected off the unlucky Benoit Badiashile and into the net. Could Cucarella have done better? His slight slip allowed Unal to come inside.

Bollocks.

The game drifted a little. At least there were no significant updates from the UAE Air Company Stadia.

On the hour – at last! – a loud “CAM ON CHOWLSEA” followed by an equally loud “Carefree.”

We then heard that City were 3-1 up and we could relax a little.

Mauricio Pochettino made three substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Madueke.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Caicedo.

Christopher Nkunku for Sterling.

I captured the header from Nkunku, from a Palmer free-kick, that just missed the goal frame.

At the other end, Dominic Solanke – who was applauded by many as he came on as a substitute – really ought to have done better but his low shot went wide of the far post.

Chances came at both ends and the game became a lot closer than we had hoped. We created chances for Gusto and Nkunku. There was a fine low save from Petrovic up the other end.

Another substitution.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

Huge applause.

The lad from Manchester has been a revelation. He will be the main reason why I pay any attention to the European Championships in Germany later this summer.

Late on, substitute Casadei forced an error and the ball fortuitously fell to Gallagher who forced a decent save from that man Neto.

There was a header, from distance, a little similar to John Terry against Barcelona in 2005, from Thiago Silva and although we prayed for a perfect end to his Chelsea career, there was no Ricardo Carvalho on hand to spoil Neto’s view and the effort was ably saved.

Drat.

At the death, a lightning break from Bournemouth down their right caused added anxiety. The ball was played in to Dango Ouattara but Petrovic parried the low effort away. Christie was following up but a perfectly-timed scything tackle from Gallagher denied the chance. However, the ball bobbled out to Solanke who – thank God – blasted the ball over.

Alan and I looked at each other and gasped.

The added time came and went, and we had made it.

City champions, then Arsenal, then Liverpool, then Villa, then Tottenham, then us.

“We’re all going on a European tour.”

There was not too much time to wait for the farewell speech from Thiago Silva. He walked on to the pitch with his wife Belle and their two boys – a guard of honour from his team mates of course – and took a few moments to steady himself.

It is a mark of the man that virtually everybody had stayed behind for this. Often when there is a lap of honour at the end of a season such as this – no trophies – many drift off. But it again restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club to see so many supporters, evidently including many in the corporate areas such as West View, stay to witness his farewell speech.

There were ripples of applause throughout the speech and a big and booming finale greeted his closing words.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

What a man. What a player. What an athlete. What a professional.

These last four years have been as mad as they come, but his presence has been like a beacon for us Chelsea supporters.

Thiago – you will be missed.

We left the stadium. I popped around to collect Ron from outside the hotel, and we slowly walked back to the waiting car.

It had been a fine end to a testing season. We were all relishing the prospect of some European travels in the autumn – at least – in whatever competition we end up in. And we were all looking forward to, hopefully, a summer of stability, with thoughts of progression into 2024/25.

On a personal note, I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years.

Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.

I make no apology for dovetailing Frome’s games in with Chelsea’s games during this season. Hopefully the readership of this blog appreciates the contrasts and the extra narrative that it provides for my Chelsea rambles.

And thanks to everyone for keeping faith with me again this season. It’s a labour of love all this. It is part of my Chelsea routine. I take photos and I write. It’s what I do.

I am currently up to 1,952,777 words on here.

Next season, I will get past the two-million-word mark.

Fackinell.

As an aside, I have noticed a couple of things this season.

Firstly, there have been more and more “clicks” on the homepage, meaning that many of the good people who read these tales do not rely on Facebook links to access this website. I like that. It means they don’t need a prompt.

Secondly, despite these tales beginning life on the Chelsea In America site in 2008, there has been a continual reduction over time of viewers in the US.

In the first full year of CHELSEA/esque in 2013, the US comprised of 7,437 out of 16,895 total views. Yet so far in 2024, the US’ numbers are just 4,184 out of 26,010 total views.

2013 : 44%

2024 : 16%

But I am not worried. Viewing figures remain robust and healthy, with more and more from the UK with each passing season. That’s great. We are, after, all – despite the owners – a UK club.

Oh, the owners.

Do I have to?

These match reports always end on the day of the game; either at the final whistle, on the walk back to the car, on the drive home, or after watching “Match Of The Day.”

If there is anything that occurs the next day that requires comment, I shoe-horn it in to the next edition. But, as my next edition will not be for three months, I had best turn my attention to the events of Tuesday 21 May 2024.

I could write a lot. I could write a little. What to do?

It just struck me that it is something when 95% of opinions shared by Chelsea supporters on social media that evening backed Mauricio Pochettino, the former Tottenham manager, as opposed to backing the Chelsea board.

Yes, he did not rush to win us over, but I liked his view that he wanted to earn respect from us rather make some superficial “kiss the badge” statement or be pressurised into a sound bite. He was his own man and I kind of respected him for that. We told him at Cobham that we realised that it would take time this season. He got us into Europe. We reached one cup final. The last two months have generally been superb. The odd blip? Growing pains.

I leave with my “Facebook” post that evening.

“I feel so blessed to have been able to see a decent man go about his work last Friday. The clowns in charge of the club have left me confused and sad, angry yet helpless.

Good luck Mauricio, for a few fleeting moments it just felt right.”

Best wishes for a fine summer everyone. This football fancier will return in August with hopefully a tale or two to tell from Brazil featuring Thiago Silva.

Keep The Faith.

Cobham

The Eight Bells

Stamford Bridge

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth

Obrigado Thiago Silva

Tales From The Sweet FA

Posted on April 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024.

“Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light.
Wind was blowing, time stood still.
Eagle flew out of the night.”

It was just before 7.45pm on Wednesday 17 April and the PA at Larkhall Athletic’s picturesque Plain Ham ground, high on a hill, surrounded by narrow lanes, played Peter Gabriel’s 1977 debut single. It heralded the appearance of the home team and their visitors Frome Town for the evening’s local derby. This was all very apt since Solsbury Hill is just visible beyond the northern side of the ground now that a line of trees has been cut down since my last visit.

Fresh with memories of Chelsea’s fine 6-0 against an admittedly poor Everton team, I had assembled alongside a healthy turn out of Frome followers to urge the team on towards another three points in the quest for promotion to the Southern League Premier South. But this was a nervy occasion. Frome added to the worry by conceding a cheap goal after just three minutes and did not really get going in a disjointed first-half. Substitutions were made as the second-half progressed and, thankfully, we looked a lot more efficient and purposeful. We threatened with a few pacey attacks. Thankfully, stalwart Matt Smith – out for eighteen months until very recently – smashed home a late leveller. Frome could have edged it in the very last move of the match but James Ollis’ stooping header just missed the target.

The draw was a fair result, but the worry was that with just two regular season games left, Frome were looking leggy and tired. On Saturday 20 April, on the day that Chelsea were to play Manchester City at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, Frome would travel to Wimborne in a top-two clash. The fixture had captured the imagination of the Frome faithful and large numbers were to travel.

However, I had the FA Cup on my mind. It would undoubtedly be my focus for the weekend.

Then, on the Thursday, the FA upset the apple cart. News filtered through concerning the atrocious decision of FA Cup replays from the first-round being scrapped from next season, apparently after precious little consultation with clubs in the FA umbrella. This annoyed me and so many others. It seemed to me that the Football Association make so much noise about diversity and inclusiveness, but this announcement suggested that the World’s greatest and most revered national knockout competition is increasingly geared towards the moneyed elite only.

This decision will help to kill the romance of the cup – “if only we can scrape a draw and get them back to our place” – to say nothing of the horrible effect on vanishing revenues. Additionally, the FA in their infinite wisdom announced that the final would not be played on a stand-alone weekend as a season finale. It all reeks of looking after the top clubs at the expense of all others. Another nail in the coffin for the once magnificent FA Cup? It certainly seems like it.

Which brings us to another reason why the FA Cup has been on a downward spiral for a couple of decades now. Our semi against City would be at Wembley, and I hate this. Wembley should be saved for finals alone. I don’t care one iota about the oft-spoken but embarrassingly mumbled words from the FA about getting more fans to see the semi-finals, the move to Wembley is all about money and nothing more.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City? Play it at Old Trafford, capacity 74,300.

Coventry City vs. Manchester United? Play it at Cardiff, capacity 74,500.

Semis at neutral venues used to be fine occasions. Chelsea in the Holte End at Villa Park in 1996 and in the North Bank at Highbury in 1997? Bloody fantastic times.

It’s hard to believe that the same sport, under the auspices of the Football Association, can induce such a difference in emotions, with different feelings of belonging, at the two levels that I actively support it; Chelsea in the Premier League, Frome Town in the Southern League South. It is a modern-day football conundrum and I am not sure that I have the patience to solve it.

However, certainly at the professional level, the FA know Fuck All – sweet FA, sweet Fanny Adams – about what makes football special. I would not trust them to do anything in our interests. But the same could be said of UEFA and FIFA. I dislike them all with a passion.

Despite all of this nonsense, Saturday 20 April was set up to be some sort of footballing day of destiny for me, and it seems that we have had a few of those over the years. I collected PD at 8am, I collected Parky at 8.30am. The plan, though not solidified, was to meet up with some friends as the day got going. However, the day in London was always going to start with a fry-up at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at around 10.30am. We arrived on the dot. Despite a very tasty breakfast – bacon, egg, baked beans, black pudding, bubble and squeak, two rounds of toast, a mug of strong tea, £8.40 – in the back of my mind was the gnawing realisation that a breakfast in the “Half Moon” equated to a Wembley defeat, dating back a few years now. It’s a tough habit to break, though.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at around 11am and we made our way to Earls Court for 11.15am. Salisbury Steve was further north at Edgware Road and wisely decided not to double back to Earls Court. We strode into “The Blackbird” – not an unfamiliar pub to us – and I got the first round in, but was shocked to see that a single pint of “Peroni” was £7.45, probably the dearest I have ever paid in the UK.

We were joined by friends from Columbus in Ohio; Andrew, Steve, Neil and Adrian. This was a first visit to England for Adrian. I made sure he realised how lucky he was to get a ticket for this game. We trotted around the corner to “The King’s Head” which only I had visited previously. We stayed here – we had the whole place to ourselves for the first half-an-hour – for a couple of hours. We had a lovely chuckle. It’s a great pub.

Originally, this weekend was geared up for a Brighton away game and Steve, who is getting married in September, was using the weekend as his “stag do”; we had been invited along. Due to our progress in the FA Cup, those plans took a hammering. But here we were. I noted what was playing on the jukebox; Paul Weller’s “Wildwood.”

“Raise your glasses boys. Here we are in a London pub. Off to Wembley to see Chelsea, four of you for the first time. Paul Weller on the juke box. Life is good.”

Steve told a great story. He knew that PD and I had heart issues over the past few years and so he spoke of a friend who had had a heart scare and was now looped up to a heart monitor. He was sitting at home one evening, alone. All of a sudden he hears “beep” and he is immediately worried. After a few seconds, another “beep”. He had been told that if he has a heart attack, to brace himself, so – fearing the worst – he gripped a nearby chair. Another “beep” and then another.

“Beep.”

He then realised that it was his young child’s electronic toy beeping as its battery was low.

Fackinell.

Oh God, we were howling.

We caught a tube up to Marylebone, changing at Paddington, and we made a bee-line for “The Allsop Arms” where we knew some mates were based, with not much of a line at the bar. We stayed here from about 2.30pm to 3.45pm. From 3pm, I was wired into Frome Town and Wimborne Town’s “Twitter” accounts, bracing myself for good – or bad – news.

Beep.

“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”

Beep.

“A cagey opening.”

Beep.

“No goals at half-time.”

We made our way up to Marylebone, catching the 4.15pm train to Wembley Stadium.

While on the ten-minute train journey, my mate Francis texted me.

Beep.

“One mother-fucking-nil to The Dodge.”

Oh you absolute beauty. The lads alongside me were pleased too. On the packed train, there were plenty of Chelsea chants but one song dominated.

“We’re gonna have a party when Arsenal fuck it up.”

I sang different lyrics.

“We’re gonna have a party when Wimborne fuck it up.”

Sadly, as I was walking up towards Wembley Stadium train station, Francis texted again.

Beep.

“They’ve equalised.”

Beep.

“Gate 2,307.”

This stunned me. What an amazing attendance for a level eight game.

As I found my seats in the top tier of the south-west corner at 4.50pm, one last text.

Beep.

“Final score.”

It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.

The team was announced.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher

Jackson

So, the cool head and the cool feet of Thiago Silva got the nod over other options – despite Axel Diasi’s masterclass of a defensive performance at Manchester City a few months back – and the manager had chosen to play Conor Gallagher wide left. Raheem Sterling’s absence spoke volumes.

City? Erling Haaland wasn’t playing; not even on the bench. Good.

Kick-off approached. A City song – seemingly stuck in the mid-‘seventies – was aired on the PA and there was no singalong from them. Instead a loud and proud “Carefree” drowned it out. This, of course, pleased me. On every visit to Wembley, I make mental notes about the vocal performance of the two competing teams.

Advantage us.

Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.

Two displays took over the two ends of the stadium. Our mosaic looked a bit patchy, their banner looked decent.

In the West End :

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

In the East End :

“THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND ALL THE WORLD.”

“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”

I wondered if City were stickering up that end in preparation for the United fans who would be occupying the same seats on the Sunday. There were inflatable bananas, how 1989, bouncing around in City’s lower tier. There were empty seats in both ends but many more in the City end.

At 5.15pm, the game began.

We probably started the strongest with Gallagher breaking past his last man, Kyle Walker, a couple of times and Nicolas Jackson wriggling free with his pace but shooting at Stefan Ortega. There was a long-range effort from Cole Palmer but it was not nearly as well executed as against Everton a few days earlier.

Phil Foden was set up by Kevin de Bruyne with a fine through-ball but the City urchin was thankfully forced wide and the covering Marc Cucarella, enjoying a really fine first twenty minutes, headed the ball away.

Before the game I had been quietly confident of us doing well and as the first-half developed I was more than happy with our play.

Just before the half-hour, the loudest chant of the evening thus far :

“And its Super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

Good stuff.

At around that time, in a quiet moment, I heard the City lot sing “Blue Moon” but that was honestly the only time I can remember hearing from them until very late in the game.

Enzo Fernandez had begun so quietly that I had forgotten that he was on the pitch. However, another quick break ensued when he played in Jackson. His touch took him too far to the left and he could not get a shot in. In the end, the promising move fizzled out when his cross across the box was hacked away.

Groans.

However, our support remained at decent levels. On thirty-seven minutes, the whole end got together in a bone crushing “Amazing Grace.”

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

Stirring stuff.

We were surely winning the fight between the two sets of fans.

The mercurial Palmer had been linking up well with Noni Madueke and also the dependable Malo Gusto. Our right flank was looking strong. A shot from Madueke was blocked by John Stones.

Then, Palmer found himself in a little space inside the box after a fine move involving Trevoh Chalobah but his shot at goal was weak and at the ‘keeper.

Bar a few defensive errors, and a couple of Manchester City efforts, we had played well. City, after their Champions League exit on Wednesday, were looking tired. We just needed to be a little more confident and to run at spaces a little more. I chatted a little to the bloke behind me. We both admitted that although Nicolas Jackson is far – very far – from the finished article, he is a handful and has shown glimpses.

Glimpses. That word again.

A couple of old-school football tunes were aired at the start of the half-time break.

“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?

“A Town Called Malice” from 1982 – Chelsea? Certainly Frome Town.

But then this normality came to a crushing standstill when a constantly smiling DJ played a set down to my left in front of the Chelsea supporters. Dance music boomed out – I recognised Rozalla and “Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) from 1991 and the inevitable “Insomnia” by Faithless from 1995 – but this just seemed to be a ridiculous addition to a football match.

Oh well, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself.

The second-half began with our team attacking us.

Very soon into the restart, Jackson was presented with two excellent chances to score. Gallagher stayed strong and played him in. He ran in centrally and I am sure we all felt that a goal was possible. Alas, his low shot was too near the City ‘keeper and the chance passed. However, from the same move, Palmer chipped the ball into the six-yard box and the stooping Jackson headed the ball down but straight at Ortega.

Fackinell.

On the hour, a super-loud version of “Super Chelsea.”

Music to my lug-holes.

A free-kick to Chelsea about thirty yards out made me wonder if Palmer would go for goal. Indeed, he decided to shoot. The ball struck the wall and flew off for a corner. But wait, there was a VAR check for a handball, which surprised me.

No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.

Jack Grealish danced inside the box and rolled the ball to Foden. A low shot was nicely kept out by Petrovic, who had not really been tested too much until then.

Doku, on for Grealish, was given far too much time as he advanced. He shot at an angle but Petrovic hacked it away.

I was stood, many were stood. I had been stood the whole match in fact. The game got older, nerves tightened.

Some substitutions.

Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.

De Bruyne blazed a shot wide. He had had a stinker.

On eighty-four minutes, Doku was again given far too much space – “get closer!” – and he found De Bruyne. His cross was pushed out by Petrovic at the near post but the ball fell agonisingly for Bernardo Silva to smash home.

Bollocks.

Immediate thoughts of Virgil Van Dyke scoring one just two minutes from time at the same goal in late February.

Sigh.

Now the City fans could be heard.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella, probably my player of the match.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.

We chased the game, eight minutes of extra time were to be played, and I absolutely loved the fact that virtually no Chelsea supporters left before the final whistle. There were a few raids on the City defence, but our attempts ran out of fizz.

To sum up our lack-lustre end to the game, and with just seconds remaining but with virtually everybody bar Petrovic up, Mudryk floated a free kick from down below us over everybody and the ball embarrassingly went off for a goal-kick.

Bollocks.

Tales From Our Tenth League Cup Final

Posted on February 27, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 25 February 2024.

We just weren’t good enough were we?

This was always my fear. Despite a resurgence in our play over the past month – high points at Villa, the second-half at Palace and at City – there was still a niggling doubt that whatever team was selected to play at Wembley, the players just could not be trusted to drag us over the line. And despite Liverpool players falling by the wayside with injuries as the final approached, I had a fear that there would not be enough in our locker – nous, determination, skill – to give us a much-needed win.

All of our deficiencies – and a few of our positives – were discussed at length as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky and drove up to the M4 at Chippenham. As I approached Junction 17 I made my views clear.

“Right, that’s enough about the game today. Let’s not talk any more about it. Let’s enjoy the day ahead.”

I was up just after 5.45am. I had collected the two Frome lads at 7am and Parky in Holt at 7.30am. By 9.30am, we were tucking into our breakfasts at “The Half Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road. At 10am, I pulled up outside “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge and PD shouted out to Salisbury Steve, who was just about to disappear inside as the front doors were opened, to get a round in. For the third League Cup Final in a row, we were staying the night at the Premier Inn opposite, and I soon parked the car outside. We were hoping that this would be third time lucky. Against Manchester City in 2019 and against Liverpool in 2022, we had narrowly lost on penalties.

On the Saturday, I had watched Frome Town obtain a relatively easy 3-1 win at home to Tavistock to nudge themselves into pole position in the table. As the beers started to flow, I never felt confident that Chelsea would follow up Frome’s win to give me a perfect weekend. Mark, now living in Spain, and his son Luca, still in The Netherlands, joined us and the laughter roared around the pub. We tried not to think too much about the football.

This would be Chelsea Football Club’s tenth League Cup Final.

Our first final took place four months before I was born in March 1965, when we defeated Leicester City over two legs. In 1972, we infamously lost 1-2 to Stoke City at Wembley and I have no recollection of the game. We had to wait ages for the next one; a 2-0 triumph against Middlesbrough at old Wembley in 1998 after extra-time. Next up was a match in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium against Liverpool in 2005; we narrowly edged it 3-2 after extra time. Two years later, at the same venue, a 2-1 triumph against Arsenal. In 2008, the 2-1 loss to Tottenham Hotspur, after extra-time, at the new Wembley Stadium. In 2015, we comfortably defeated the same opponent 2-0. Then, the two tight losses in 2019 to Manchester City (0-0 after extra-time, losing 3-4 on penalties) and in 2022 to Liverpool (0-0 after extra-time, losing 10-11 on penalties).

A potted history of us in nine previous League Cup Finals does not tell the entire story of course.

1965 : there are numerous stories about Eddie McCreadie’s apparently masterful solo run up the middle of the park before sliding the ball past the ‘keeper. It was only our second piece of silverware in sixty years.

1972 : “Blue Is The Colour” was released specifically for this game and I used to get such a thrill listening to it on the radio for years after. An Osgood goal for Chelsea, but George bloody Eastham gave Stoke their sole trophy in 161 years.

1998 : the first-part of a Cup Double that season and another Wembley goal from Roberto di Matteo. The good times were returning to Stamford Bridge.

2005 : the first Mourinho season and the first Mourinho silverware. In an enthralling match, we went behind early on after John Arne Riise belted one in from distance. A Steven Gerrard own goal levelled it and two late goals from Mateja Kezman and Didier Drogba gave us a huge win. Mourinho was sent-off for his “shush” but we did not care less. It was the first game that I had seen Chelsea play in an enclosed stadium.

2007 : two more Didier Drogba goals gave us a win after Theo Walcott scored early for Arsenal. The game that Cesc Fabregas was pelted with celery at a corner and the game where John Terry was knocked unconscious by a boot to his head.

2008 : we went ahead through Didier Drogba, but Tottenham levelled with a Dimitar Berbatov penalty before Jonathan Woodgate headed Tottenham in front. Our support that day was the worst that I can ever remember. It was one of my all-time lows as a Chelsea follower.

2015 : this was a tough game for me, coming just three days after my mother’s passing. Goals from John Terry and Diego Costa gave us a relatively easy win.

2019 : a decent performance and great support from the Chelsea crowd. This was the day that Kepa notoriously humiliated Maurizio Sarri by not following instructions to be substituted by Wily Caballero.

2022 : this could have gone either way, but a ridiculously long penalty shootout went against us when Cesar Azpilicueta missed the only penalty out of twenty-two.

Going in to the 2024 Final, our record was won 5 and lost 4.

At 12.45pm, we caught a District Line tube up to Paddington and changed trains to get ourselves over to Marylebone. Here, the ever-reliable Jason handed over a spare ticket to me that would then be passed to Glenn. Just as we were about to hop on a train to Wembley Stadium, the call went out that a few of the lads that we know from Westbury and Trowbridge were in the “Sports Bar.” The drinking continued.

“What football?”

We eventually caught a train at about 2.15pm to Wembley.

We bumped into many familiar faces at Marylebone, on the train, at the station, on the march to the turnstiles.

I remember my first visit to the old Wembley, in around 1972 or 1973, on the back of a visit to see my grandfather’s older brother in Southall. There was no game. I just wanted to see Wembley, beguiled by either the 1972 or 1973 FA Cup Finals. We parked just off “Wembley Way” – actually Olympic Way – and I remember being mightily impressed as I saw the twin towers for the first time. The stadium was at the top of a slight rise in the land, with its own added embankments and steps giving it an air of importance. It stood alone, not encumbered by any buildings nearby, only the London sky above it. It exuded a great sense of place.

Wembley in 2024 is much different. Bleak flats and hotels take up every spare square yard of space, from the walk up to the stadium from Wembley Park Station, right up to the immediate surrounds of the stadium itself. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia and I am glad I don’t. At Wembley, between the bland stadium walls and the oppressive bleak apartment buildings I would be surely panting with anxiety.

It is a horrible stadium. I hate it.

Regular readers of these tales will know only too well how we struggle to get in to Wembley in time. At 2.50pm, I was still in the queue. Once inside, an escalator was not working, delaying me further. I eventually made it in at around 3.05pm.

Sigh.

Our seats were in row thirty-eight, just a few from the very back of the highest part of the stadium. We were virtually on the half-way line. My calves were aching. God knows how much pain PD and Parky were in.

A quick check of the team. As expected, the same as against Manchester City.

Petrovic.

Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

Everyone was stood. PJ and Brian – from the pre-match pub at City last weekend – were right behind us along with Feisal and Martin. We would find out later that Gary, Daryl, Ed and Clive were a few seats in front.

These seats only cost £41. Decent.

Liverpool had the best of the very early part of the game and we looked stretched at times. They enjoyed the first real chance when Axel Diasi allowed Luis Diaz a shot but Djordje Petrovic was equal to it.

There wasn’t a great deal of noise thus far. But I always try to look for clues to see which support is more “up for it.” My first observation wasn’t good. On the upper balcony wall, to my left – our unlucky East End – there were red banners everywhere. To my right – the West End, us – the same balcony between the Club Wembley tier and the upper tier was almost completely devoid of Chelsea flags and banners.

Ugh. An early lead to The Scousers.

As the game continued, neither sets of fans were particularly noisy. Were nerves to blame? It couldn’t have been due to the lack of alcohol. Maybe the game needed to ignite to fully engage the supporters and their voices.

Chelsea began to grow into the game and on twenty minutes, a Conor Gallagher cross from the right was played in to Raheem Sterling. There was a heavy touch and the ball eventually found Cole Palmer. His stab at goal was from close-in but the Liverpool ‘keeper Kelleher saved well. Nicolas Jackson’s follow-up was blocked too.

On the half-hour mark, Palmer padded the ball forward to Jackson who moved the ball square to Jackson. His grass-cutter cross to the far post – towards Sterling – was perfection and as our often-maligned striker prodded home, I turned to PD and we both screamed at each other like fools.

Alas.

VAR.

The goal was disallowed. Offside.

Bollocks.

Liverpool’s Gakpo headed against the base of Petrovic’ near post.

The game had taken a while but it was warming up. However, still not much noise, and virtually nothing from our end to the right. There were a few half-hearted chants from our section – “Three Little Birds” is a difficult one to get going in the huge spaces of the upper tier at Wembley – and the noise did not build.

Just before the half-time break, I spotted many red seats in the Chelsea end, the lure of a pint or a pee too strong for many. In contrast, there were hardly any empty seats in the Liveroool end. Advantage still to Liverpool. Bollocks.

When the whistle sounded, I disappeared downstairs and hoped that I would be able to conquer the north face of the Eiger on my return. I made it, but it seemed that we had lost PJ and Feisal to frostbite.

The second-half began and we began to probe the Liverpool defence more often. Gallagher set up Enzo but the Argentinian managed to get his tango feet tangled up and the chance went begging. At the other end, Petrovic punched clear from Elliott.

On the hour, a long cross from the Liverpool left was met by a leap from Van Dijk. The ball nestled in the net. We groaned. In the Liverpool end to our left, red flares were ignited, a horrible reminder of a scene at the end of the 2022 FA Cup Final.

After what seemed like an age, VAR was summoned.

No goal.

Christopher Nkunku replaced Sterling.

The game increased in quality and intensity. Chances were exchanged.

A Gallagher corner dropped into the six-yard box. Levi Colwill headed it on but Disasi made a mess of the final touch. Kelleher was able to jump unchallenged to claim. From my vantage point it seemed impossible that we had not edged ahead.

Gakpo blazed over.

Everyone was still stood. Everyone in the stadium. You have to marvel at us football fans’ ability to stand for hours and hours.

There was a nice interchange between Gusto and Caicedo that set up the silky skills of Palmer. His touch inside to Gallagher was flicked on and we were exasperated when his effort came back off the far post.

Fackinell.

Gomez at Petrovic. An easy save.

Caicedo to Gusto, but a searching ball was just too long for Nkunku at the far post.

Gallagher was given another chance, set up by Palmer, but with just Kelleher to beat there was a lame finish.

Fackinell.

We still created chances. A fine ball by Enzo out to Jackson who did well to hold the ball up. He played it back to Gallagher who blazed over.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Jackson.

Another attack, with bodies in the box, Kelleher saved at point blank range from Nkunku.

Oh my bloody goodness.

At ninety-minutes it was 0-0.

“We have been here before Liverpool, we have been here before.”

There was no time to pause, no time to think, the game began again. Or rather, it didn’t for us. All of the momentum that we had built in the last quarter of the game seemed to disappear as the night grew colder.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher. What? Answers on a postcard.

Trevoh Chalobah for Chilwell.

Liverpool came again, with a few efforts on our goal. We had Petrovic to thank once more. His had been a fine performance. There was a hugely impressive “Allez Allez Allez” from the red corner to my left. It was the loudest noise of the entire match. I looked over at the blue corner to my right. I heard nothing. I just saw a few blue flags being waved in the far corner. As far as responses go, it was almost fucking laughable.

Where has our support gone? It was excellent in 2019 against City. This, in 2024, was even worse than the 2008 debacle against Tottenham. It makes me so sad.

At half-time in extra-time, I suspect we all feared penalties once again.

The second period soon came and we watched as Chelsea grew weaker. The minutes ticked by. Our new additions did not add anything to the team. Mudryk frustrated us in the way only he can do. We looked tired. I felt tired.

Penalties surely.

With just two minutes remaining, a Liverpool corner. I found myself momentarily gazing over at the lower tier opposite, the Chelsea section. Everyone was still stood. I looked back just in time to see the ball fly into the net from another Van Dijk header.

There were red flares again at Wembley Stadium.