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Tales From A Day Of Bad Omens

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 24 October 2026.

There was a later than usual start for the game with Tottenham Hotspur. With the kick-off switched to 5.30pm, I had allowed myself a lie-in on this particular Saturday. Well, not much of a lie-in; I was still up at 7.45am. On the short run over to Nunney Catch to fuel up, there was not the vibrant colours of a fortnight ago. Far from it. Overhead low grey cloud made everything boring and oppressive, and there were muted tones in the surrounding fields. I was prepared to do battle with the remnants of Storm Austen on my drive to London – what a ridiculous concept it is for us in the UK to start naming weather systems, do we have to follow North America on every damn thing? – and there were newly-liberated leaves on the lanes as I headed south for a few miles.

I collected Paul at 9am and Parky at 9.30am. The plan was to drop them off near Walham Green around midday so they could enjoy a few hours – five! – drinking with friends.

I made good time, only stopping for the chaps to forage for a bite to eat at Reading Services. During our quick visit, we bumped into a coachload of young Swansea supporters and every single one of them was wearing clobber; an array of Stone Island, CP Company, Aquascutum, Lyle & Scott, Peaceful Hooligan and Barbour. It could have been a scene from any year since 2002. From the waist up. From the waist down, a sad 2026 story and a mess of baggy black joggers and scruffy black trainers. I even saw one lad wearing Crocs.

To be honest, they seemed well-behaved, just a little mouthy, but to be expected for lads so young. They were all in their late ‘teens and early ‘twenties. Just lads being lads. Their strong Swansea accent gave them away. I was soon Googling to see who they were playing; they were en route to QPR. I had to stifle a smile when one lad purchased a bottle of water for himself and one for his mate.

Best to stay hydrated, eh?

The traffic was surprisingly light, and I deposited the chaps at Vanston Place at 11.50am. After another cracking breakfast on the Fulham Palace Road, I swung my car towards Stamford Bridge and tried to spot a free car parking slot near Queens Club.

Just after 1pm, I found a space on Kinnoul Road. I reversed in and was happy. I zipped up my jacket and began the twenty-minute walk towards Stamford Bridge. The rain was tipping down. I must admit that I was a little annoyed to see empty spaces in the next few streets, closer to my destination, but so be it.

I turned left onto Lillee Road and then right onto Rylston Road.

At the junction with Estcourt Road, I stopped and took a photograph of the two road signs. I wanted to illustrate this next part of this match report.

When I was growing up in my home village of Mells in Somerset, I had very few family links with London. My grandfather’s brother William – “Willy” – lived in Southall and had worked for the Great Western Railway as a steam train driver. I remembered visiting him on two occasions.

The first time was around 1972, at his house on Shaftesbury Avenue, and I can remember the excitement that I felt when we were led out to see the Grand Union Canal that flowed past the rear of his garden. I was mesmerized by this. His house was only a mile from the M4, the road that I still use on matchdays at Chelsea. I remember that my father took a cine camera with him on that trip to see Willy, and there is a loving closing shot of him smiling and waving to us at his gate.

The second time was at a nursing home called Twyford Abbey just off the North Circular at Park Royal in 1973, not long before he passed away. I can’t remember too much about that visit. However, I do recollect my father swinging by Wembley Stadium on the way home so that I could have a look at the fabled building.

Yes, it’s true; I saw Wembley Stadium before Stamford Bridge.

Soon into 1974, my mother wrote to the people who ran the nursing home – I have a vague memory that it was run by monks or brothers – and cajoled them into allowing my father to park on their property on the day we travelled to Stamford Bridge for the very first time in the March of that year.

I have strong memories of that day; and the walk to the art deco charm of Park Royal underground station.

My next game at Chelsea was the Tottenham game on Saturday 12 October 1974, but on this occasion, we parked outside the house of relatives Aunt Muriel and Uncle Harold. I am sure that Muriel was related to Uncle Willy; possibly a relative of Willy’s wife. As far as I can recollect, Willy did not have any children. They lived in the heart of Southall, just off the Broadway. On that day, we caught a bus to Ealing Common, and then a train to Fulham Broadway.

That game – my first sighting of Tottenham in the flesh – resulted in a 1-0 win thanks to an early John Hollins penalty at the North Stand end. We were close by in the East Lower; my first visit to this towering structure.

Chelsea’s team included Ron Harris, Charlie Cooke, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson. The Tottenham team included Pat Jennings, Mike England, Steve Perryman and Martin Chivers.

I can vividly remember returning to their house in Southall and everyone being indignant about the hooliganism that we had witnessed that day.

So, these relatives seemed to be my only familial link to London when I was growing up.

However, there was another set of distant relatives – Aunt Zena and Uncle Joe – who had grown up in London, and I am sure that Zena was another relative of Uncle Willy. They eventually moved out to Cambridgeshire. I really liked Zena and Joe. Zena came down to visit in 1994 when she was in her ‘eighties and a widow. On hearing that I was still an avid Chelsea supporter (everyone in my family knew that I was a mad Chelsea fan from an early age, even those living in Cambridgeshire), she told me that during her early years, she had lived in Fulham, and she mentioned such names as Rylston Road and Estcourt Road. My ears pricked up when I heard this. At last, I had a familial link – although admittedly a very tenuous one – to the area where my beloved Chelsea played. She said that she knew those streets very well. Looking back, I wished that I had asked hundreds of questions about Fulham and Chelsea in the immediate post-war years.

However, every time I walk past those two street signs after parking my car in the adjacent area, I think of Aunt Zena and that visit in 1994.

And that really was it. There were no other family links to London, that huge metropolis, that I could use to muster up some sort of ersatz reasoning to explain my allegiance to Chelsea Football Club.

However, the only streets that I know that a relative frequented in London were not Elwood Street and Plimsoll Road near Arsenal Football Club, nor Cabot Way and Arragon Road near West Ham United Football Club, nor Manor Road and Denmark Street near Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, but dear old Rylston Road and Estcourt Road near Chelsea Football Club.

And I like that.

Of course, we all know that the reasons that I support Chelsea are 1970, that kit and a man named Osgood, but I do like the synchronicity of this story about Uncle Willy and dear Aunt Zena.

I walked on, my jacket soaked. I decided to drop into the “Vanilla Bean Café” on Dawes Road, another road where Aunt Zena no doubt walked, and sat with a decaf cappuccino in the slight hope of the rain stopping.

Crocs, bottled water, decaffeinated coffee.

Where did it all go wrong, eh?

Well, the rain didn’t subside, and by the time I marched into “Walham Green” my dull blue North Face jacket was drenched.

Jimmy the Greek reckoned I looked like a baby seal and Parky threw me some fish.

I joined the lads whose group had sprawled around four tables, and included Johnny Dozen from California, plus Ollie and Julien from Normandy.

I soon took a photograph of the hall and added to my homage of Ian Dury’s classic single from 1978, that I still own to this day, and posted it on “Facebook.”

“I could be the catalyst that sparks the revolution.”

I had arrived at about 2pm and stayed a couple of hours. The place became full, with a few Chelsea songs booming around the old place.

By now we had heard that Joao Pedro, a key player, was out with an injury.

Negative vibes.

While we were ensconced in SW6, Frome Town were battling an FA Trophy tie in BA2 against Bath City.

At half-time, it was scoreless, but we had enjoyed the best of the half according to my mate Steve.

At just after 4pm, I sensed that the rain had stopped and so said my goodbyes and au revoirs and slinked out.

Alas the rain was as troublesome as before. On the walk to the turnstiles, the liveried “Spurs” coach made its way out and onto the Fulham Road.

I counted this as a bad omen.

I was in at around 4.30pm.

Alas, the news came through from Twerton Park. Despite holding the hosts to a creditable 0-0 scoreline after ninety minutes, my hometown team had lost 4-3 on penalties.

More bad vibes.

I met up with Sean and his daughter Emaline, visitors from New York, and they were both very complimentary about the old blogorama, so that was nice to hear. It has been an odd twelve months; I strongly believe that my ridiculously high numbers from last summer were driven by many data centres in China and the US searching for info about “Chelsea World Champions” as AI continues to lead us towards an uncertain future.

The rain still fell.

Brad from New York called over to say hello too. I remember being with Sean and Brad down at Navigli before the game at the San Siro four years ago.

Alan and PD joined me.

“This rain will be a great leveller,” said Alan.

More bad vibes.

At 5.15pm, we were shown recorded interviews on the large screens with one of Matthew Harding’s sons and two of his boys. We recently passed the thirtieth anniversary of our former director’s death. It is shocking how quickly time passes. This was a nice segment and tastefully done. Matthew’s face appeared on the screens, and we applauded and sung his name.

Back in 1996, it was Tottenham who visited Stamford Bridge for the first game after his death. It is a day that will live with me forever. My words today are the same that I wrote to accompany a blue and white bouquet that my friends Glenn, Russell and I left outside the old club offices on 26 October 1996.

Matthew.

With Love And Appreciation.

We Will Never Forget You.

The mood changed a little as Cesar Azpilicueta was interviewed on the pitch, and I was able to capture his wide smile as he walked behind the goal at our end and disappeared into the stand below us.

With the rain still cascading down in buckets, the teams appeared. There were no flames and flashing lights. On a day when we remembered Matthew, this was a nice touch.

However, Chelsea versus Tottenham doesn’t need any embellishment nor hyperbole.

This, dear reader, is the real thing.

For me, it’s our biggest game of the season, bar none.

At 5.30pm, the match began.

I didn’t like the fact that we were attacking the end where we were sat in the first half. We usually attack The Shed.

Yet another bad omen.

I spent much of the first few minutes trying to work out the shape of our team. After Xabi Alonso decided not to replace Joao Pedro with Danny Welbeck, I presumed that he would play Morgan Rogers up front. He at least has a physical presence.

Mike Penders

Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill – Jorrel Hato

Jordan Henderson – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Geovany Quenda

Morgan Rogers

As the first half developed, it almost looked like an old-style 4-4-2 at times with Palmer free to float higher than usual.

There was great noise at the start of this encounter. Without thinking, I found myself singing along to the “Willian” song, simply because it was difficult not to, but then chastised myself for doing so; I am not a big fan of us regaling former players unless we are 5-0 up with a few minutes to go.

We began brightly, but then Tottenham enjoyed a spell.

Palmer was set free on the right and whipped a cross in, but it evaded everyone.

I liked the way that referee Chris Kavanagh played the advantage after a shirt pull on one of our players but then signalled a free kick after the move broke down. This time, we saw three players shape to take the kick; Palmer, Henderson, Rogers, but this version was over-elaborate and disappeared up its own arse.

On fifteen minutes, Neto chased and harried his defender near the far corner and won the ball back. He passed to Rogers, who moved the ball to Palmer. His snapshot was acrobatically tipped over by pink-clad princess Nastassja Kinski, now in her ‘sixties; a wonderful reaction save from the iconic German screen heroine.

Who knew she was playing for Tottenham?

We then wasted two corners.

Oh dear Mister Henderson.

With approaching twenty minutes gone, this was a feisty game, but we were slightly on top.

Then, the next section went to Tottenham, and Alan keenly observed that our energy levels had declined and we were losing battles. We were especially susceptible to balls played with pace down our right.

The Tottenham chances stacked up. Mohammed Kudus slammed a shot wide, Momar Marmoush forced a fine stop from Penders. The young ‘keeper then raced out to block a shot from Mathys Tel.

Towards the end of the half, we created a few half-chances. Some nice one-touch passing allowed Henderson to shoot, but Kinski saved. A shot from Rogers, but offside anyway. We were a little livelier as the first forty-five minutes closed, but the overwhelming feeling was that we had been lucky to get out of the half unscathed.

At the break, there was time for a photo of Emaline, Sean and Brad in the concourse.

The second half began, but soon into it, James Maddison – a key player for them thus far – was injured and replaced by Conor Gallagher. As he came on, there were a few boos, but I was having none of that. A sizeable number in the MHU clapped him on, so I joined them for a few moments. However, the poor bugger was so mortified to be playing for that lot that he has jettisoned the blond highlights for a darker hair colour in the feint hope that nobody recognises him.

Just after, a punt up field, and Neto almost reached but Kinski raced out to clear.

At a Tottenham corner down below us, I liked the fact that we kept four up, thus meaning that four Tottenham players were unable to join others and pack our penalty box. There was a box of four Chelsea players in two lines of two. The resulting corner kick did look rather odd. With so few players contesting the ball that was played into the six-yard box it looked like a five-a-side game, perhaps. This was then repeated soon after.

On the hour, a rapid break, and Palmer edged towards the penalty box. His shot was blocked and Neto was able to take a second swipe, but the ball was saved for a corner.

On sixty-five minutes, a change.

Marco Palestra for Hato.

Tottenham maintained high levels of possession. It felt for most of the evening that this was their game and that we were unwanted guests. They did not carve out chance after chance, but they always looked the dominant team.

I grew more nervous.

I hate conceding goals to this lot. I always find these games so intense. There was little respite from this anxiety.

On seventy-two minutes, Estevao replaced Quenda, who had been largely invisible and had to consider himself lucky to have lasted this long.

There was a combination of loose tackles as a move developed down our right. I saw Caicedo flattened by ‘seventies Dutch detective Van der Valk but then there was a coming together of bodies after a tackle on Palmer. For some reason, the Tottenham players seemed more incensed than ours. There was a long delay, and I was worried. In the end, two Tottenham yellows and one to Palmer.

Just after, from the free-kick, Estevao raced away, got close, but hit the top of the side netting.

If only.

In fact, if only Estevao had played instead of Quenda, we might have been ahead by now. A Chelsea vs. Tottenham game seemed to be beyond the young winger, who was starting a game for the very first time.

I said to Alan “I’ll take a 0-0 now.”

Alas, on seventy-seven minutes, a corner from down below us and four versus four, plus Penders, inside the Chelsea six-yard box with no other player inside the penalty area. The ball was whipped in at a good height, and as Jan Paul van Hecke jumped for the ball, so did Penders. Our young ‘keeper has been particularly adept at punching the ball vast distances thus far into his nascent Chelsea career, but on this occasion, his contact was awry and the ball flew back at Penders and towards the goal. The ball crossed the line despite Lacroix’ efforts to hook the ball out.

Alas, I took a photo of this moment.

Bollocks.

Chelsea 0 Tottenham 1.

We were up against it now.

One song dominated the entire evening.

“Tottenham Away, Olé, Olé”.

And now it was sung even louder.

I felt ill.

So ill.

Three minutes later, a late challenge by Palmer on Gallagher.

A second yellow.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, Penders redeemed himself slightly, getting down low and pushing a shot away with a very strong hand.

On eighty-seven minutes, Josh lost possession, tight on the touchline, and Tel raced away, up the left-wing like an express train. He came inside as I decided to take a photo. His resultant shot was perfectly hit and nestled inside the near post.

Read it and weep.

Chelsea 0 Tottenham Hotspur 2.

Fackinell.

There was an immediate exodus. I know there was disruption on the tubes all day, but the sight of so many leaving their workstations was sickening.

On eighty-eight minutes, Danny Welbeck replaced Neto.

This was all too late; ridiculously so.

This was grim and only exacerbated by some self-deprecation from that lot in the far corner.

“Tottenham get battered everywhere they go.”

At the final whistle, I silently packed away my camera and then huffed and puffed as I made my way out into the night.

It was still raining as I shuffled back through the streets of Fulham.

Fulham Road, Fulham Broadway, Vanston Place, Dawes Road, Rylston Road, Lillee Road, Moylan Road, Disbrowe Road, Musard Road, Humbolt Road, Kinnoul Road.

Kinnoul Road?

More like Fackinnoul Road.

I drove back to Dawes Road where Pinky and Perky were sitting at a bus stop. It was a painfully slow retreat up the North End Road, and although we soon stopped at Heston Services for some Scooby Snacks, not even a packet of pork scratchings and some Irn Bru helped alleviate the pain.

The other two slept for an hour, and I battled the M4. The drive home, though, soon passed and the rain eventually halted. After I dropped off Parky at 11pm, PD and I – though hurting still – were philosophical.

“When all is said and done, they have visited Stamford Bridge forty-two times since 1990, and they have won just twice.”

“Yes mate.”

And I dug further.

“And what have Tottenham won since 1990? Two league cups, one FA Cup and one Europa League.”

“Exactly.”

“Bloody hell, we won all that by breakfast.”

Tales From The Big Weekend

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Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 30 August 2026.

After our win against Luton Town in the League Cup on the Thursday, Chelsea’s next match was another home game – against Brighton – on the Sunday. But that fixture was only the middle fixture of games on three consecutive days for me.

Either side of the game with those pesky blighters from Brightonia, Frome Town were at Chertsey Town on the Saturday and at home to Bath City on the Bank Holiday Monday. Each one of these games were important, but as they came one after the other, I am breaking Tales protocol and writing about the last game here, rather than splice it together with a later Chelsea match report.

It seems the natural thing to do.

Three games in three days.

The big weekend.

But don’t worry; the Chelsea game is the sizeable filling in the middle.

Here goes, then.

An away game at Chertsey Town was the first on the agenda. They were top of the Southern League Premier South and represented a very difficult assignment for manager Danny Greaves and his troops. I drove up to London with my friends Louise and Steve, and we constantly spoke about Frome’s recent glories, and other points of interest, which invariably featured footballing minutiae from our personal histories. I am amazed Louise stayed awake.

I admitted to them that I was sorely worried about the possibility of Dodge getting zero points from the two games on this momentous weekend. Unbelievably, Steve was uncharacteristically gung-ho about our chances and predicted a win. I was so shocked, I almost crashed my car. Steve is, at times, rather negative – “glass half empty” – about football matters, so this was a real surprise.

We hit some dreadful weather en route, but at around 1.30pm we were huddled around a cosy table in “The Coach & Horses” just a few minutes’ walk from Chertsey’s neat Alwyns Lane ground. A gaggle of Frome’s loyal supporters were at the next table. I had visited it on the corresponding Bank Holiday weekend in 2024; a deserved 1-1 draw that time.

We took our seats in the fine main stand, and I spotted a few Chertsey supporters with Chelsea attire. The ground is just inside the M25, and the rollercoasters of Thorpe Park are visible at the northern end.

With one eye on Monday’s game, the manager made several changes to his starting eleven. It was a tight and combative match from start to finish. On thirty-seven minutes, Frome’s Archie Ferris poked home a cross from close range. It was a deserved lead. The home team enjoyed a dominant spell, but David Duru made it 2-0 just as the home team started to fade. A late consolation goal from Chertsey made the last few minutes incredibly tense, but Frome held on for a very fine victory. The gate was a disappointing 496 which included around forty travelling Frome supporters.

On the drive back to Somerset, I think I had caught Steve’s bug; I had a feeling that we could defeat Bath City on the Monday too.

Saturday evening was spent basking in the glory of Frome’s victory, but my attention soon turned to the Sunday. This would be our new manager’s first league match at Stamford Bridge, and of course there was a frisson of excitement about this.

However – and you might want to look away now, dear reader – I had to solemnly admit to myself that the Frome vs. Bath game on the following day was the biggest of the three. Bath City have experienced a massive fall from grace of late. In 1979/80, in the inaugural season of the Alliance Premier – the first-ever national “fifth division” – they finished second. In that season, Bath City were only three levels below Chelsea.

They have always found themselves in Step 1 or Step 2 of the non-league pyramid, and they have always been a big non-league outfit. However, they now find themselves in Step 3 after relegation last season. While Bath have dropped, Frome have risen and the game would be the first league match between the two clubs since 1906.

Yes, 1906.

One hundred and twenty years.

But first Brighton.

I collected PD at 7am, and Parky at 7.30am. There was the usual early morning McBreakfast at Melksham on the way. These morning matchday football routines are lovely, and they hark back to my childhood when there seemed to be a very clear set of events that I used to follow. I mentioned those joyful Saturday mornings of my youth in the Luton Town match review; “Sesame Steet”, “The Partridge Family”, Sam Leitch on “Grandstand” with his football preview. But before I settled in for a few hours of football, I would be sent down to the village post office to pick up a loaf of bread, and with a small amount of change I would purchase one or maybe two packs of football cards – four per pack – that contained the absolutely inedible bubble gum.

Players from those days lie deep in my memory to this day.

David Wagstaffe – Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Alan Bloor – Stoke City.

Dick Krzywicki – Huddersfield Town.

Allan Hunter – Ipswich Town.

Sunday traffic was light; I dropped the passengers off near “The Eight Bells” at just before 10am. Joe from Virginia would soon join them, along with my good friends Even, Jon, Roy and Hans from Norway. I spun around and parked up on Rylston Road and walked down to Fulham Broadway. For fifteen minutes, I was in agony; my hips were killing me. Those carefree days of me in 1971/72, scampering down to the shop, were a long way away. I’d like to think that the pain I was experiencing was due to those mesmerizing twists and feints that used to confuse opposing full-backs – and myself – during my footballing days, to give it all some sort of footballing credibility, but I suspect that the shooting pain was just due to the passage of time and old age.

I stopped by at the “Walham Green” pub and sat for twenty minutes, nursing a drink. Miraculously, when I stood up, the pain had gone. Behold the therapeutic powers of Fulham Broadway.

On the train down to Putney Bridge, I spotted my Brighton mate Mac in another compartment. We met up on the platform and while he shot off for a quick bite to eat, I joined up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”; the time was about 11.30am.

Unlike the Fulham game, the pub was a lot less crowded, a lot more homely, and a lot quieter. There were familiar faces everywhere. I sat on a table with Mac’s fine mates Barry, Rob and Guy. Brighton have given us a torrid time of late; those recent three away games were absolutely horrific. There was a 1-3 defeat at Stamford Bridge last September too.

I asked Mac how the Brighton faithful will react to Danny Welbeck in Chelsea colours.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Ah lovely.”

Barry shared a photo of some old – literally – Chelsea faces that he had seen on a recent “Facebook” post. He wondered if I recognised any. All of them were in their ‘sixties and ‘seventies.

“Well, I can spot Eccles, but that’s about it. He was the leader of The Shed back in the day, or to be exact, the North Stand.”

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 1.30pm after having safely smuggled the SLR camera in.

On the pitch, Gary Chivers and Jason Cundy were being asked to share their memories of the recently departed Bobby Tambling and Ken Bates.

I always remember the first time I met Bobby Tambling; it was with Parky and Glenn at a local Wiltshire pub, when Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti were in attendance too. It was in April 2011. Outside in the pub garden, I remember Parky and Bobby chatting away like they were old friends. They were sharing anecdotes about their hip replacements, and Parky could not believe how pleasant Bobby was. That was a Friday evening, and we soon bumped into Bobby walking along Fulham Broadway the following morning before a game and he was all smiles and laughter; a truly wonderful man.

Kick-off time approached.

We checked the team.

New signing Emilio Martinez had made it just in time.

Martinez

Fofana – Lacroix – Colwill

Pedro Neto – Gusto – Lavia – Hato

Palmer – Joao Pedro – Rogers

This looked an odd selection with square pegs in round holes; the pushed-on wing backs and the midfield duo especially.

A Xabi Alonso tifo involving a puny pun was unveiled in The Shed and the teams arrived.

Then, floral tributes with members of the families of Bobby Tambling and Ken Bates – I spotted Bobby’s widow Val – and some heartwarming applause for the two Chelsea legends.

Chelsea attacked The Shed. It looked like many of the visiting support had opted for the white away shirts. Mac wasn’t too happy with the blue with thin white pinstripes of their home kit. In the pub I had asked him about it, narrowly avoiding a mention of the 1983 FA Cup final.

“Not a fan. Prefer stripes. Saw Rangers on TV recently, and their kit looks like ours.”

Chelsea began well. My SLR was at hand on just four minutes to record a brilliant start for the chaps.

The corner from Pedro Neto near Parkyville.

The perfect flick-on from Joao Pedro. He must have been watching highlight reels of Archie Ferris. The ball was blocked on the line by the defender Mats Weiffer and ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen made a hash of grasping the loose ball. The ball dropped nicely.

Alas, the camera missed the nimble flick-in from Romeo Lavia, his first goal for us, but my first reaction was to quickly check the linesman to my right, but his flag was kept down. No infringements.

GET IN.

I captured the celebrations, naughtily taking place in front of the away fans.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

What a start. We continued to play some lovely stuff in the Brighton half.

On fourteen minutes, a throw-in from Jorrel Hato, a headed pass from Joao Pedro to Morgan Rogers, who shuffled past Mario Vuskovic. His square ball was pushed in by Neto on the six-yard line.

Beautiful stuff.

We were purring.

“We’ve got our Chelsea back” sang the crowd.

On twenty-four minutes, Neto chased down Feri Kadioglu and played the ball inside to Joao Pedro, but his shot – on film – was guided just past the left-hand stick.

On twenty-eight minutes, a rare Brighton attack but a hint of things to come. There were three attackers roaming at large down our left, with only one Chelsea shirt in sight.

“Fallen asleep there Chels.”

The resultant cross was thankfully claimed by Martinez.

Brighton then enjoyed a little spell.

However, on thirty-two minutes, there was a lovely interchange of play between Hato and Rogers – quick feet to release the ball – and this allowed Hato to race up the left. He won the footrace with Wieffer and crossed low. As the ball flew off Joao Pedro’s boot, I clicked.

GOAL!

This made up for the earlier miss.

I always remember Mac’s reaction to us signing Joao Pedro.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

I wondered, briefly, what his thoughts were as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Mac Lads.

This goal, oddly, brought back memories of Gary Chivers’ goal versus Newcastle United in October 1980. That one came from a rapid move down the left too. And, also oddly, Clive – a few seats along – thought the same. The ball travelled in different parts of the pitch in 2026, but it had the same feel as the goal from forty-six years ago.

Three-up and hinting at more, my mind wandered, far too quickly for my liking.

“Two wins in two games. Will this team surprise us all, gel ridiculously quickly and mount a serious challenge for the title?”

Yeah, I know.

Throughout all this attacking wizardry, Cole Palmer had been a little quiet. He gave away possession on a couple of occasions early on and didn’t dominate in the way he can.

On thirty-five minutes, Neto missed his challenge, allowing Diego Gomez in on goal. His shot was parried by Martinez – on film – but Malick Yalcouye slammed a shot in off the far post.

Bollocks.

On forty-one minutes, Rogers rifled a shot from distance just past the post. Gomez, at the Matthew Harding, headed wide.

At the break, I had no complaints, apart from the noise and the atmosphere.

It was darned quiet.

At half-time, a message from Mac.

“Exactly as I saw this going.”

The game recommenced, and Brighton managed to have a bigger share of the game. However, three minutes in, Martinez pumped a long first-time ball forward, enabling Joao Pedro to slalom his way forward – pictured – but he seemed to take one touch too many and his run was blocked.

On fifty-five minutes, a Brighton free-kick and a header at the back stick from Gomez that glided past the other post.

I was waiting for the net to bulge.

Phew.

A minute later, we went wide of the far post, then a minute after that Rogers walloped a ball into the six-yard box but Palmer uncharacteristically volleyed over the bar.

Then a couple of Brighton efforts, and a fine Martinez save. Sadly, from the resulting corner, Yalcouye played a ball in to Pascal Gross whose attempted pass to a teammate flew in off Joao Pedro’s leg.

There was still half-an-hour to go, and it was getting nervy. It felt that we were sitting back way too much. At 3-2, this was a different game completely.

On sixty-four minutes, Maxim De Cuyper headed wide of the far post.

Martinez saved well down low from Olivier Boscagli.

This was getting even more edgy.

On sixty-eight minutes, Xabi Alonso made some changes.

Josh Acheampong for Fofana.

Moises Caicedo for Neto.

Reece James for Lavia.

It meant that Gusto was pushed out wide.

The crowd responded with a loud, and much needed chant.

“CAREFREE.”

On seventy-two minutes, Pep Chavarria took over from Colwill.

Two minutes later, a throw-in from Gusto, a neat lay-off from Joao Pedro and Palmer raced forward. He ate up the yards and with calm efficiency he swept the ball in at the far post.

What a lovely strike.

Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.

That’s better.

More noise.

“PALMER AGAIN, PALMER AGAIN, PALMER AGAIN OLE, OLE.”

I said to Alan : “to be honest he has been 5/10 until now.”

Brighton continued to attack and carve out chances. One effort was slashed wide from a corner.

Sadly, Caicedo had to be replaced by Valentin Barco on eighty-two minutes.

Towards the end of the game, my fellow occupants in The Sleepy Hollow – Alan, Clive, PD – departed and so it was only me that witnessed the last goal of the game on ninety-five minutes. Another long throw, the ball was headed on, and a free header for Gross.

Thankfully, that was it.

The whistle blew soon after the re-start.

Phew.

There was some sort of gallows humour on the way out.

“3-2, now 4-3…I guess we will win 5-4 at Arsenal.”

No, don’t put any money on it.

It had been a game that started so well with lots off attacking verve, but one that soon became a roller-coaster ride like those experienced by thousands at Thorpe Park.

But Alonso will learn fast and make the right changes.

Won’t he?

Let’s hope so,

I made my way back to collect PD and Parky and who should I see talking to three friends on the Fulham Road?

Eccles.

I messaged Barry to tell him.

I reached home at around 6.45pm with another game heavily on my mind.

The plan was to meet up with a few close friends in the FTFC clubhouse at around 1pm on Bank Holiday Monday. I have a digital season ticket at Frome, and until this day, the scanning process had not worked. My old Oakfield Road School teammate Steve – manning the gate with his father Maurice – was surprised as I was when there was a lovely big green “tick” on his scanner. I took that as a positive sign.

There were Bath fans in early at Badgers Hill, and it soon became apparent that we would be witnessing the largest ever away following seen at Frome Town in decades and decades. I had spoken to a director a fortnight earlier and they had budgeted for an attendance of 1,000, expected 1,200, but I – and others – was hoping for 1,500 at least.

I soon met up with Louise, Steve, Francis, Tom and Glenn. We could not believe how many away fans were in. They began to cluster as one black mass in The Cowshed to our right. The weather had been favourable; there were grey skies in the morning – perhaps deterring many from travelling too far on this day’s holiday and enticing them to the match instead – but as from midday there were blue skies overhead.

As game time approached, Badgers Hill looked an absolute picture.

All stands were full; there were still spectators queuing at the turnstiles and a buzz of huge anticipation hung in the air.

The visitors had featured heavily in the local news of late; a consortium that included Tears For Fears’ Curt Smith were about to swell the coffers of the club to the quite amazing tune of £6M.

And here they were visiting little old Frome for the first time in a league game since 1906.

The teams strode onto the pitch to the tune of “A Town Called Malice” and we girded our loins.

The first half was a relatively mundane affair, and Frome Town had to rely on the heroics of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips to keep the score tied. With five minutes to the break, the last of the spectators eventually made their way in. We all played “guess the gate” and the consensus was around 1,700.

The second half began with the red shirts attacking us in the club end.

Eventually, the home support found our voices.

I bellowed out –

“COME ON YOU” – but stopped at saying the word “reds.”

I just can’t do it.

There were a few chances for both teams. Bath wasted a golden one-on-one; the chance of the match.

Frome manager Danny Greaves made some changes.

Three substitutions on sixty-four minutes.

Our play improved.

“AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY.”

Two more substitutions followed on eighty minutes.

Just after, a Warren Maidment throw-in (pictured), a scramble, and substitute George Dowling, with his first touch of the game, rifled the ball in via a deflection.

GET IN.

He had only been on the pitch for less than twenty seconds.

The home team held on, and the away fans sloped back to Twerton, Weston, Lansdown, Odd Down, Bathampton and Whiteway.

The gate was announced as 2,051.

We had smiles as large as Cley Hill, a local landmark that can be spotted on the horizon if you know where to look.

We basked in the glory some more.

I was worried about winning a solitary point in this toughest of weekends, but Frome Town had won six.

And good old Chelsea had picked up three too.

Fackinell.

Three wins out of three.

What a blinkin’ glorious weekend.

And here’s to many more.

See you at Arsenal

Game One : Chertsey Town vs. Frome Town

Game Two : Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion

Game Three : Frome Town vs. Bath City

Tales From Twenty-Two Hours

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Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 21 April 2026.

It never ceases to amaze me that despite our runs of disastrous form which have haunted us over recent years, there is still a clamour to attend Chelsea games, and especially away games. Home games have become a test of grim endurance of late but away fixtures have retained their sense of fun and adventure.

On the day of our evening flit to Sussex for our away match at Brighton & Hove Albion, I was up at just before 5am, and at work at 6am. At 8am, I received a text from my mate Mark, from nearby Westbury, enquiring if I knew of anyone with a spare. Within minutes, I had contacted my pal Jason from Swanage and had sorted things.

There would be one more body in the away end that evening.

Brighton, though. The mere mention of the name sent me back to those utterly grim back-to-back games at the Amex in the February of last year. They were two of the worst Chelsea performances in my memory.

On this occasion, with Chelsea losing our last four league games without scoring a single goal, I predicted our chances of winning to be at 25%.

I left work, with Parky and Paul, and headed down to Salisbury to collect Steve. I stopped for refreshments at Tilshead on Salisbury Plain en route, slowing me slightly, but the journey surprisingly took a whole hour. I continued, a familiar path this one, passing Southampton and Portsmouth, but I was up against some heavy traffic further east on the A27, so came inland at Arundel.

For the next hour we slowly drove through country roads, small towns, country lanes barely wide enough to accommodate two cars, and miniscule villages. There were signs for Hassocks where Matthew Harding lived. There were farms, and fields full of lambs, roads full of slow-moving traffic, overhanging branches, a gorgeous cloudless sky above, and we drove close to Ditchling and its famous Beacon. On two occasions, we found ourselves heading due north rather than south, or even east. We were in the middle of nowhere, a rural idyl, and it seemed ridiculous that we would soon be at a topflight football game.

We eventually closed in on our destination, Lewes, arriving at 6.30pm, some four-and-a-half hours after leaving Melksham. There was the usual battle to sort out parking at the train station car park, but after fighting my phone and an app for a full fifteen minutes, we caught the free train to Falmer.

Then the short walk up to the stadium, which has been enhanced by a new hospitality area called The Terrace which was being built last season.

I like the stadium at Falmer, but I am glad that not every stadium is like it. It makes a decent change. It’s quite aesthetically pleasing both inside and out and has a nice vibe. But I prefer city centre stadia.

I was inside at around 7.30pm, and soon bumped into Mark, who was happy as Larry to get the ticket from Jason.

“Thanks for sorting that, mate.”


“Steady on, you might have a different opinion at full time, mate.”

I was, as always at Brighton, near the front in the third row. Even with an SLR, the goal nets get in the way of decent photos at Brighton. I brought my small camera instead and doubted that I would be able to get any decent action photos. Instead, I turned the camera towards fellow fans. I would be watching the game alongside John and Paul, from Brighton, who was able to utilise Alan’s ticket. 

I spotted some scaffolding at the opposite end and wondered if some sort of stadium enhancement was in progress, albeit cosmetic.

Liam Rosenior chose this team and bizarrely chose a new formation.

Robert Sanchez

Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato

Malo Gusto – Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia – Marc Cucurella

Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Enzo Fernandez

This change in formation did not fill me with too much confidence I hasten to add.

The ground filled, but there were gaps in the home areas. Sadly, just a few empties around me too. Fireworks filled the air to my right, and there was a hearty rendition of their club anthem.

“You may tell them all that we stand or fall.
 For Sussex by the Sea”

Then, the entrance of the teams.

Again, I wondered about the cleverness of wearing all black at an evening game, especially when probably 75% of the spectators were wearing black, dark grey or dark blue coats and jackets. Why not get us a nice all-yellow ensemble for midweek games?

Above, high up in the sky, a thin sliver of a crescent moon shone down on us all, the sky still pure blue and beautiful.

At 8pm, the game kicked off, the only Premier League fixture on this day.

The home team attacked us from the off, and Chalobah made two strong defensive headers in the first few minutes as they came at us from all angles. Already Kaoru Mituma and Georginio seemed to be the main nuisances. On three minutes, the former found himself completely unmarked at the far post and bounced an effort at goal that Sanchez did well to fingertip over the bar.

From the resulting corner, the ball came in towards the near post and rather than taking Chalobah’s lead, Hato avoided good contact and only flicked the ball on. The ball dropped for Ferdi Kadioglu to smash it goalwards. His low effort took a deflection off Wesley Fofana, and flew into the net, just to my left.

Brighton must hate us, the way we have robbed key personnel over the last few seasons, but they often get their retaliation done on the pitch. This soon looked like being another one of those occasions.

The home team continued their dominance, and the Chelsea faithful watched, dumbfounded at our inability to match them.

There was another super tip over by Sanchez from a header by Jan Paul Van Heck.

The away fans bellowed “we want our Chelsea back.”

On fourteen minutes, a thirty second segment summed up our current health. Neto advanced well on the right and cut in but slipped at the all-important moment. Brighton gathered the ball quickly and raced away with desire and direction. There was a moment when Lavia had enough of the ball after a tackle to clear, but he hesitated, allowing Rutter to strike at goal. Luckily his effort was off target.

Four minutes later, Sanchez blotted his copybook as he attempted a tight pass out to a teammate despite the close presence of attackers. His pass was intercepted by Yankuba Minteh who squared to Jack Hinshelwood. Thankfully, his shot was swept off the line by Our Trev.

Fackinell.

I leaned towards John and Paul and said “it’s bad when only 20 minutes have gone and you want the referee to blow up for half-time.

The Chelsea choir were quiet, in a state of shock, but there were a few resilient shouts.

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

On twenty minutes, Calvin came over to talk and commented that we had just one touch in the opposition’s box. I think it may well have been Neto’s slip.

One touch, bloody hell.

The rest of the half gave us nothing to celebrate. Our play was sluggish, especially when compared to the home team.

On forty minutes, I glanced at the BBC website and saw that we were still on one touch in the opposition box.

On forty-one minutes, hallelujah, a header from a Chelsea corner.

Two touches.

As we kept the ball for the longest period of the entire first-half, the home fans chortled.

“We want our ball back.”

The cheeky so-and-sos.

At half-time, I kept saying to everyone “how is it only still 1-0?”

In the end, we ended up with four touches in the Brighton penalty box. It had been an utterly woeful performance with only Sanchez – bar his one crazy pass – and Chalobah pleasing me.

We wondered what on earth Rosenior would be saying to the players inside the dressing room. I suspected that he was so livid that he would be using five different colours of highlighter to illustrate his plans for the second period.

He decided to replace Fofana with Alejandro Garnacho, and we reverted to a more familiar shape, at least on paper.

Believe it or not, we improved in the first moments of the second period. Garnacho was sent through and zipped a shot at goal.

The Chelsea crowd gasped.

“We’ve had a shot.

We’ve had a shot.

We’ve had a shot. We’ve had a shot. We’ve had a shot.”

Gulp.

We had a little more of the ball, but it struck me that when we broke we seemed like rabbits staring at headlights, unsure of what to do. Brighton, in comparison, had a natural flow to their play.

Five minutes in, the old “Second Half At An Away Game” chant kicked-in, to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”

“Chelsea.

Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

Brighton had a penalty shout at the far end, the ball hitting Cucurella.

On fifty-three minutes, we similarly had a penalty shout when the ball flipped up onto Yankuba Minteh’s sleeve, but no decision. With that, they broke like an express train and Rutter set up Hinshelwood to steer home.

Ugh.

Things turned nasty in the away end.

“Fuck off Rosenior.”

The focus had changed from the idiot board to the manager.

On sixty-two minutes, Mitoma did a few “keep-uppies” before a shot that dipped just over. I found myself involuntary clapping, just happy to see some bona fide skill in these days of robotic football.

There was a decent break from Brighton in the inside-left channel, but another lovely save from Sanchez. And then another save from Sanchez. Both were from Kadioglu. He was producing a man of the match performance.

On seventy-two minutes, there were two changes.

Marc Guiu for Delap.

Dario Essugo for Lavia.

While all of this was going on at an increasingly chilly Amex Stadium, Frome Town were playing Portishead Town in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, which was being played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, the former home of Bristol Rovers from 1986 to 1996.

We went 1-0 down, then levelled with a Zak Drew penalty. Portishead went 2-1 up in the second half, only for Sam Meakes to equalise. Then, as Chelsea entered the final quarter of an hour in Falmer, Callum Gould scored a 3-2 winner.

It would be Frome Town’s first double in one-hundred and twenty-two seasons.

On seventy-six minutes, Gusto passed to Garnacho but his shot was deflected wide.

Paul received a text from Alan who said that he was watching the test card as it was more exciting.

I replied that he had more chance of seeing the girl put an “X” on the noughts and crosses board than us getting a goal.

A Guiu shot was deflected for a corner.

I still kept thinking “how is it only 2-0?”

We grimaced when Danny Welbeck was introduced by the Brighton manager Fabian Hürzeler.

Thousands of Chelsea brains clicked as one : “he always scores against us.”

The away end was sparsely populated now, and perhaps some just couldn’t take the ultimate humiliation of this chant from the home areas :

“Are you Tottenham in disguise?”

Lo and behold, on ninety-one minutes a pass inside from Brighton wide man Maxim De Cuyper, and a Brighton player, looking suspiciously like Welbeck, slashed the ball high into the net.

“It’s Welbeck, innit? It’s bloody Welbeck. Bloody hell.”

He reeled away in celebration.

Fackinell.

Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto and you wondered why.

At the final whistle, cheers from Brighton and jeers from Chelsea.

The away end, as at Everton, was probably only one-fifth full by now. I stayed because I was intrigued to see the reaction of the players, and maybe the supporters to the players.

Well, first and foremost, as far as I could tell, none shot off down the tunnel and I took some photos of the scene taking place a few yards away. Jorrel Hato, Alejandro Garnacho and Marc Cucurella first appeared, their faces showing nothing but sadness. Others walked over. There was no patronising clapping from any. They stood meekly still and in front of us. I saw Liam Rosenior slowly walk over. Again, no clapping, but he put his hand on his heart and gestured. There was a volley of boos. This was painful to watch.

The players didn’t hide. They let us vent. And I can’t deny that I felt sadness with them.

My gaze became focused on Marc Cucurella and Enzo Fernandez, who stayed the longest, and then on Enzo who stood silent and still for a minute or so after the rest had turned to walk away.

He still didn’t clap, and I was OK with that. I appreciated that he stood and took it all. He did not hide. There was no emotion. What emotion could there be? He played it straight. He played it as he should. He became the focus for the supporters’ anger. He played it exactly right in my book.

I can only hope that those moments stay with him, as captain, and with the others and that it can inspire them to try to win back our affection.

We all met up outside in the concourse and shuffled away to Falmer Station. Darren from Crewe chatted about the depressing state of affairs, and how he was dreading the Wembley game against Leeds United on Sunday, a game that still has Chelsea tickets for sale.

“I’m not even reading your blog for the rest of the season. I’ve had enough.”

We were back at Lewes station at 10.45pm, and I then faced the tortuous journey home.

As I drove through the town’s tight streets, Parky wondered what Rosenior had said during the post-match interview.

“We were not good enough. Brighton were very good. And can I buy Danny Welbeck please?”

I replied.

“Danny de Vito would be a fucking improvement at the moment.”

It was a long trip home with a few painful diversions. I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am.

As I headed north over Salisbury Plain, the moon was now just above the horizon, and straight ahead of where I was driving. It seemed like it was haunting me. That thin sliver of silver that appeared so high in the sky as the game began had now dropped to eye level and had grown in size and had turned a deep yellow.

A metaphor for how our club has dropped in status and league position?

Who knows?

I dropped the lads off and I reached home at 2.30am.

I fell asleep, dreaming of fading moons and fading fortunes, at 3am.

I had been awake for twenty-two hours.

You can write your own punchline.

Tales From The Top Of The Conference League

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Chelsea vs. Shamrock Rovers : 19 December 2024.

This UEFA Conference League campaign had been a long-drawn-out affair this autumn and winter, yet it was coming to a halt at an alarming rate with two final games in just eight days.

However, after the excitement and adventure with the Astana game in Almaty, the home game a week later against Shamrock Rovers was a far more humdrum proposition.

Was I excited about this game? No. Definitely not. Foreign trips aside, the Conference League is not the most loved of competitions. It has the feel of a European Simod Cup.

There was another cup competition that I was involved with on the Tuesday between the Brentford and Shamrock Rovers games. My local club Frome Town visited nearby Bath City in the Somerset Premier Cup and won 2-0, the club’s third win in a row. There is a new-found optimism racing through the club at the moment and long may it continue.

Thursday, and Europe, soon came around. I worked from 6am to 2pm and then drove to London with PD and Parky. For the first time that I can remember, we decided to visit “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. There had been a few rumours flying around about the visiting supporters from Dublin and elsewhere. This set of fans had been known to sing a few sectarian songs, and there was talk of Chelsea fans with a loyalist viewpoint making a stand. Would things be a bit tasty around the ground as the game approached? I wasn’t sure.

I dropped the lads off near the pub and then headed up to Charleville Road, where I knew that there would be free parking from 5pm. Just a few moments after, I slowly navigated myself around four or five police horses, waiting by the side of the road, and I wondered if the predicted police presence would include police horses to try to keep the peace.

As luck would have it, there was a parking space right outside an Italian restaurant – “AperiPasta” – and I killed two birds with one stone and wolfed down a beautiful slab of lasagne in no time at all.

From there, West Kensington was just a few minutes away. By 6pm, I was getting off the train at Putney Bridge and I was met by around twenty Irish fans, including one chap in full leprechaun get-up.

O’Fackinell.

I was soon in the pub with the usual suspects. We all noted one by-product of the possible threat of trouble before the game; we were served our tipples in plastic glasses. Ugh.

This was a skeleton crew on this night; just Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek, PD, Lord Parky and little old me.

At 7pm, we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. As I strode along the Fulgham Road, Steve and Parky dipped into “Bruschetta” where they briefly met Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink as a function came to an end. There was a noticeably strong police presence. I spotted a few hoolie-types lurking in the shadows, but things seemed pretty normal.

Inside at around 7.40pm, all present and correct sir!

The usual away following at Stamford Bridge is capped at 3,000 but there were gaps in the left half of The Shed. I think that the police had asked for a slight reduction in tickets going to the Dublin club. I fully expected a few Irish fans to be dotted around the usual home areas of Stamford Bridge. This was, as daft as it seems, the first competitive football match between Chelsea and a team from the Republic of Ireland. If the rumour-mill was to be believed, we were in for a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne in SW6 on this particular night.

There were many green and white flags on the balcony between both tiers in The Shed.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Disasi – Veiga – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Casadei

Madueke – Nkunku – George

Guiu

With the colours of the competition being green, the away fans must have felt at home. The game began at 8pm and there was a quick rendition from the Matthew Harding Lower of a Rangers’ song about “buying a flute” but, after that, I heard nothing of a similar note from both sets of fans.

As we waited to take a corner in front of their fans, toilet rolls bizarrely cascaded down from the top tier. Play was held up for a few minutes.

Thinking : “This lot are from Dublin, not the Bogside, right?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all us.

We probed and probed, but the defending was deep and resolute. A shock, then, on fourteen minutes, as Dylan Watts sent a low cross into our six-yard box from the left, right into the cliched corridor of uncertainty, but Johnny Kenny was unable to turn it in. An offside flag was raised, anyway.

A volley at the back stick from Noni Madueke, but a poor connection.

On twenty-two minutes, a lofted ball into space from Marc Cucarella was aimed at Tyrique George. The Rovers defender Darragh Burns panicked and headed the ball back to their ‘keeper but the pass was awry. A stooping header from Mark Guiu gave us a 1-0 lead and the longest-ever “THTCAUN / COMLD” – full of Dublin accents and choice phrases – was enacted between Alan and me.

“Their defender will be having nightmares about that.”

However, the visitors attacked straight after, and Jorgensen saved magnificently from a Kenny volley. From the corner that followed, Markus Poom smacked the ball home, via a deflection off Cesare Casadei.

The buggers celebrated wildly down below us.

Bollocks.

On thirty-three minutes, in virtually the same location as the first poorly aimed back pass by Burns, we were treated to another, this time via Daniel Cleary. The ball was intercepted by Guiu, and from a tight angle, he steered the ball home.

There was a daisy-cutter from Cesare Casadei from outside the box that the Shamrock ‘keeper Leon Pohls just about saved after sprawling to his left. It almost seemed odd to see a Chelsea player shoot from a long way out. We don’t seem to do that these days, and it doesn’t seem right.

On forty minutes, Cucarella played in Christopher Nkunku, but a great tackle thwarted the striker. However, the ball ran to Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall who calmly slotted home.

In the third minute of added time, Madueke sent over a cross from the right – not unlike the one to Cucarella on Sunday – and I caught the header from Guiu on film. It nestled nicely in the net.

At the break, Chelsea 4 Shamrock Rovers 1.

“Can we declare and bugger off home now, please?”

Enzo Maresca replaced Madueke with Harvey Vale at half-time.

I thought that Nkunku had been relatively quiet in the first-half but he showed a lot more life in the first ten minutes of the second period.

But the pace, not surprisingly, then dropped and the game seemed like a training game.

On fifty-eight minutes, Dewsbury-Hall played square to Nkunku who pushed the ball forward to Cucarella. He took a touch to his right – to his right, I repeat – and I snapped my shutter as he slotted the ball past the Shamrock ‘keeper. I captured his slide into the far corner. Job well and truly done.

On fifty-nine minutes, two more changes.

Harrison Murray-Campbell, a debutant, replaced Axel Disasi.

Joao Felix replaced Guiu, lots of applause.

Felix screwed a shot wide and there were a few more half-chances, but the evening’s entertainment was done, although the stadium honoured the final scorer with a rollicking good rendition of “his” song.

“He eats Paella. He drinks Estrella. His hair’s fuckin’ massive.”

This man is truly loved.

Redemption is a magical thing.

George was a bit disappointing – the phrase “flattering to deceive” seems appropriate – and the game petered out. There was time for one final change on eighty-three minutes with Dewsbury-Hall replaced by Sam Rak-Sakyi.

At the end of this odd autumnal tour of Europe – and Asia – Chelsea finished top of the Conference League table; first out of thirty-two teams, played six, won six, with twenty-six goals scored, and four points clear.

Can we have the trophy now please?