Tales From A Nervous Night

Posted on May 21, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 19 May 2026.

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

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

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

If is a big word.

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

Seven of the buggers!

You could say I was spitting feathers.

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

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

This could be a day of destiny.

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

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

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

I think we all know why.

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

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

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

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

John said that the game “had it all.”

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

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

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

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

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

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Hato – Cucurella

Caicedo – Santos

Neto – Palmer – Fernandez

Delap

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

The usual fizzbombs, flames and flashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt for him.

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

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

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

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

It is not known if he was wearing Kinsky boots.

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

“Go on support him.”

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

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

How we celebrated.

The place erupted.

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

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

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

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

The Tottenham support was gloriously quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I made my own special little contribution.

“Get in the game Chels.”

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

We were on the back foot no longer.

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

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

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

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

Our goal arrived at just the right time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yawn.

This was the match that counted.

On eighty-one minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced Fofana.

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

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

Pathetic.

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

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

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

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

Alejandro Garnacho for Neto.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

Shim Mheuka for Delap.

We were now Delapidated, but hopefully not dilapidated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, one average team.

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

But, oh my nerves.

See you on Sunday on Wearside.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur.

League Games @ Stamford Bridge.

1/12/90 to 19/5/26

W – 23

D – 11

L – 1

Tales From Somerset To Wembley

Posted on May 18, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 16 May 2026.

Who was confident before our FA Cup Final set-to with Manchester City? Anybody? I know I wasn’t. I put our likelihood of success at the 25% mark. I remarked to a few people that it was an odd feeling to be such an underdog in a Cup Final. And when I mean Cup Final, I mean the FA Cup Final, it’s the only Cup Final that you can get away with by just saying “cup final” in the UK; that’s for the overseas readers.

You must go back to 1994 for a similar set of circumstances. I would probably have put our chances at 25% in that one too, against a Manchester United team in their first real flush of pomp under Ferguson. Our defeat came as no real surprise, but it was just the strength of defeat – plus those penalties by Cantona – that hurt so much. It wasn’t a 0-4 game. Deep down, I silently feared some sort of hideous repeat.

I was to travel to London more in hope and expectation, and it was this phrase that was rebounding around the large void between my ears as I got ready on Cup Final morning.

It was an early start for me; thank goodness I set the alarm at the correct time this week. I was out of the house at 5.50am and was headed to collect Paul at 6am. As I drove through my sleeping Somerset village, I was met with a scene of arboreal beauty, with huge trees dominating the village’s main road. I decided to stop as I approached Rectory Corner and take a photo of the peaceful scene ahead of me and post it on Facebook as a scene setter for the day’s journey into London. It would be a day that would provide subtle and not so subtle variations between rural and urban vistas of England.

I captioned it appropriately.

“From Somerset to Wembley, we’ll keep the Blue Flag flying high.”

This song was born in that lovely 1993/94 cup run, and it is still sung triumphantly at key games to this day. Of course, that rain-drenched match was my first-ever Cup Final, coming a full twenty-four years after our previous one in 1970. It was the victory over Leeds United that was probably the catalyst for my support of the team, though the actualities are lost in time. In those intervening twenty-four years, we stood to one side as umpteen other teams played at Wembley in cup finals and wondered if we would ever get the chance to attend this most glorious of occasions. No less than eight London teams – Arsenal, Crystal Palace, Fulham, Queens Park Rangers, Tottenham Hotspur, West Ham United and Wimbledon – all played in cup finals from 1971 to 1993, whereas our beloved Chelsea did not.

You can tell it still hurts, right?

Without thinking, the photo that I took of Mells in Somerset on the way to London depicts the house – if you were to zoom in, it would be to the right of the cars, and opposite “The Talbot” pub sign – where I saw my first-ever FA Cup Final on TV way back in 1972 when I was six. It was my maternal grandparents’ house; the house where my grandfather was born in 1895 and where my mother was born in 1930. For the first five years or so, I always watched cup finals at their house. It’s amazing what I can remember from that day, and it didn’t even involve Chelsea.

1972 was a special year for the FA Cup; the year marked the centenary of this competition.

Leading up to the match, there was an Esso coin collection that my father and I completed over the preceding few months. These coins honoured all previous winners, and I was proud as punch that Chelsea were featured. I still have those coins, which are still housed in the special book that I have in my possession, to this day.

The final was between Arsenal and Leeds United and I liked neither. I don’t think I cared who won. I distinctly remember a parade of flags depicting all previous winners being held high by individuals as they walked around the perimeter of the huge Wembley pitch before the game began. Leeds United won 1-0 with a diving header from Alan Clarke from around the penalty spot, and it remains a rarity; a diving header from so far out. I also remember Mick Jones dislocating his shoulder as he fell near the goal-line, and him being wrapped up, painfully, in bandages – like a mummy – and the grimaces on his face as he ascended the steps to the Royal Box to receive his medal.

I mention this game in detail since it contrasts starkly with recent FA Cup Finals. I can remember so much from fifty-four years ago, yet I had completely and utterly forgotten that Crystal Palace beat Manchester City 1-0 in the final twelve months ago.

These days, FA Cup Finals are unfortunately seen as an inconvenience by many. In the office during the week, a couple of football fans didn’t even know it was on.

This would be Chelsea’s seventeenth FA Cup Final, and it would be my thirteenth, and – yes – of course I superstitiously looked at this as a bad, a very bad, omen.

Despite a run of four victories in 2007, 2009, 2010 and 2012 that gave us a decent 7-4 overall record, we lost three in a row in 2020, 2021 and 2022 to give us, now, an 8-8 record.

This one was to define if we were to go – in baseball parlance – “over five hundred” with a 9-8 record.

It seemed like the weight of football history was on our shoulders as I collected Paul and Parky. At Reading Services, I fuelled up and looked up at the number to see which pump I had used.

13.

Bollocks.

If I am honest, I was also perturbed by the number of single magpies that I had seen from my car on Friday and again on the drive into London.

“One for sorrow…”

However, it was a clean and easy car journey up to London; the plan was to reach “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 8.30am. I indeed was parked up at exactly 8.30am. Perfect.

The Cup Final Breakfast was perfect too.

Two rashers, a fried egg, liver, baked beans, black pudding, bubble, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea for just £11. And don’t worry; there weren’t sky blue ribbons on my mug.

I parked up near Queens Club and then joined the lads, who had been joined by Ben from Boston in Massachusetts, at Walham Green, the site of the old Fulham Broadway tube station entrance hall.

Despite the many awful decisions made by the FA in recent years regarding this fabled competition – the most heinous being semis at Wembley – I will give them praise for this being the stand-alone game throughout England and Wales on this day, with a traditional 3pm kick-off too.

The pub was an odd mixture of Chelsea fans going to Wembley but also Chelsea and Manchester United fans attending Stamford Bridge for the WPL game, which kicked off at 1pm.

From Fulham Broadway tube, we copied our “lucky semi-final” routine of a tube to Paddington, and an Uber to Marylebone.

We spent an hour or so out on the pavement outside the two station bars and were joined by Matt from DC – last seen in the US with Chelsea in June and July – and many other friends from various locales. The twin bars were not so busy as against Leeds United in the semi-final.

All ears were on the progress of Hearts at Celtic. We heard that the Jambos were 1-0 up but were then tied at 1-1. I was genuinely concerned for our great Hearts mates Kev, Rich, John and Gary. And I feared a repeat of a Saturday afternoon just over forty years ago.

On Saturday 3 May 1986, after I had watched Kenny Dalglish score the winning goal for Liverpool in a 1-0 win at Stamford Bridge – the 43,900 attendance is the biggest I have ever seen at home – I was utterly dismayed to hear, walking out over The Shed terrace, that not only had Celtic won 5-0 at St. Mirren, but Hearts – who only had to draw at Dundee – had let in two goals in the last ten minutes to throw the league title away. It was a hideous day; both Liverpool and Celtic were champions.

As the minutes ticked by, I said a little prayer for our Chelsea / Hearts quartet north of the border.

But time was ticking by. We downed our drinks and headed off to catch the rattler to Wembley Stadium. We hopped on the 1.45pm train on platform 3, just as a load of local lads from various towns in Wiltshire got on board. We were all sat together; Jack and his Dad Richard from Swindon, Les and his son Luke from Melksham, Jason from Melksham, along with us three from Trowbridge and Frome. We had seen Gary and Graham from Trowbridge and Devizes at Marylebone too. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

Well sadly, due to a fault with the train, which slowly pulled out at around 2pm, we weren’t flocking anywhere. The train had broken down, and after a few minutes of painful waiting, limped back to the station.

Time was moving on. We were going to miss the kick-off. I feared the worst for the whole day now. I also had this awful feeling in my gut about Hearts. I had this deepest fear that Celtic would prevail. I hated how one bad turn of fortune affected my whole mood; life, unfortunately, can be like this.

I feared for Chelsea. I feared for Hearts. I was going to be late for the match. Overhead, it was raining, and I was only wearing a T-shirt. Bollocks to all of it.

We scrambled off and tried to squeeze on another Wembley-bound train on platform 2, but the carriages were already full. I saw Paul and Parky try to squeeze on, but I ran on to other carriages. Alas, everything was full.

I glanced at my phone. Hearts had conceded one and then another, and my heart – excuse the pun – divebombed.

I still hadn’t given up on the train on platform 2. I must have sped up and down the length of the train four times.

I must have looked quite a sight as I scurried back and forth, and I had this image of both Paul and Parky, hemmed in against a window, watching me as I peered into the compartments for any potential space with an increasingly worried frown on my face.

“Look at that silly bugger. He was ahead of us as we got on the platform. How the hell are we on this train while he isn’t?”

“Maybe he went off for a pasty.”

I eventually gave up. The next train to leave was on platform 4, and so I rushed over to get on this 2.32pm train. Thankfully, there was room for a seat, just behind my mate Lee, from The Sleepy Hollow, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out at 2.30pm; in total, there had been a fifty-minute delay.

Unlike the tube journey to Wembley Park, the overland route to Wembley Stadium takes no time at all. We reached the station at 2.50pm. I knew I would miss the start, so I didn’t rush. I heard the national anthem as I approached the stadium; a few photos for good luck, a very quick ticket check, a non-existent security check, and up the escalators to the top level, just as my friends Nina and David arrived. We all had to quickly use the facilities, but once done, a quick check for entrance 522 and I was in.

It was 3.03pm.

Phew.

As I looked up towards row 20, I saw a gaggle of very familiar faces. It was the lads from Gloucester and Cheltenham who go everywhere with Chelsea and are undoubtedly good value for money. I even bumped into a few of them at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town match eighteen months ago. I shouted out to Richard, who had an empty seat next to him.

“Is that seat 244, Rich?” and indeed it was.

I shuffled past Andrew, Martin and the others and squeezed into my seat. I had to have a little chuckle to myself that among around 28,000 Chelsea supporters occupying the Eastern end at Wembley, I was sat among friends. I told Rich that I was humbled to be among such esteemed company.

“It’s like sitting in the Royal Box, this.”

Just after I arrived, Ryan from Stoke squeezed himself into a seat that wasn’t there and I quipped that I knew that there was safe standing at Wembley these days, but I wasn’t aware that they had unsafe seating too.

The three, and now four or five, minutes that I missed meant that I needed to play catch up and acclimatise myself to everything pretty sharpish. I had seen the team that Calum McFarlane had chosen while on the train. My only issue was trying to work out the shape.

My first real look at the action down below was of Chelsea recovering from a City attack, in which Marc Cucurella was very wide left, and very deep. If the formation that we believed that we had played at Anfield was being repeated here – and which both Chelsea and the BBC mentioned in their official match reports – then Cucurella would be as a pushed-on attacker ahead of a back four. But as the game developed, it seemed that we were employing a 3-4-2-1 formation.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – James – Caicedo – Cucurella

Palmer – Fernandez

Joao Pedro

I hoped that the players were not as confused as me, way up above the south-east corner flag.

What of the crowd? There were many red seats visible, especially in the “Club Wembley” mid-section, and it seemed that there were more unused seats in the City end.

Of course I had missed all of the pre-game displays and ceremonies and now the atmosphere seemed quite quiet. The sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky was Tupperware grey. This didn’t seem much like a Cup Final.

City, not surprisingly, dominated the early possession, and kept moving the ball around to test us, but we defended well, and I would soon be happy to see ten minutes on the clock. Then, a half chance, but Robert Sanchez was able to save easily from a flick from Omar Marmoush close in.

There was a quick break from Joao Pedro on the far side, but Abdukodir Khusanov slid in to nullify the opportunity.

Out of nowhere, the loudest chant of the game thus far, on eighteen minutes.

“Oh when the blues go streaming in, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

The chant was from our end.

The royal blues, not the sky blues.

One-nil to Chelsea, kinda.

Not long after, Erling Haaland poked the ball home after a low ball in from Matheus Nunes, and our world caved in, but thankfully the misery was short-lived; the linesman’s flag indicating that the Portuguese player had received a pass from Antoine Semenyo in an offside position.

The City support at this stage was shockingly poor, and it didn’t even seem that they yelped too loudly when Haaland appeared to score.

The Chelsea support was clearly on top, and we teased the City ranks with two barbs.

“Your support is fcuking shit.”

Which it was.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Which was probably true too.

On thirty-three minutes, a wild shot from Semenyo in the inside right berth after creating space against Cucurella went off for a throw-in on the far side.

Bloody hell.

Haaland, who had threatened rarely, was then sent in after a long searching ball, but his near post shot was well blocked by Sanchez.

In the closing moments, Joao Pedro was through, but he clashed with Khusanov. His fall was rather dramatic, and from so far away I could not ascertain the severity of the defender’s challenge. No penalty. I captured our striker’s cry for help on film, but I wished for more uplifting photos to come.

In the period leading up to the break, thousands of red seats appeared as a good proportion of the crowd disappeared for a beer and a wazz, or probably both.

The first half had hardly been a classic; far from it. City began strongest and dominated but we weathered the storm and carved a few half chances. My biggest fear was us having an off-day and getting humped. Thankfully that never looked like happening thus far. We had created a few attacks, despite no real efforts on goal, and at least we were still in it at the break. But we moved the ball slowly and with no thrust.

I wasn’t sure if we were witnessing Reece James’ best position. He seemed happy walking with the ball and pushing it out to others. Was that it? Both he and Caicedo were quiet.

But oh that City support was so silent; the worst support at a Cup Final that I can ever remember.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Eastern end. In the very first minute, a perfect cross from the left from Nico O’Reilly gifted Semenyo a golden chance but his free header flew over the bar.

At last, some City noise. Maybe they were waiting for their players to attack their end.

“City. City. We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

However, for the next fifteen minutes or so, we managed to obtain a better foothold, and the team was rewarded with some really excellent backing from the Chelsea crowd.

On the hour, a super-loud roar from us.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA. SUPER CHELSEA FC. WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

My voice was loud and I rasped along with the others.

But we never really created many chances. A Caicedo header was cleared off the line by Rodri, but for all of our wing play, and despite Cole Palmer trying to tease some gaps, we found it hard to break City down.

Our purple period – if you can call it that – came to an end, and with twenty minutes left, I began to wonder about extra time. Our defenders headed away dangerous crosses at one end and Joao Pedro went sprawling after minimal contact at the other.

On seventy-two minutes, a dangerous City break developed and as the ball was played to Haaland I yelled “don’t let that freak of nature have it.” He passed to Bernardo Silva and then Silva passed it back to Haaland, who peeled away out to the right.

Lo and behold, he crossed into the box, and Semenyo – with his back to goal – flicked the ball onwards. It flew in at the far post, with Sanchez beaten.

Now City roared. And they sung again.

“We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

A free kick was headed on by Levi Colwill, and Enzo instinctively swung a boot, but the ball flew over the bar.

On seventy-four minutes, Pedro Neto replaced Cucurella and we reverted to a four at the back.

There were two late substitutions.

Liam Delap for James.

Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro.

A slow-moving City attack meandered up our right flank and a shot from Nunes took a deflection, but Sanchez reacted well to nudge it against the post. There was another fine save from Sanchez from a Rayan Cherki effort late on.

A header from the hapless Delap went about six yards wide.

Sigh.

On this dull day in north-west London we had lost our fourth FA Cup Final in a row.

Fourkinell.

As I exited, the PA played “Blue Moon.”

Another sigh.

Considering the height from which I had to descend, I made it out pretty quickly. I waited for the gruesome twosome to exit and chatted to many friends as they headed away from the stadium.

“This bloody place. I never want to return.”

This phrase was uttered by both me and a friend.

There was time for one defiant team photo before we headed home.

We had planned on a repeat of the semi and wait for the crowds to fade away, but both lads, who walk with sticks, decided to head up Olympic Way to Wembley Park as the crowds seemed to be moving relatively quickly. The drizzle increased, and there was a hideous memory of the walk along the same stretch in 1994. Thankfully, we made it to Wembley Park in good time, at 5.35pm, and we then came up with a masterstroke. Instead of heading into town, we took a train out to Rayners Lane and then came back into Earls Court on the Piccadilly Line.

We never travel on this stretch of the tube network, and in an almost pathetic attempt to squeeze a little bit of enjoyment out of this most wretched of afternoons, I mentioned to the chaps as we passed through Park Royal that this was the tube station that my parents and I used on my very first visit to Stamford Bridge in 1974. For the next few stations, I was lost in time as I tried to remember my thoughts on that very special day all those years ago.

We grabbed some food at Earls Court, then took an Uber to where my car was parked.

I pulled out of Kinnoul Road at 7.45pm, and I drove nonstop back to Somerset.

My village was waiting for me as I returned at 10pm.

It had been a shite day.

Tales From A Win At Wembley

Posted on May 3, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 26 April 2026.

After the ridiculously poor performance at Brighton on the Tuesday, he didn’t last long. He had to go, didn’t he? I am not going to dwell too much on Liam Rosenior’s ill-conceived stint as Chelsea manager, but my post on Facebook on the Wednesday sums it all up.

“Well, the bloke lost me when he came out with that ‘respect the ball’ line as he tried desperately to defend the huddles in the centre circle. Promoted way too high, he was soon way out of his depth. The circus continues.

A big part of me would love Cesc to return next season, but he would be bloody mad to report to the loons in charge. I’d hate to see his legacy spoiled.

What now, Chelsea Football Club?

And who?”

I just hope that the board’s comment about undertaking a process of self-reflection to make the right long-term appointment is genuine and not a knee-jerk comment to placate supporters.

Chelsea needs an experienced manager – coach – and while we are at it, let’s buy an experienced ‘keeper, central defender, and striker too. But mainly an experienced central defender, just like Enzo Maresca wanted in the summer.

Going into the up-coming FA Cup semi-final with Leeds United, I suddenly felt more positive without Rosenior in charge, which is certainly a sad indictment on his tenure. Calum McFarlane was to be entrusted with first team affairs, and – well – we went to Wembley with double helpings of blind faith.

“Anyone but Liam?”

Sad but true.

The weekend was to be a couple of contrasting days.

On Saturday, Frome Town were up against Portishead Town at home in the last league game of the season. With the league title, and promotion, already gained, this would be a relaxing day of celebration.

On Sunday, the stakes were higher, Chelsea were off to Wembley with a semi-final against a bitter old rival, and I was apprehensive, to say the least, about our chances.

Saturday was a joyful and relaxing day, on a perfect April afternoon. I met up with some friends for a pre-match drink, and a recurring question was about the day’s attendance. For the championship clincher against Shaftesbury a few weeks earlier, the gate was a pleasing 1,096. With promotion already secured, I wasn’t so sure that the gate against Portishead – themselves in a play-off position – would beat that.

In “The Vine Tree” pub, I liked chatting to the son of a teammate from my Oakfield school team from 1977/78. Later at the game, I would chat to Steve and Kev, two other teammates from that same team. I find these links to my childhood one of the most endearing features of my attendance at my local team’s games. There was also a brief chat with Ray, who lived in the same village as me in my childhood, and who reads all these blogs, despite being an Evertonian and not a Chelsea supporter. This made my day.

Greeting us at the turnstiles was my friend Courtney, who had flown in from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport that morning. This has been a tumultuous first season for him as Frome chairman, and after his attendance against Tavistock in August and Hartpury in November, this would be his third game of the season. It’s always a great moment to see Courtney’s smile once again.

Last season, I attended a mighty forty-two Frome Town games, but the last game of this season would only be number twenty-three. Having Chelsea play many more Saturday games did not help my Frome numbers unfortunately. From November to January, I only saw four Frome games. It has felt that I have not been as connected to Dodge this time around, despite the all-conquering season that we put together.

I must do better in 2026/27.

There was an air of celebration in the stadium throughout the afternoon; it felt like a crossover between a village fete and a charity match. But that was to be expected. The pressure was off, and it felt fine.

The crowd was a healthy one, with around one hundred away fans, complete with “Posset” – their odd nickname – flags, but I wasn’t sure if 1,096 would be breached. I caught Callum Gould’s fine early goal on film, but Portishead put up a good fight and won the game 2-1. Frome sadly finished the season with two consecutive league losses, but a total of just four in forty-two games. There was, however, a Somerset Cup win on the same evening that Chelsea was getting stuffed in Brighton. It was the club’s first-ever double.

The trophy lifts were very special moments, and I include a smattering of some of the photos from the Frome game; apologies again for the colour red.

I stayed on after the game for Player of the Year presentations in the clubhouse, thus ending a very enjoyable few hours.

Oh, the gate? 1,095, unbelievably just one shy of the Shaftesbury game.

But this left Frome with a fantastic average of 558 this season. Last season, in a higher level – Step 3 – it was 510. Next season we will be playing more local teams in the Southern League Premier, so I fully expect our average gate to rise to 600.

At Step 3 in 2018/19, we averaged just 234.

My hometown team is on the up.

So, that was the easy bit, the Saturday. Sunday would be a different ball game. I collected PD and LP, and we flew into London for a great pre-match in three venues. First up, the much visited and much-loved “Half-Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road for a tasty and filling breakfast. There was a brief interchange with a Chelsea fan and his two boys.

Me : “I am feeling nervous.”

Him : “Me too. Fifty/fifty.”

Then a quick flit to “Walham Green”, the pub on the site of the old Fulham Broadway station, where we stayed for a couple of hours. Alan Hudson, who is often seen in the pubs of Fulham, came in and we shared a few words. He was looking very dapper. Now seventy-five, he of course sadly missed out on both games against Leeds United in 1970 due to injury. It was his debut season.

We then caught a cab to Paddington and then an Uber to Marylebone. Here we met up with tons of familiar Chelsea faces inside “The Victoria and Albert” bar and on the pavement outside. There were Leeds fans in the “Station Master” bar next-door. It was all very convivial and – dare I say it – friendly. The dark days of old seemed light years away.

I met up with Nina from New Jersey, who I first met at the tail-end of last season in the US, and met Brenda and Kerry from the US for the first time. Courtney had driven up from Frome the previous evening and had done some volunteering at the London Marathon in the morning but had managed to wend his way west to join us at Marylebone. Like me, he was on a two-game weekend.

With time moving on, Courtney, Paul, Parky and I caught the 1.40pm train to Wembley Stadium. Here, carriages were mixed, and there was banter between the two sets of fans. This would be Courtney’s first visit to Wembley.

Outside in the sun, I took a photo of Courtney with the towering arch behind.

A lot had been made of us not selling our full allocation of tickets; a situation that I was uneasy with. This was a game in London. Against Leeds United. Was the “disconnect” between fans and footballers so huge that the tickets did not fly?

My worries about the day continued to flicker in and out of my head.

I had always been concerned that we would not only struggle on the pitch against Leeds – who schooled us at Elland Road on that miserable night in December – but would lose the battle off the pitch too. Their fans would undoubtedly be “up for it” and I was dreading a repeat of the 2008 League Cup Final when we were devastatingly out sung by a baying Tottenham support.

There was also the “Wembley factor.”

I had every right to be concerned about this game since the last time that I had seen us win at Wembley was way back in May 2018 when Eden Hazard’s penalty gave us a 1-0 win in the FA Cup Final. Since then, there had been seven defeats in a row. Sadly, I was not allowed into our semi-final win versus Crystal Palace in 2022 as my Canon SLR was on the prohibited list.

On this day my small Sony “point and shoot” camera made it in with the briefest of security checks, and on another day, I am sure I could have smuggled my SLR in.

PD and LP made their way to their section behind the goal. As luck would have it, Courtney and I were in the same section, just on the corner flag, and both in the first row, and I was very happy with this change of scene and view. From memory, I had only ever been in the lower section along the side of the pitch just once before at the new Wembley.

I was in at 2.15pm.

Disregarding the games against Tottenham when they played home games at the national stadium, this would be my thirty-sixth Chelsea match at either Wembley stadia; nine at the old Wembley and twenty-seven at the new Wembley.

These figures still shock me.

These are huge numbers.

The first thing I noticed is that when both seats of players made their entrances onto the pitch at 2.25pm, the roar for the Leeds players dwarfed the roar for the Chelsea team; a bad omen for what lay ahead.

Lo and behold, on the pitch under the Royal Box, who should be interviewed by the annoying Chelsea PA chap but Alan Hudson. He was questioned about the 1970 final, and the battles between the two teams. Hudson spoke about the Chelsea team as being full of characters. He wasn’t wrong.

Next up was Tony Dorigo, who had played for both teams, and had won the league with Leeds in 1991/92. He mentioned the thrill of scoring at Wembley, and perhaps that was his subtle nod to us; his goal won the ZDS Cup against ‘Boro in 1990.

Our Chelsea team was announced, and Calum chose this starting eleven :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Tosin Adarabioyo – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Without Cole Palmer and Reece James, this was the best we could hope for, but it seemed a decent enough team to start.

As kick-off approached, the ends erupted in colour.

To my right, banners flew high on the upper balcony.

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS, THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

At pitch level, a line from the 1997 FA Cup Final song reminded everyone about 1970.

“WE’VE GOT SOME MEMORIES ALBEIT FROM THE 70’S.”

We were given flags to wave and unlike the generic standard issue ones of before, these mentioned the game and date; a nice touch.

These were waved during “Blue is the Colour”, even by me, I must be getting soft.

At the other end, yellow scarves had been handed out to the hordes from Yorkshire, and they held them high as “Marching on Together” was played on the PA. A line from the song was displayed at pitch level.

It was altogether, at both ends, quite a spectacle.

At 3pm, the game began.

I am not usually a fan of being so low down, but on this occasion, for a change of scene, it was fine. You get a great perspective of Wembley’s height. It was quite breathtaking. In the first few minutes I was mightily impressed with the noise that Chelsea were making, mainly to my right, but it seemed to encompass both the lower and upper tiers, never an easy task. This was very encouraging.

There was a low shot from Pedro Neto that was easily saved by Lucas Perri. Leeds were given a free kick that I caught on film, but which did not bother Sanchez. There was an early knock-down by Joao Pedro that set up Enzo, but his firm shot went wide. Garnacho, testing the Leeds defence but also our patience, was set free but fluffed his shot.

Chelsea had opened the game well, and were on top, and Enzo was directing operations and providing much-needed bite where needed.

But then, after initially swooping in to clear a ball, Chalobah picked the wrong pass and Leeds pounced. We were back-peddling, and the move brought back a host of recent disastrous moments. The ball was worked to Dominic Calvert-Lewin who flicked a defence-splitting pass to Brenden Aaronson. His low shot was on target, but Sanchez did ever so well with his reflexes to divert the ball away with his right foot. I’ll say it again; the bloke is a fine shot-stopper.

Immediately after the shot was blocked, I turned towards the Chelsea fans to my right and caught the reaction on Aaronson’s face on the large TV screen. It seemed to immediately match the face that I was pulling too; one of utter disbelief.

On twenty-one minutes, a fine move involving Enzo and Lavia set up Joao Pedro, who raced in on goal, but the ball flashed wide after smacking the near post.

Being in the front row, there was no real need for me to stand, and I didn’t particularly want to upset those immediately behind me. However, on twenty-three minutes, sensing a great chance, I stood without thinking, as Pedro Neto was played in by Joao Pedro after a long kick out by Sanchez. Neto steadied himself and sent over a cracking cross into the penalty area. Enzo rose and headed down, past Perri, and in.

Get in.

The Chelsea end roared.

On Tuesday at Brighton, Enzo stood in front of the Chelsea support, alone with his thoughts. Now he was celebrating with his teammates in front of the Leeds United supporters. I chanced a photo, full zoom, and it came out OK, with just enough detail to see the glum Yorkshire faces, apart from two lads, who might not have been Leeds fans at all.

We were 1-0 up.

Glorious.

Chelsea continued to dominate, but chances were quite rare. Our support dominated the Wembley arena, and I was stunned with how quiet the Leeds support had been.

On thirty minutes, Chelsea bellowed “YSIFS” – and it undoubtedly was.

Joao Pedro, the definition of a modern number nine, was playing some lovely stuff, and went close again with a lovely piece of close control followed by a volley.

On thirty-five minutes, possibly the best move of the match, but Garnacho’s cross whizzed across the six-yard box but there was nobody on hand to add a touch.

With five minutes of the first half remaining, the folks at the Western end of the stadium eventually found their voices.

“We all love Leeds, we all love Leeds, we all love Leeds, we all love Leeds.”

Then, just after, the first “Marching on Together” since the barrage of noise before the game.

Their quietness had really shocked me. Leeds have always had noisy support, and I wondered if their timid support for most of the first half was due to nervousness.

I remembered their last FA Cup semi-final, way back in 1987, when my college mate Bob joined the Yorkshire team’s support at Hillsborough against Coventry City. Leeds lost 3-2 but my abiding memory from that that day is of the Leppings Lane terrace being absolutely rammed with Leeds supporters. It looked amazing but also terrifying.

On forty-two minutes, Ethan Ampadu – good player, sigh – hoisted a long throw into the box but the resulting Leeds shot flew over the bar.

At the break, we were on top, but I wondered if 1-0 would be enough.

During the half-time break, I noticed that my mate Stephen from New Orleans via Belfast was sitting just a few rows behind me and so I invited him down to watch the second half in the spare seat next to me. I last saw him in the front row at Palace a few months ago.

Chelsea were, of course, now attacking our end, and I hoped for some better-quality photos with the Chelsea players, hopefully, being close by.

In the first minute, after another long Ampadu throw, the ball was knocked around and the ball fell to Anton Stoch who let fly just outside the box. Sanchez did ever so well to parry the shot and his strong wrist deflected the ball high and it dropped, thankfully, on the roof of the net.

Soon after, we drove through the Leeds lines with a lovely break and then with some ingeniously intricate play between Gusto and Enzo. This allowed Joao Pedro a final stab at goal, but he was crowded out and the ball went wide.

I think I pulled that face again.

Not so long after Joao Pedro, so fluid and intelligent, passed to Enzo, then to Garnacho, but his finish was deflected over.

But Leeds were enjoying more of the ball in this half. Just before the hour a cross from their left to an un-marked Calvert Lewin was met with a clean header, but a poor header that Sanchez easily saved.

Then, time for me to roll out my “I hate modern football” catchphrase.

Sanchez went down, the referee blew his whistle, Enzo raced to the manager for instructions, and the Leeds end booed. Inside I was booing too.

This pathetic routine needs to be banished from football.

Leeds were up in arms.

“You cheating bastards, you know what you are.”

We replied with a ditty to the same tune, no names, no pack drill.

On the pitch, Leeds were on top now, but they never really carved out too many chances. It was all about us defending with shape and perseverance.

With sixty-five minutes on the clock, Andrey Santos replaced Lavia.

The game became scrappier. The fans of both teams were experiencing different emotions.

On seventy-one minutes, Cole Palmer replaced Garnacho.

“Great, hopefully some shots of him teasing their full back.”

Well, I took a few, but Palmer never really got in the game, and I was seething when he kicked the ball away, resulting in a very silly yellow.

Chelsea defended resolutely as Leeds kept trying to break through our ranks. The Leeds support went up many notches in that second half; it was quite a turnaround.

Towards the end, though, sensing the players needed the boost, we rallied with some noise of our own.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.”

On ninety minutes, the stewards in front stood up, quite unnecessarily really, so we all stood up too.

“Two can play at that game.”

The noise doubled.

“SUPER CHELSEA FC.

WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM.

THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

We were defiantly loud.

Eight minutes of extra time were signalled.

“OLE OLE OLE OLE – CHELSEA CHELSEA.”

In the final minute, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro, who, along with Enzo and Sanchez were the game’s finest performers.

At last, the whistle.

Phew.

Lots of Chelsea smiles, lots of happiness. I tried to catch Courtney’s eye, but he was in his own little world.

As the team walked towards us, we focussed on one player,

“OH ENZO FERNANDEZ. OH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”

And he, once again, focussed on us, standing alone, taking it all in, again alone with his thoughts.

On this occasion, the thoughts were much more wholesome and pleasant, no doubt.

I grabbed my flag – though it will undoubtedly end up with others in a spare bedroom – and walked slowly out to meet up with Paul and Parky.

There was a warm glow. I was just happy to be walking back to Wembley Park after a win at Wembley. It had been eight long years for me. We were in no rush to slowly trudge our way up Olympic Way – not Wembley Way, which is elsewhere – and so we sat for a while to let the crowds disperse.

We were all so happy.

After another crazy season, I summed it up.

“Chaos and Cup Finals.”

We would be back at Wembley in three weeks for our seventeenth FA Cup Final.

Our current record, after years of successes, has now slipped to a record of eight wins and eight losses. Should we beat Manchester City, we would go third in the list behind Arsenal with fourteen and Manchester United with thirteen.

In a moment of ridiculous optimism, I sent a few people this message.

“The last week :

Win the Cup Final.

Beat Tottenham.

Relegate Tottenham.

Beat Sunderland.

On the piss in Newcastle as Arsenal finish second.”

I can dream, right?

While we were waiting, I happened to look up and spot a semi-recognisable figure; well-dressed, smart, a familiar gait, and I told the lads “I reckon that’s Eddie Gray.”

He was around fifteen yards away, and I bounced over.

“I know that every time you come to Chelsea, you get in contact with Ron Harris to have a chat and he really appreciates that. So, thank you.”

The photo I took of myself with a true Leeds United legend, a key player in the 1970 matches, and who was still playing for Leeds United when we beat them 5-0 in April 1984, was almost the highlight of the day. What an honour. And what a lovely man.

Just a few minutes later, Stuart Pearce walked past, and I nervously reached out to shake his hand too. He looked in a rush, but we shook hands. Another legend of football.

Alan Hudson, Eddie Gray, Stuart Pearce.

I did well.

We feasted on some sandwiches from a nearby “Tesco” and eventually left Wembley Park at 6.45pm. We were back at Fulham Broadway at 7.30pm, and I shot off to get my car and returned to pick the lads up for the trip home.

On that drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset, we realised that we had not heard – at Wembley at least – those two terrace standards of all previous Chelsea / Leeds encounters.

There had been no Dambusters.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

And no Doris Day.

“And go get your father’s gun…”

It truly shocked us.

I eventually reached home, with pleasant thoughts of the final five matches, and after the past couple of months that has to be a good thing.

Next up, a home game against Nottingham Forest.

See you there.

WEMBLEY

BADGERS HILL

Tales From An Evening Of Early Goals And Heartache

Posted on March 23, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain : 17 March 2026.

On the drive up to London with Paul and Parks, I mentioned how often those of us in the Chelsea support had mentioned the term “early goal” in the build-up to this game.

“I’d like a tenner for every time one of us has used that phrase.”

For although I was not expecting us to recover from those horrific last twenty minutes at Parc des Princes the previous Wednesday, I cannot lie and say I didn’t momentarily daydream about it.

At work during the day – another 4.30am alarm call, another 6am to 2pm shift – I self-deprecatingly called this return leg “The Miracle Of Stamford Bridge” and awaited the response from co-workers. They weren’t biting. They knew it was a lost cause too.

But that early goal kept me keen.

Steve, Salisbury: “you never know, we get an early goal, and we might get some momentum going.”

Glenn, Frome: “an early goal and it’s game-on.”

Rich, Edinburgh: “we score an early goal, I fancy us.”

Steve, Philadelphia: “we get an early goal, and we are right back in it.”

That’ll be forty-quid please. Thanks.

But I also came up with another title that could, sadly, fit the day’s events. This wasn’t St. Valentine’s Day in Chicago in 1929, but after the game is ended, it could become known as the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.

Gulp.

As soon as I had left Melksham, I told my two passengers of a tale of woe that I had suffered on the Monday. I have some holiday to use up and so highlighted a stay in Falmouth to take in Frome Town’s fixture in one week’s time, on Tuesday 24 March. On the Sunday after the Newcastle game, I booked up a two-night stay at a nice B&B for just £100. I was looking forward to this; a little stay away for myself. However, on Monday evening I received a rather concerned call from the guest house, enquiring when I would be arriving. It turned out that I booked that night, rather than the two nights of the following week. And the booking was unable to be transferred. Suffice to say, the two lads were full of empathy and commiserations. And if you believe that…

While Paul and Parky spent a few hours in the pub, I parked up and trotted down to Fulham Broadway, and squeezed myself in at “Zia Lucia”, a pizza restaurant that I had not tried before. It was fully booked from 6pm, but I arrived at just the right time. The food was tasty. It kept me from thinking too much about the football.

I decided to spend an hour or so out on the Fulham Road, taking in the pre-match atmosphere and the sights and sounds that accompany a European night at Stamford Bridge. I bumped into a few mates along the way. None of us were remotely confident. I arrived at the main gates just as two PSG coaches arrived and slowly made their way over to the East Stand. One of the coaches was fully liveried. Back in New Jersey in the summer on the way to Meadowlands, our Uber had to pull over and let the PSG team coach fly past. A similar 3-0 win on this night in deepest SW6? Highly unlikely.

I continued snapping away; the rather old-fashioned wooden matchday board, the half-and-half scarf sellers, The Butcher’s Hook where the club was formed in 1905, the “CFC LDN” branding that seems to upset so many, the forecourt, the fans.

This would be the ninth time that I would see PSG face Chelsea. This game was the fifth time at Stamford Bridge, plus there were two visits to Parc des Princes – in 2004 and 2014 – plus three matches in the USA; at Yankee Stadium in 2012, in Charlotte in 2015 and in New Jersey last summer, the final game of 2024/25.

In European competitions, they have caused us some grief for sure.

We triumphed in 2004/5 and 2013/14 but were beaten in 2014/15 and 2015/16.

PSG are certainly, along with Barcelona, one of our new European rivals.

I am no fan of the extended “league” format of the current competition, but when I watched the first leg at Glenn’s flat the previous Wednesday, here was a game that at last felt important. It had that dramatic edge to it. There were copious amounts of noise generated by the home fans, and I even heard our support gamely trying to respond.

It turned out to be a great spectacle. And we played so well until “you-know-when”. It felt like a proper cup tie. Despite those three late goals that hurt us all so badly, I felt rejuvenated in seeing a knock-out UEFA game with two teams playing good football and with that added drama of everything hinging on just two games. I wished that every UEFA tie was like this.

Outside Stamford Bridge on a mild night, there were foreign voices everywhere; not just French, but voices from all over Europe. One young chap – aged about twenty, maybe from The Netherlands from his accent – asked a souvenir stall owner “where is the Chelsea ground?” and he was only thirty yards from the entrance to the West Stand.

I rolled my eyes.

You would think the drift of people heading to the ground would have been evidence enough.

I was in early at 7pm, an hour to go. There had been an odd interchange at the security check; one chap saw my SLR camera but waved me in. As I took my place inside The Sleepy Hollow, only a few spectators were in as early as me. Gary was one of them. Like me he had stumped up £72 for this game; the highest that I had ever paid for a ticket at Chelsea. The price initially shocked me. But what choice did I have?

“It’s what I do.”

PD arrived and he told me he overheard two blokes talking about “an early goal” on the tube journey up from Putney Bridge.

We then shared a laugh ourselves.

“Imagine us mate. On seventy-five minutes. Still waiting for that early goal.”

The stadium slowly filled. I didn’t expect every seat to be occupied. I had seen that some tickets were trying to be shifted leading up to the game. The PSG lot, who had massed up along the Fulham Road before marching together according to a mate – “well organised, no aggro” – were surprisingly quiet. There was not a peep from them. Mind you, it is hard to compete with pounding dance music.

From the segregation lines, it looked like 2,500 of them.

Just after 7.45pm, a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding. This initiated a response, a volley of noise, from them, and it was “game on.”

Lovely.

The stadium grew noisier.

“Our House” was played. This is a great recent addition to our match-day.

The atmosphere was building nicely.

Paul and I shared another laugh. Fast forward to our drive home.

“Traffic’s quiet mate.”

“That’s because 20,000 spectators left an hour ago.”

It was time to check our starting eleven. What a terrible loss Reece James would be.

Robert Sanchez

Mamadou Sarr – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

The CL flag, the flames, the fireworks, the “2025 World Cup” crowd-surfer, the flags in The Shed, the anthem.

I looked around. Yes, there were empty seats. But the atmosphere seemed to be at decent levels. The PSG ultras, some bare-skinned, seemed up for it now. I think they had been conserving their energies until kick-off. Very wise.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

PSG in red / red / red.

PSG won the toss and forced us to attack the Matthew Harding in the first period.

The match began.

My God the noise from us was incredible. Considering that many of our rank-and-file supporters plus a large amount of our younger element had been either priced out of this one or, bluntly, didn’t fancy it, there had been a real concern from me that we would be left with the geriatrics – thinks about raising hand, but decides that can’t be me – who are less likely to holler support, and the timid middle classes and the tourists who wouldn’t know a lump of celery from a bunch of rocket.

But this was very heartening stuff indeed. It showed that the support hadn’t given up. It showed that on our day we could get behind the team. The difference between this cacophony of noise and the morgue-like atmosphere of Saturday’s game with Newcastle was simply incredible.

In those opening minutes, it seemed like that we had collectively remembered the noise in Paris and had said

“This is our house. Now it’s our turn.”

Song after song rattled out of the Matthew Harding and The Shed; Stamford Bridge came alive.

“Carefree – Wherever You May Be.”

“And It’s Super Chelsea.”

“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”

And then, bloody hell, a break down their left, our right, instigated by a long punt from their ‘keeper Matvey Safonov. Their strong striker, whose name is difficult to spell let alone pronounce, ably collected the ball, and turned past our defender as easy as you like. His shot was calmly rolled past Sanchez at the far post.

Six minutes had gone.

Bollocks.

There was that early fucking goal.

Fuck you Kyhyvistcha Kvaratsarsetskhekliaylia.

I wanted to cry. Not only because we had conceded so early, but I knew the atmosphere would instantly deteriorate. Damn it. And damn Reece James’ injury.

Sigh.

There was a smattering of chances from us in the immediate period after the goal from Palmer, Joao Pedro, Enzo and Neto

But the aggregate score, now, was 2-6.

Four goals? Nah.

Fourteen minutes were on the clock. Two very-late arrivals sat between PD and me. A move down their right caused me instant angst. Achraf Hakimi advanced, easily, and passed to Bradley Barcola, easily. He was, dear reader, unmarked. I was right behind the shot that he neatly volleyed into Sanchez’ goal. The two lads next to me had only been in their seats for five seconds.

Fackinell.

So, 0-2 down on the night and 2-7 on aggregate.

I was numb.

PD summed it up: “two attacks, two goals.”

I continued the grim news : “Christ, they have scored five goals against us in thirty minutes.”

The game, of course, continued. We couldn’t exactly hold up any white flags.

On twenty-two minutes, a cross from Palmer to Joao Pedro and a header that I thought was in. It was glanced just wide.

PSG’s away support was cheering every touch of the ball as a move continued on, and on, and on. There was constant noise from them. I couldn’t remember how their fans had performed in 2005, nor 2014, nor 2015, nor 2016, but their support was impressive. It wasn’t always very loud, but it never stopped.

On thirty-one minutes, Kvaratsarsetskhekliaylairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch scored but he always looked like being offside.

VAR got it right.

Anyway, his name is always bloody offside.

On thirty-four minutes, I found myself clapping – briefly – a magnificent ball out from a PSG defender to a player on the left touchline. It was a magnificent pass, hit with pace, on the volley, and with a beautiful fade that meant the ball dropped perfectly to his teammate’s feet.

“What a ball, PD.”

On thirty-five minutes, a lovely piece of opportunism from Joao Pedro almost paid off as he ran onto a long ball from Sanchez but was forced wide and Safonov saved. The Russian ‘keeper, to my eyes, didn’t look particularly happy all night and seemed to flap at our corners.

The two late arrivals left before the break and never returned.

PSG continued to impress.

“We’re losing all the battles all over the pitch, PD.”

The first half finished with, in the circumstances, a decent spell of “to-and-fro” from both teams. A fine save from Safonov from a Palmer effort, an equally good save from Sanchez from Barcola at the near post after a break down the right with Palmer in chase, then another save from Safonov after a Chalobah header.

It helped lessen the pain. Kinda.

There were boos at half-time.

There was nice appreciative applause for Josh Acheampong as he replaced Sarr at the break.

The away fans continued to sing, and they provided quite a varied songbook, one of which seemed to go on for ages, and sounded like an old French folk song; it sounded like it could easily have been warbled by Edith Piaf in a Parisien nightclub in the 1930’s.

On fifty-five minutes, Joao Pedro’s curler was just wide. He had been our best player on the night and was the only player who had genuinely looked like scoring thus far.

Still the PSG ultras sang. I had this horrible feeling that one or two of the melodies would be rattling around my head in the morning. Nor for the first time, the chorus from Bonnie Tyler’s “It’s A Heartache” had been sampled in one of a European team’s songs.

Heartache was about bloody right.

On the hour, a triple substitution.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Alejandro Garnacho for Palmer.

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

These substitutions seemed crazy at the time, but – well, damage limitation, managing resources et al.

Alas, on sixty-two minutes, a shot from outside the area was blocked but Senny Mayulu latched on to the ball and found the net and with that, hundreds exited.

Chelsea 0 PSG 3.

We were 2-8 down.

“God, PD – there’s half-an-hour to go.”

I found myself, legs crossed, turned away from the game. I simply found it hard to watch.

The PSG ultras, had the same idea, but they did their version of “The Poznan.”

They were far happier.

This was horrible.

The rest of the match was a blur really.

Garnacho had a couple of “Groundhog Day” efforts, then on the third run, he bizarrely chose to go wide and hit the ball with his very-unfavoured left peg. One effort came after a nicely “gung-ho” dribble from Chalobah from deep.

“God, PD – there’s still twenty to go.”

On seventy-one minutes, Rosenior replaced Cucurella with Tosin.

“Fuck me, he must have a sense of humour.”

Tosin, I ask you.

When Kvaratskhelia, the star man, was substituted soon after, a few Chelsea supporters clapped, me included. He had been excellent all night.

Caicedo, out of sorts for a while now, dragged a shot wide, and there was an effort from Delap, who at least looked lively.

The saddest moment of all was the sight of Our Trev being stretchered off and we finished with only ten on the pitch. I absolutely sensed that with the Chalobah withdrawal, PSG collectively decided not to inflict any more pain on us and didn’t go for any more goals.

Even the referee Slavko Vincic felt sorry for us and blew up exactly on 90 minutes.

I have not seen that ever before.

What a terrible night.

At the final whistle, I shook hands with a few loyalists.

“See you at Everton.”

Interestingly – or not – the gate on a very reliable website immediately after the game gave the attendance as 35,811 but Chelsea gave it as 37,242. I wonder who to believe?

I walked back to the car, disconsolate.

On the way home, I grumbled to PD.

“Well, not one single away trip in Europe for me this season. And I can’t even book two nights in bloody Falmouth correctly.”

I reached home at about 1.30am.

The St. Patrick’s Day Massacre was about right.

Tales From The Anniversary Game

Posted on March 15, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 14 March 2026.

I was in early for the match with Newcastle United. I had left the chaps in the pub and fancied a little mooch around the stadium prior to entering. It was a sunny afternoon, with an occasional chill to the air.

As I approached my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, I heard my name being called. I spotted Joe, who is Hersham Bob’s son, and comes to occasional matches at The Bridge. Hersham Bob wasn’t going to be at this one, instead giving his ticket to Joe so that he could bring his Godson along to his very first Chelsea match. Instead, Bob had spent the afternoon watching his local team Walton & Hersham defeat Farnham Town. Joe asked if I could take a few photos of the two of them and I duly obliged.

I explained that I liked the synchronicity of this, since my first-ever Chelsea game was also against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. In fact, for the second time in three seasons, the football calendar almost gave me the perfect date for this game.

Back in 1974, Chelsea played Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge on Saturday 16 March.

Two years ago, approaching the fiftieth anniversary of my debut, Chelsea played Newcastle United at home on Monday 11 March. So near and yet so far from the perfect match.

And here we were, in 2026, closer still.

Prior to this game, I had seen Chelsea play the Geordies forty-three times at Stamford Bridge in the fifty-odd years since that momentous day in my life. Apart from the COVID season of 2020/21, you must go way back to 1985/86 to when I last missed a home league game against them. The appearance of those black and white shirts at Chelsea is always an important moment for me; it reconnects me with my childhood and some of the loveliest memories of going to football over the years.

That first game in 1974, the 6-0 rout in 1980 with Phil Driver on fire, watching as Pat Nevin ran riot in 1983, seeing the emergence of the Kevin Keegan-managed “Toon Army” from 1993 until 1996, and then meeting Keegan in the tunnel before a game in the Spring of 1995, then a hugely enjoyable 1-0 win against them as the league leaders a little later in 1995 and the utter domination of them for many years. In all of the thirty-six league games I had witnessed against them, there were just three Chelsea losses. In 1983, a 0-2 defeat with Kevin Keegan a player, in 1986 and a poor 1-3 defeat, then in 2012, a 0-2 loss and those two Papiss Cisse wonder strikes. There was also a 3-4 loss in a League Cup tie in 2010.

Like us, Newcastle are a strange team this season; they have been underperforming, and have been under Sunderland too, which might be seen as more of a concern to their followers.

While Hersham Bob was watching his hometown team winning in southwest London, my hometown team were winning in the southwest of England. Frome Town stormed to a 4-0 half-time lead at home to Bishops Cleeve – what a quintessentially English name – but there were no further goals to report. The win left Dodge with a mighty fine 27-5-2 record, and with a twelve-point gap at the top of our division. This outstanding record is the highest points-per-game yield in the first nine levels of the football pyramid in England and Wales. If there isn’t a trophy for that, there bloody well should be.

The spectators drifted in. There were still blue skies overhead.

The team?

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Plamer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

I had watched the PSG game on Wednesday on TV and thought we had been tasty until the Filip Jorgensen error that gifted the home team their third goal. I think this is a commonly held view. However, I couldn’t believe the amount of people who reckoned that we were poor for most of the game. Nah, couldn’t see that.

More than a few people outside the stadium had quizzed me beforehand:

“Can you play in goal?”

So, I returned the favour and asked others.

Alas, none of us could.

Outside on the Fulham Road, I spotted two new Nike advertisements on two billboards involving Estevao. The one on Brittania Road – a prime site – has featured Chelsea players before. I took one photo of Estevao’s image behind the ever-present religious missionary who has been at Stamford Bridge for around two decades (also spotted recently at Arsenal, you have to admire his persistence, I have never ever seen anyone stop and intelligently engage with him in all these years) and so I titled the image “Estevao The Redeemer.”

There were pre-match huddles – no, I didn’t spot the referee Paul Tierney in the middle of ours – after the usual pre-match flag-waving, flames and fireworks. Much was made of Reece James signing a six-year extension by the shouty-shouty match announcer, and his crowd-surfer flag appeared to my left in the MHL.

No Clive, no Alan; just PD and little old me in row D of the Sleepy Hollow for this one.

The lovely royal blue and the famous black-and-white stripes began their battle once again. There were a couple of Geordie staples to set things off :

“We are the Geordies, the Geordie Boot Boys…”

“Oh me lads, you should have seen us gannin…”

It was a pretty decent start, quite lively, and we enjoyed most of the early pressure, with Garnacho racing down the wing on the left. At times his running style is rather odd, like a hyper-active cartoon character. Unfortunately, many of his final decisions appear to be made by Bugs Bunny.

A corner was pinged into the box and Fofana leapt to meet the ball – snap! – but it flew over. Not long after, the ball was played inside to Palmer, but he sliced his shot well wide of the left-hand post. There were efforts from James and Garnacho, forever looking to creep inside and shoot. On the quarter of an hour, a nice break involved Garnacho passing to Enzo but his shot was blocked.

Alas, on eighteen minutes, Newcastle caught us out. They had not really threatened too much but former blue Tino Livramento was afforded too much space, but he also spotted space, a huge tract of land that would be worth millions if it was to be sold at market prices, knocking an early ball through our defensive lines to Joe Willock. I feared the outcome. He advanced and Sanchez rushed out. Instead of shooting, he passed to Anthony Gordon who easily pushed the ball in. The appeals for offside were too pathetic for further comment. We had been undone as simply as it gets. We were caught too square, and nobody was remotely close to Willock. It was shocking defending.

Bollocks.

Buoyed by this goal, the visitors now took command as the frustration grew in the home areas. Unfortunately, this manifested itself in one of my co-supporters calling Moises Caicedo a “C-word” and I inwardly fumed.

The Geordies pieced together a couple of half-chances, but thankfully the danger passed.

On the half-hour, Garnacho advanced and passed to Enzo, who intelligently dummied for Palmer to take aim. Alas, his shot was blocked.

Just after, after a terribly long lull, I heard the first real chant of the day from the home supporters, a half-hearted “Amazing Grace.”

Must do better.

Then, Sanchez did well to claw away an effort from Willock at the near post.

On thirty-six minutes, a strong curling effort from Palmer was turned around his post by Aaron Ramsdale in The Shed goal.

I then heard from the depths of the Sleepy Hollow, someone call Reece James, the club captain, a “C-Word.”

Simmer. Simmer. Simmer.

There was a rather unorthodox save, late on, from Sanchez, and the worry of a VAR check on some pushing-and-shoving by the captain at a corner. Thankfully, no penalty.

There were boos at half-time. I felt like booing our support; we had been as quiet as lambs.

It had been a poor game of football thus far, and I momentarily thought back to that intoxicating game of football that took place in December 1995, forty percent of the way through my history with this lot, and the personalities and players on the pitch and the sidelines. At the time, our manager Glenn Hoddle had begun to use wingbacks and ours were Dan Petrescu and Terry Phelan. Eddie Newton and Dennis Wise were our stalwarts in midfield, while Mark Hughes lead the line. The visitors were managed by Kevin Keegan and his team included Lee Clark, Keith Gillespie, David Ginola, Peter Beardsley and Les Ferdinand. A powerful angled strike from Petrescu gave us the 1-0 win. Over thirty years on, I can vividly remember the thrill of watching a magnificent match at an absolutely rammed Stamford Bridge from the temporary seats at The Shed. The gate was 31,098, and the Geordies lost their first game of the season to us that day. It is a match that is often overlooked in favour of the more high-scoring triumphs – take your pick – against the Tynesiders, but that game and that atmosphere and that victory were huge.

It was a wonderful Chelsea performance, but the best was to come after the game had ended. In 1994, a book called “Blue Is The Colour” was written by Khadija Buckland, a native of West London, who was living close by in Chippenham in Wiltshire. Glenn and I became acquainted with her via her friendship with Ron Harris and, after a while, we arranged to take Khadija up to Chelsea so she could sell her book in the executive areas of the East Stand. Anyway, to cut to the chase, as a reward for taking her up, she had arranged for Glenn, my Geordie mate Pete and me to gain entrance to the players’ bar after the game with Newcastle. We shuffled around by the entrance to the tunnel and waited by a door. I remember that pop star Robbie Williams quickly left the bar and we were then escorted in by Khadija.

Talk about the inner sanctum.

In a small room behind the old changing rooms (which I am sure no longer exists, what with the enlarging of the home dressing room area), we stood at the cosy bar, while Dennis Wise, his girlfriend and mother were chatting in a small group. A few players flitted in and out. I always remember Mark Hughes; arriving quietly, standing at the bar alone, silently sipping a lager. I went over to ask him to sign the programme and I was genuinely awestruck.

Shall we go back to 2026?

Do we have to?

The manager took off Gusto and replaced him with Liam Delap. The shuffle around was easy to work out. James to right-back, Enzo in midfield, Joao Pedro behind Delap. It had a far more attacking feel.

Garnacho was soon involved down below me, but how I wished that he wouldn’t cut back onto his right peg…Every. Single. Time.

Harvey Barnes raced away on a quick break, taking the ball right into the danger area, and I feared danger, but his final pass to Nick Woltemade was heavy, and the chance evaporated.

Delap then looked lively, picking up a loose ball and shooting at goal, but Ramsdale was able to push the ball wide.

At last, some noise from the Matthew Harding.

“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”

For the first fifteen minutes of the half, with the Stamford Bridge crowd now energised a little, and with the volumes at pretty reasonable levels – for 2026, not 1995 – it honestly felt like an equaliser was on its way and we would be in contention for a much-needed win. Chances didn’t really materialise though; a shot from Joao Pedro was blocked – snap – but there was little else. We found it difficult to penetrate Newcastle’s two banks of players. God knows what Kevin Keegan would have made of it all.

There was an odd substitution on sixty-one minutes; arguably our best player Caicedo was replaced by “half-a-game” Romeo Lavia.

On sixty-eight minutes, a really fine save from Sanchez down at The Shed denied Gordon. Just after, a Delap run in the inside-right channel but his shot came to nothing. Just after, a delightful cross from Reece found Cucurella who set up Delap. Alas, his effort from merely yards away was unceremoniously booted over the crossbar.

We screamed in anguish. This was the golden chance.

Damn it.

Then, a corner was cleared, Reece crossed the ball in again, but the ball went wide.

On eighty-two minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

Four minutes later, Chalobah met a James corner with a high leap at the far post – snap – but the ball sailed high and wide.

Fackinell.

Then, another Delap chance; a header, over.

The narrative is clear here, isn’t it? Half-chance followed half-chance, but our finishing was woeful.

Eight minutes of added time were signalled, and I remained – stupidly, naively, pathetically – optimistic. Two minutes in, a free kick was awarded in a good area. Messrs Palmer and James met in a two-man huddle thirty yards out to discuss who would take the kick. In the end, the captain shot.

There was a roar and I was up celebrating but could then hardly believe that it had not caused the net to ripple and flutter.

Ballbags.

One last chance, a looper from Joao Pedro from a Palmer cross that nestled apologetically on the roof of the net.

Sigh.

We lost 0-1.

Newcastle finally had our number.

There were more boos at the final whistle.

Despite that ridiculous rollcall of chances, did we ever look like scoring?

I bumped into Long Tall Pete on the Fulham Road and he suggested not.

We had been poor. Newcastle were no great shakes either. It was another example, in a long, long list, of games that just failed to entertain us all.

Just after meeting up with Pete, I spotted the world’s most pathetic and useless sign, which was advising pedestrians as they walked along the road to do the following:

“PLEASE KEEP TO YOUR LEFT OR RIGHT.”

And I immediately thought how this had summed up our play not only on this day, but on many others too. Don’t worry about hitting players early with a direct ball up the middle, to keep defences worried about how to defend, nor hit incisive passes forward into the path of breaking midfielders, but just keep passing laterally to your left and to your right, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

If there was one thing that had made the game slightly bearable it was the occasional glimpse of the sublime talent that is Cole Palmer. He wasn’t exceptional, nor even great, but there were moments when he mesmerised both his markers, and me, and this was no mean feat on a day of such poor play.

If this game had been played forty years ago and had not been on TV in every nation that wanted to see it, the result would have not merited much of a debate.

“I see Chelsea lost at home. Did you go?”

“Yeah, never looked like scoring. Just couldn’t put many moves together. Cole Palmer was worth the admission money, mind.”

In 2026, immediately after kick-off, millions of words were exchanged about our inadequacies, and everything seemed magnificently overblown. I am all for debate and appraisal and all, but sometimes I just want to scream at the levels of toxicity. Inside the stadium, we had hardly played our part, leaving it unfashionably late to start to cheer the team on. But such is modern football and the dynamics have changed.

I have written over two million words on this website about Chelsea games and I fully suspect thousands have been written about the decay of the Stamford Bridge atmosphere. Our traditional support has become older and less likely to engage in boisterous singing, while our newer generation of fans have perhaps become spoilt or even blasé, plus there is the view that clueless visitors from foreign fields do not understand the fan culture, nor add to the atmosphere. Crucially, there are real fears that our bedrock support is being priced out. All those factors play a part in the terrible demise of our matchday atmosphere.

There has also been a subtle shift in attitude. As I have said before, we used to go as supporters. Now everyone is a bloody expert.

Among all this doom and gloom, I still think that we are just a decent goalkeeper and an experienced central defender away from competing, but that just might be the naïve and overly optimistic me. Can Clearlake commit to that? It doesn’t match their model – buying young kids for resale – and that is the big problem. But surely if we fixed those two areas, we would increase our chances to make money which is all that they bloody care about.

Right then, who’s going to the second leg against that French lot on Tuesday?

See you there.

Tales From A Game Of Real Stupidity

Posted on February 28, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Burnley : 21 February 2026.

After missing the Hull City trip the previous weekend – a professional performance, a lovely trip to Wrexham next – the home game with relegation-threatened Burnley was therefore my first Chelsea match in eleven days. From the very off, this felt like the very definition of a “bog standard” / “run of the mill” match at Stamford Bridge, and it didn’t exactly get our pulses racing as we all converged on SW6.

I was inside the ground at 2.30pm and I soon glimpsed over at the away end to see what allocation Burnley had managed to bring. As I suspected, it was the lower of the two amounts: 1,500 and not 3,000. This was no surprise. Wolves are already down and the claret and blues from Lancashire are surely not far behind them, or above them to be exact. I would have been really surprised had they opted for the full amount.

My mate Alan soon arrived and showed me a photo in the match programme that honoured Gary’s father Ron who had passed away before Christmas, aged ninety-one. For many years, he had a season ticket with Gary in the front row of the East Upper. What a view that must have been.

Paul showed up a little later after being spotted down in “Jimmy’s” with – er – Jimmy, as they both enjoyed an extension of their pre-match drinking session that I had joined at around 12.30pm in “The Eight Bells.” Before that, I had shot over to London Bridge Road to treat myself to a “double double” at “Manze’s” pie and mash shop, the oldest in London. It was my third visit, and the grub was as good as ever. The place was very busy and rammed full of Millwall before their home match with Pompey. I had shared my table with a local and there was a little small talk before I left.

“Have a good day, mate.”

“And you. Goin’ football?”

“I am, yes, but not the same game as you. Chelsea vs. Burnley.”

Years ago, such an interaction might not have been so forthcoming, but things have relaxed a lot in the past couple of decades.

“Might see you in the topflight next season.”

“Yer. We’ll add something to that division.”

I thought to myself “you’re not wrong there, mate” as I squeezed past him and his mound of mash, pies and liquor.

On the way into London Bridge Station, the Portsmouth lot were just arriving, full of song, and I was surprised that there were no police, yet, on show. I have always had a little soft spot for Pompey, and I remembered a Frome lad, Rob, who supported them but sadly took his own life in the summer, a fact that I am still struggling to accept.

I had enjoyed my little dip into another corner of London; Bermondsey Street especially looks a lively stretch, full of pubs and cafes, all under the shadow of The Shard. It brought it home to me how London is smothered in football clubs, each with their own catchment areas, pre-match drinking regimes and habits, their own rituals, and their own rivalries. Imagine London with just two professional clubs; how dull would that be?

In the pub, I joined up with the lads, but all was not well. Jimmy the Greek was suffering with lower back pain, and Ian had pulled a calf muscle. As for me, after my traipse to and from underground stations and on to “Manze’s” I needed a sit-down.

The game against Burnley would mark the first appearance of the new shirt sponsor, IFS, an AI company, and Jimmy said, “it should be FFS” and I had a little chuckle.

AI, eh? I almost saw it coming. I must admit that I am not a fan of artificial intelligence, as I have already witnessed how it can be used to stir up hatred on social media. It also has a detrimental impact on the environment, using ridiculous amounts of water to cool its super servers, plus copious amounts of electricity of course. Will it eventually lead to employment losses? I think we all know the answer to that. But that’s a debate for another day. Meanwhile, I am consciously trying to stay away from it.

However, I am sure that the people that run Chelsea Football Club will increase their use of AI as the future unfolds, especially in increasing revenue streams.

“How can we fleece as many possible punters as possible, while convincing them that we are doing them a favour?”

And I am sure AI has found its insidious way into assessing the agglomeration of data that exists in football these days.

“What is the most efficient way to score goals in football?”

I suspect we all know the answer to that one too; pass, pass, pass, wait for an opponent’s error, shoot but only when within ten yards of the goal.

Sorry, but in these days of fake everything, I prefer life and football with a little more authenticity. And fun.

In the pub, I gulped down two pints of refreshing “Diet Coke” and it was then time to depart. Alas, this was a bittersweet moment. The current landlords are moving away, and this was the last time that we would see Aga and her team. We all hoped our love affair with “The Eight Bells” can continue under the new regime.

Dear reader, it was a pitiful sight as the troops slowly ascended the stairs at Putney Bridge tube station, what with PD and Parky and their dodgy hips, Jimmy with the excruciating pain in his back, and Ian limping like he had been on the receiving end of a “difference of opinion” with Ronnie Harris.

Compared to them, I relatively flew up the three flights of stairs.

We liked the look of the team; we knew that Marc Cucurella was still out, and so his place was taken by Malo Gusto. I hoped that this would be a seamless adjustment, rather than a maladjusted one.

So, here we were :

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez

Joao Pedro

On the way into the Matthew Harding Upper, I had been thoroughly dismayed to see every single TV screen showing the England vs. Ireland rugby game.

“Why are they showing that crap?”

We were here for Chelsea. For football. Had Chelsea run out of Chelsea stuff to show the punters?

There was the usual pre-match routine, some of which felt right, but most of which still felt odd, artificial, and forced upon us.

Chelsea songs, crowd-surfing flags in the Matthew Harding, flags being waved in The Shed, flames in front of the West Stand, fireworks fizzing into the air. I am sure there was none of this prefabricated nonsense at Millwall.

The game began, but it again felt odd to see us attacking the Matthew Harding in the first half. While we were chattering away to ourselves, we took an early lead. And it came from un-likely move. Rather than passing to the nth degree, something that frustrates most of us, an incisive ball played early from Moises Caicedo that exploited an early gap in the Burnley defence. His ball was perfectly paced and placed for Pedro Neto to gather and then smack a low cross towards the six-yard box where Joao Pedro arrived to bundle the ball over the line.

We were up and celebrating as the scorer raced across to the far side.

But then, the rancid odour of VAR swept over Stamford Bridge and a potential handball was reviewed. Alan and I vented our displeasure. We had already spoken about the authentic nature of the matchday experience at Millwall, and the absence of VAR in the division below was referenced as we spoke about the differences between the two games being played out only a few miles apart.

I know a few fans of clubs in the Football League who absolutely love the fact that their games do not involve the passion killer of VAR. For that is what it is. It has muted the adrenalin rush of goals, as I always said it would.

Thankfully the goal stood.

We dominated the next twenty minutes of play and although we managed to create a reasonable supply of chances, much of our play was slow and methodical. Burnley had a couple of pot shots at our goal at The Shed.

A quarter of the match in, I noted to Alan that I hadn’t heard a peep from the Lancastrians in the far corner.

Shots from Enzo and Cole Palmer were either struck over or blocked.

It then went awry for ten minutes, and we lost what momentum we had developed, and just couldn’t carve open the Burnley defence. It felt that we were sitting on our laurels at a time when we really should have taken the game to them. It was a frustrating period.

Alan commented that it felt like we were waiting for them to score, as if we need an outside dynamic to inspire us and galvanise us.

A weak free kick from Marcus Edwards went wide of Robert Sanchez’ goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, Cole Palmer was presented with a one-on-one with Kyle Walker, a good old-fashioned sprint, with just daylight between the ball and the Burnley ‘keeper Martin Dubravka. Palmer raced ahead and shot early, but the ball was parried easily by the ‘keeper.

This was the last attacking threat of the first period, and such is our support these days, that Alan and I spent the closing moments debating whether or not we would get booed off at the break.

Thankfully, there was nothing.

At the break, I heard that Frome Town were 1-0 up at near neighbours Larkhall Athletic who play in Bath. On the Saturday before, the weekend of the Hull City game, I had watched my local team beat Brixham 2-0 at home to solidify our position at the top of our division. That night, PD, Glenn and I met up at the main music venue in town to see tribute acts to The Specials and The Jam. This was another lovely day of football and music, and over the course of it I chatted to three fellow members of the Oakfield Road Middle School team from 1976 to 1978. Fantastic.

The second half started with a jolt to wake us from our first-half stupor. Within the first few seconds, the ball was played forward by Joao Pedo to Palmer, but just as it seemed he was about to unleash a shot on goal, a leg of a defender swiped away at him. We hoped, optimistically, for a penalty but the referee Lewis Smith was having none of it.

On fifty-one minutes, sustained pressure on the Burnley defenders allowed Palmer to intricately set up Joao Pedro, but his shot was blocked. A shot from Neto was similarly blocked.

Would that second goal ever come?

On fifty-five minutes, a rare Burnley effort on goal, a strange looper that dropped like a stone at the far post, but the ball was ushered away.

I liked how we applauded Lesley Uguchukwu off as he was replaced by James Ward-Prowse.

I sometimes make a mental note of how soon into the game the various parts of Stamford Bridge’s home areas get it together and chant or sing as one. On this day in deepest SW6, that moment came on sixty minutes.

Bloody hell, what a disaster.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” – you know how it goes.

In Bath, near Solsbury Hill, Frome conceded an equaliser.

As we struggled to progressively move the ball towards its target, I moaned “is this fucking rugby? Aren’t we allowed to pass the ball forward?”

Frome then went 2-1 up.

Get in Dodge.

On seventy-two minutes, a clash in the middle of their half, and we watched in horror as Wesley Fofana was shown a yellow, his second of the day, and then of course a red.

Fofucksakefofana.

Ironically, maybe this would be the outside adversity we needed?

Liam Rosenior chose to replace Cole Palmer with Tosin Adarabioyo.

“Answers on a postcard.”

In this adversity, the crowd responded with another “Amazing Grace” – the loudest of the afternoon and my faith in humanity was temporarily restored.

On eighty minutes, more changes.

Jorrel Hato for Malo Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

I really wasn’t sure all these late changes would work in our favour. This seemed to be change for the sake of it. This seemed to be a panic reaction. Why not let those who had experienced the movement of the Burnley players, their strengths and weaknesses, throughout the entire game be trusted to see us over the line?

Meanwhile, Frome went 3-1 up.

On eighty-two minutes, a super dribble from Pedro Neto, but the shot was saved and the rebound from Hato went high and wide.

On eighty-four minutes, a great cross from the Burnley right was punched out at full stretch by a horizontal Sanchez.

“Well, I’ve never seen that before…”

More substitutions made me, and others no doubt, more nervous.

Josh Acheampong for Reece James, our captain, our bloody captain no less.

Mamadou Sarr for Pedro Neto.

So many late changes were madness.

Ashley Barnes header dropped onto the top of the net from a Ward-Prose free-kick.

Frome went 4-1 up, but I was ridiculously nervous by now. It seemed we were all expecting a late equaliser.

Six minutes of added time were signalled.

Burnley were awarded a corner after three of these minutes.

The whole stadium took a deep breath.

One of my pet hates of the game these days is the constant pushing, shoving, grappling, holding and – to use a well-used football term of late – “shithousery” that goes on in the moments before a corner is taken.

I just wish referees would clamp down on all this nonsense. It’s ugly, it’s pathetic, it detracts from the game.

Well, as Burnley waited to the corner from the far side, I witnessed no end of pushing and shoving, yet again, in the cramped six-yard box. But after all that, or perhaps because of it, and despite our late injection of height in our defence, the ball in from Ward-Prowse was met by a free leap and a free header from Zian Flemming.

The ball almost apologetically dropped into the goal.

Ugh.

What a desperate, but oh-so expected, moment.

I was crushed.

Unbelievably, two minutes later, a copycat corner from Ward-Prowse was met by yet another free header, this time by Jacob Bruun Larsen, but – thank the high heavens – the header flew over the bar.

In a mad final moment, the ball broke for Delap just outside the Burnley box, but his powerful effort flashed over the bar.

It was the very last kick of the game, and it felt like a final kick in the goolies.

How to sum up this match?

We had it in our hands in the first half, and for huge parts of the second half. But our reluctance to push on and grab more goals just infuriated everyone. The sending-off was a personal disaster for Fofana and our disciplinary record this season is utterly embarrassing. But oh, those late substitutions; instead of providing extra security and cover, they just added to the nervousness and confusion.

On a day of artificial intelligence, much of our play and many of our decisions reeked of real stupidity.

Liam Rosenior, until this one, has managed his charges well, and I think most Chelsea supporters have been surprisingly impressed. This one, though, was a shocker.

Let’s hope lessons are learned.

After a break of one week, we meet up at Arsenal and then embark on a crowded schedule of seven matches in just twenty-one days.

On we go.

Tales From A Half-Time Teardrop And Full Time Frustration

Posted on February 15, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 10 February 2026.

Back in December, we experienced the nightmare of away games; an 8.15pm kick-off at Elland Road, a shambolic 1-3 defeat and a return trip home that didn’t finish for me until 4am.

This time, the boots were on the other feet, so to speak. The travelling hordes from Yorkshire, at least, were presented with a slightly better – 7.30pm – kick-off time for this midweek game.

After the wet conditions at both Arsenal and at Wolves, we were met with another day of rain for this match at Stamford Bridge. On the journey east on the M4, I had encountered horrible driving conditions for virtually all the trip. The worst of the season? Undoubtedly. After an early rise at 4.45am, and an eight-hour shift at work, it was the last thing that I wanted. However, I knew how to cope; doped with some coffees before and during the three-hour drive, I made it.

I spent my pre-match traipsing down the North End Road, getting increasingly soaked with each step, and I carried out my usual two visits to “Koka” – bruschetta, chicken kebabs, one day I will complete the entire menu – and “Café Ole” – a decaf cappuccino.

When it was time to make a dash for Stamford Bridge, I noticed that nobody was obeying orders that were being barked out by the first set of stewards to display match tickets. It was simply too wet to bother. I brushed past them and immediately realised that their role on this sodden evening was becoming increasingly redundant.

I was inside, out of the rain, at 7pm.

Chelsea vs. Leeds, then, a rivalry from the ‘sixties and ‘seventies that still exists today. The first game at Stamford Bridge took place in 1928 – a Leeds win – but we then went on a run of only losing one game in twenty-four matches at home. This took us up to early in 1970 when Don Revie’s team won 5-2 at Stamford Bridge. However, we would have the final laugh that season. Since then, the Chelsea vs. Leeds United game at Stamford Bridge has been “streaky”,

In fifteen matches from 1970 to 1995, Leeds won seven, including four in a row. Within that stretch of games, though, were the wonderful days in 1984 and 1989 when home wins over the Yorkshire visitors resulted in promotion from the old Second Division.

Since 1996, Leeds have won just one in fourteen games at Stamford Bridge.

After the defeat in December, this seemed like a night of revenge to me.

I had a look at the team that Liam Rosenior had chosen.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Estevao Willian – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer

Joao Pedro

I had successfully smuggled my SLR into this game and hoped to capture some decent moments on film.

The game began with the teams in exact opposites of each other’s kits.

Us : blue / blue / white.

Then : white / white / blue.

In the first few glimpses, it looked like Enzo was drifting to the left, and Palmer was coming inside. I guessed there would be some fluidity throughout the evening.

It was a lively start from both teams, and Leeds surprised me with their early attacking intent. A couple of free kicks were headed away by Chelsea defenders.

There was an early airing of an off-putting chant from the Leeds’ support for Ethan Ampadu, the former blue, to the tune of “Agadoo.”

On eighteen minutes, we roared Young Josh on as he made a very old-fashioned run from deep down the right, taking four Leeds defenders with him, but the run petered out and the ball was lost. I wondered how much money he would be fined for that free-spirited run.

The foul count was increasing and there definitely seemed to be a lot more “niggle” in this game than in others. Two Chelsea players were booked, to be followed by two others from Leeds. There were memories of a 0-0 draw in 1997 when Leeds had two sent off.

On twenty minutes, I captured the moment when Joao Pedro controlled a beautiful flick from Enzo. Alas his finish was awry.

Just after, a poor free kick from Enzo.

However, on twenty-four minutes we won the ball via Acheampong, and some tight passing allowed Palmer to play a delightful ball to the on-rushing Joao Pedro. His exquisite lob over the Leeds ‘keeper Karl Darlow was to perfection.

Chelsea 1 Leeds United 0

Alan, alongside me : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris, beside myself : “Come on my little diamonds.”

There is no doubt in my mind that the relationship between Palmer and Joao Pedro will be a huge part of any success that we might enjoy in the next few precious years; let’s hope they get to play together for an extended spell.

The reaction from the Leeds fans was not a surprise.

…“and shoot the Chelsea scum. Shoot the Chelsea scum.”

There was a lovely break from us, but a shot from Palmer at the end of it was surprisingly weak, and too close to their goalie. We enjoyed a nice period of play in the closing fifteen minutes of the half; some intricate and tricky stuff in the final third that lead to a mate, a Frome Town supporter, watching at home, to message me and say, “you are a lovely team to watch my friend.”

Are we? His synopsis surprised me and I probably concluded that I, like others, are sometimes reticent to praise our play which, at times, can look attractive and worthy of our name.

We continued on, looking to prise gaps in a resolute defence.

However, I did note a yawning chasm of space in the left-side of the Leeds midfield and defence that a central defender – I forget who – chose to ignore. A run into that space by Joao Pedro and a simple pass forward would have put Leeds under threat. But such is football these days that the central defender passed square, eating up time, and the chance was lost.

It is this lack of awareness of openings that sometimes present themselves that make my brain hurt. I yearned for a player to push that ball through. A free-thinker. A maverick.

Maybe next time.

A mesmerizing run by Estevao that I was happy to capture on film got us all salivating, but his shot was wildly off target.

The first half ended and I struggled to remember a genuine Sanchez save. We had played some pretty decent stuff and the feeling at the break was “more to follow.”

Among all this positivity, I was sad to hear Stamford Bridge so quiet. In all these match reports that I have been penning since 2008 – this is number nine-hundred-and-eight – me lamenting the lack of atmosphere at Stamford Bridge is a constant, and probably boring, feature.

Sigh.

Towards the end of the break, a couple of surreal moments to report. I spotted the match mascots Stamford and Bridget – I prefer the ‘eighties Stamford when he had a full mane and was a bit more of a rascal – grooving along to some dance music down below me in front of the West Lower, throwing some shapes, grooving.

They’ve come a long way, baby.

Then, I heard a voice that I immediately recognised. I asked Alan to listen to a sample during a track that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Listen, mate…Elizabeth Fraser.”

It had taken forty-three years, but I had at last heard the Cocteau Twins chanteuse at Stamford Bridge.

Elizabeth Fraser.

The voice.

At a Chelsea game.

Oh my.

It was a feint few bars, but my ears had somehow spotted it.

The sample was from “Teardop” by Massive Attack, from 1998, which featured the singer on vocals. And I was loving it.

It was a beautiful moment and seemed to crystalise the whole Chelsea and Leeds 1984 vibe into a present-day scenario. I became a fan of the Cocteau Twins in 1983/84 – their “Head Over Heels” album became the sondtrack of that greatest-ever season – and the 5-0 win over Leeds in April 1984, which included a Kerry Dixon hat-trick, was a defining moment.

It helped that Alan is a massive Cocteau Twins fan too, and Clive, alongside Alan, is also an admirer. Alan reminded me of the time that he had attended the Bromley vs. Solihull Moors Play-Off Final at Wembley in 2024 and just before the penalty shoot-out, “Teardrop” was played.

“Talk about emotion.”

Alan said that he knew at that moment that his team would win.

I enjoyed a similar Depeche Mode moment at Porto in 2021.

Music and football, eh?

At the break, Cucurella was replaced by Jorrel Hato.

Soon into the second half, Estevao slammed a low shot wide of the near post. We continued to dominate the game. Ten minutes into the second half a ball was sent forward into the inside right channel for Joao Pedro to chase. I took a photo of this but also happened to take one of a needless push on him by Jaka Bijol. It was an unnerving copy of the push on the same player by Verson Mosquera of Wolves in the last match. It was even in the same portion of the penalty box. The referee Robert Jones pointed to the spot.

Beautiful.

It took Palmer a while to be allowed to take the kick, but his shot was clean.

Chelsea 2 Leeds United 0.

My SLR whizzed into action after I had yelled an initial roar of approval.

This was going well.

Elizabeth Fraser’s voice and Chelsea 2-0 up.

I briefly thought about a repeat of the 5-0 in 1984.

On the hour, Chelsea were camped in the Leeds box as shots pinballed in and around the six-yard box, but the Leeds goal lead a charmed life, and they escaped without another goal being scored.

Pedro Neto replaced Estevao, a shame.

Some friends in the US and I had been quietly “WhatsApping” each other, and one mate joined in after being engaged in a work meeting.

“How are we looking?”

“Comfortable.”

And we were. At this point in time, with half an hour still to go, I was hoping for more goals.

Alas, alas, alas…on sixty-four minutes, a ridiculously clumsy tackle by Caicedo on the wonderfully named Jayden Bogle, and a penalty was signalled.

Lukas Nmecha slotted past Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 1 Leeds United 2.

The atmosphere was a bit riper now and Chelsea were coerced into replying to a few Leeds chants.

“We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds.”

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

“We’re Yorkshire’s Republican Army, we’re barmy, wherever we go.”

“Carefree, wherever you may be.”

“Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh.”

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds, Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”

On seventy-three minutes, there was sadly another calamity in our box. Young Josh lost the ball, Leeds put pressure on us and despite what looked like several chances to swipe the ball away, nobody did. This was hard to watch.

“Clear it!”

Somehow, Noah Okafor pounced to push the ball home.

Bollocks.

Chelsea 2 Leeds United 2.

The Leeds support now roared.

“Marching on together.”

On seventy-eight minutes, two substitutions.

Wesley Fofana for Acheampong.

Liam Delap for Santos.

I lost count of the number of times that Pedro Neto cut back onto his left foot out on the far touchline and attempted to connect with a target man. But there was no Kerry Dixon leading the line here, and I was never ever convinced that either Delap or Joao Pedro would connect. On one occasion his cross evaded everybody and just dropped past the far post. However, as the crosses were pumped in from both Neto on the right and Palmer on the left, more often than not they were headed out by Leeds defenders and Chelsea strikers alike.

But we kept trying.

On eighty-seven minutes, an amazing piece of close skill by Palmer resulted in a low cross but Delap touched it just wide.

Joao Pedro then hit the bar with a header from a Hato cross; he was stretching from the start and just could not get over the ball.

We were howling in pain by now.

But I kept hearing one voice behind me being overly obnoxious and using the “C” word as if it was going out of fashion. It seemed to me that this one fan was singling out individual players too.

Modern fans, eh?

In injury time, an impudent backheel from Gusto set up Caicedo who flashed the ball low into the box. We saw Palmer arrive.

This was it then?

Teardrops of joy at the end of this crazy game?

No.

The ball was slammed over the bar from just two yards.

Howls again.

I took a photo of a disbelieving Palmer who had ended up in the net, unlike the ball.

And then I heard it again.

“You cnut.”

That was it. I turned around and glowered at the bloke.

I decided that I had to say something.

Or rather, I barked at him.

“Hey, that’s Cole Palmer. Don’t call him a cnut.”

There was a stare down.

Eyeballs.

I don’t often get into it with fellow supporters, but I felt my words were vindicated.

Just after, the whistle went. We could hardly believe what we had just witnessed. The Leeds recovery – gifted to them by us – was bad enough, but that Palmer miss was difficult to comprehend.

A teardop at half-time and dropped points at full time.

How frustrating.

I exited the stadium – it was still raining of course – and I bumped into Huddersfield Mick along the Fulham Road.

He was fuming.

He scowled as he said, “bloody Northerners.”

I had to laugh.

“Yeah, Yorkshire bastards.”

He smiled.

“That’s five points we’ve dropped against them this season, Mick.”

“I’m off for a pint in The Cock.”

“Wish I could join you.”

Thankfully there was little traffic delay, and I was back home at 12.30am, which was far better than 2.20am the preceding Tuesday on the way back from Arsenal.

There’s no trip to Hull and back for me, so my next game is at home to Burnley on Saturday 21 February.

See you there.

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.