Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 4 May 2026.
It is amazing what one win did to my brain. That victory against Leeds United at Wembley, though far from convincing, was enough for the memories of the five consecutive league losses, without a single goal to our name. to begin to fade away. For a few days before our league match against Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge, I began to embrace the final five games of the season with a little more confidence. And on the drive to London, alongside the other two musketeers PD and Parky, I aired my thoughts.
“All of a sudden, I am looking forward to the end of the season. Two classic away days, including an end-of-season three-nighter on Tyneside for the final game, two home matches, including an enthralling home game with Tottenham on what could be one of the great nights in a long time, and a trip to the FA Cup Final thrown in for good measure. This one against Forest is the least exciting to be honest, but even this I am looking forward to.”
All because of a win; a big W at Wembley.
W
There had been an enjoyable spell in the pub before we made our way to Stamford Bridge by tube from Putney Bridge. We were joined by Ollie from Normandy, on his birthday, alongside his two mates Jerome and Franck, and also Brenda and Kerry from Kentucky. The pub was quieter than usual, but the laughs kept us going.
I was inside Stamford Bridge at 2.45pm, and it was time to check the team that Callum McFarlane had selected.
- Robert Sanchez.
- Malo Gusto.
- Marc Cucurella.
- Moises Caicedo.
- Tosin Adarabioyo.
- Trevoh Chalobah.
- Cole Palmer.
- Romeo Lavia.
- Joao Pedro.
- Enzo Fernandez.
- Jesse Derry.
There was a full debut for young Jesse Derry after his fleeting appearance as a substitute up at Wrexham in the FA Cup in February.
His shirt was, in fact, number 55; a fine Chelsea number.
Between PD and I in The Sleepy Hollow, there were two empty seats with both Alan and Clive unable to attend. Empty seats, in fact, were dotted around many sections of the stadium. In the pub and on the tube, I had briefly chatted with the two Americans about the likelihood of an upgraded Stamford Bridge ever being realised, in whatever shape or form, and I mentioned my fear that we wouldn’t regularly fill a mega stadium. The debate about a whole stadium rebuild – or worse, a move – has trundled on for years now and I am beginning to wonder if I will ever see a change from us playing at the current Stamford Bridge in my lifetime.
The previous day, Aston Villa played a weakened team against Tottenham, and we howled. A day later, we all expected Forest to do the same.
Well, before we had time to settle down and get acclimatised to the players on display in Forest’s smart pin-striped shirts, we witnessed a calamity taking place around forty yards away. With one minute on the clock, Forest worked the ball to Dilane Bakwa on their right, and his inch-perfect cross over the heads of the two dithering centre-backs fell to Taiwo Awoniyi who leapt and headed cleanly past Robert Sanchez.
Fackinell Forest.
So much for a weakened team, so much for a little burst of optimism.
If I didn’t put my head in my hands, I surely should have done.
Sigh.
The game restarted, with spectators still finding their seats in the areas of the MHU around me.
With just two minutes on the clock, a small passage of play sent my mind reeling back in time.
Jesse Derry’s first touch of the ball at Stamford Bridge, and his subsequent spin away from his marker – pure poetry in fact – reminded me so much of Paul Canoville’s first-ever touch in his home debut, only yards away from where Derry skinned his man just over forty-four years later.
I missed Canoville’s infamous debut at Selhurst Park on 12 April 1982 but was present in The Shed when he became the first black player to play for Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on 8 May 1982 against Luton Town. He came on as a late substitute for Peter Rhoades-Brown, and my memory was of more boos – though perhaps not so intense as against Palace – from sections of the home crowd. Paul’s exquisite turn had me purring and must have caused twitches of annoyance from the bigots in the crowd that day.
I had been talking to Ollie about the size of the old Stamford Bridge in the pub, and I loved the fact that I used to be standing on a section of that huge sweeping terrace that someone stood on in 1905, in 1955 and in 1970, and all other years. There was a simple link to our past, and every other home game when I used to stand on The Shed, and although everything has changed so much since 1982, I like the idea that first Paul and then Jesse performed their home debut spins on the same patch of terra firma in front of the East Stand.
And, of course, all of this history would be lost should we move from the current Stamford Bridge site.
The game developed but it was not easy on the eye. We exhibited the same reticence to move the ball quickly and into space. The movement of others continued to annoy me.
On ten minutes, Enzo – who was looking the liveliest – took aim from twenty yards and stroked the ball at goal after nice play from Derry and Joao Pedro. The ball shaved the outside of the far post.
On fifteen minutes, another awkward cross from the Forest left, and a ridiculously stupid shirt pull by Gusto on Awoniyi and the referee Anthony Taylor awarded a penalty after a VAR review.
Igor Jesus converted the spot-kick and their players celebrated right under our noses by the corner flag.
Fackinell Forest.
Two minutes later, Palmer casually lifted a shot wide of the far post, and we all sighed as one.
Not so long after, the cheeky buggers among the Trick Trees’ support took the piss.
“Chelsea give us a song. Chelsea, Chelsea give us a song.”
The players on the pitch had given us nothing to shout about, and Stamford Bridge was deathly quiet. But it shouldn’t be like this should it? Our job is simple as supporters. It’s in the job title.
We carved a couple of half-chances. There was a deep cross from Gusto, and Derry volleyed dramatically over. Then, Palmer to Enzo and another shot from Derry, but a save at the near post from Matz Sels.
This, by and large, was tedious football, with nobody having the vision to pick passes. It wasn’t expansive. But such is the way of this tedious method of football these days. It is all so bone-crunchingly dull.
On thirty-eight minutes, a rare piece of skill, a beautiful drag back from Enzo but he couldn’t get his shot away.
Five minutes later, a penalty shout after Joao Pedro danced into the box and fell by the goal-line. Then, another penalty shout and a bouncer at goal from Gusto, easily saved by Sels. There had been a couple of Forest chances but we had been playing slightly better in the closing moments of the half.
Enzo took two corners back-to-back and from the second one, Derry clashed heads with Zach Abbot. Both players went down. A penalty was given. Derry had gone down before in the game, but he stayed down, here, for a long time. We grew concerned. The minutes past. After an age, he was stretchered off, the poor lad. His home debut had been full of promise, too.
Both sets of supporters applauded him off and he was replaced by Liam Delap, with Joao Pedro shifting left.
Forest’s Abbott went off too.
Alas, in the fifty-fourth minute, Palmer’s penalty was low and weak, and Sels fell to his right and parried the shot. Palmer was unable to squeeze home the rebound.
The first half eventually came to and end on fifty-nine minutes.
There were boos at half-time.
Fackinell Chelsea.
There was a chat at the break with a few mates. I sent this text to the chaps in a WhatsApp Group.
“Turgid AI shite. No imagination. No spontaneity. No freedom. Dull percentage football. Automatons. Sick of it.”
This is my main gripe with football these days. Regardless of how Chelsea play, and God-knows we have been dire of late, the over-riding feeling is a sense of football changing for the worst with possession football eroding the sense of fun and enjoyment at every opportunity. AI getting hold of football and squuezing the life out of it.
Chelsea’s form might continue to nosedive for a while yet, but our football and the football of others is just so dire.
On a few occasions during that first half, I just lost it.
“One of you move!”
“Move for each other!”
There was simply no dynamism and no flair.
Sigh.
I saw our number 6 on the pitch at half-time, and my mind instantly played a trick on me.
“Thiago Silva.”
It was, of course, Levi Colwill and he replaced Tosin as the second half began for his first game of 2026/27. Let’s hope he is fit enough for the Cup Final.
Five minutes in, a shot from Cucurella was so high that the pigeons on the top of the Matthew Harding roof ducked for cover.
Cucurella had been having his usual game; tons of chasing down, tons of tackling, tons of energy, even though he has a tendency to get caught out of possession. If running around like an animated Corporal Jones was a determinant of caring, the Spanish defender would pass with flying colours.
On fifty-one minutes, a clean break down our left – “don’t panic, don’t panic!!!” – and Morgan Gibbs-White was able to push the ball across for Awoniyi to tap in from close range.
I immediately commented “that is the ball we should be playing” as Elliot Anderson played the ball forward intelligently to Gibbs-White.
There was a VAR check for offside, but Awoniyi was on by the narrowest of margins.
Fackinell Forest.
The response from the home support was immediate and provided the loudest chant of the afternoon by far.
“FUCK OFF EGBAHLI – YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.”
I am not so sure any of the protests on the Fulham Road hit home with the board, but this direct messaging service provided by 37,000 Chelsea supporters just might do the trick.
Andrey Santos replaced Lavia, the sixty-minute man.
On the hour, Forest lumped the ball forwards and a brave Sanchez and a possibly braver Gibbs-White collided. Another delay took place. Both players were substituted after a delay of six minutes. I noticed that Sanchez, with his head bandaged, did not receive much applause at all, which was a bit tight.
He was replaced by Filip Jorgensen.
At the other end, Delap caused a bit of a disturbance in the Forest box by completely missing a cross, but the ball fell to Gusto who re-worked it into the six-yard box, and Joao Pedro stabbed home at the second attempt.
Alas, he was offside via another VAR review, by the narrowest of margins.
The Chelsea crowd sang “we nearly scored” and I didn’t know whether to laugh or bloody cry.
We had a couple of shots on goal via Delap and Palmer.
With all the delays, I chirped to PD that “this game could still be going on when we come back for Tottenham.”
By now, vast swathes of blue seats were visible around Stamford Bridge.
Nine extra minutes of injury time were signalled.
Lo and behold, in the dying embers of a horrible match, Gusto swung in a deep ball towards Cucurella who headed the ball back towards Joao Pedro. He controlled the ball with his chest, and bicycle-kicked to perfection. What a fantastic goal. I was hoping my photo would do it justice.
Well. it almost did.
The score was a little more respectable, but this was such a disappointing affair against a weakened Forest team.
I looked up at the slightly fading gold adornments on the high walls above The Shed and it all looked a bit pathetic.
“World Champions.”
By now, these banners look like those gory and gaudy gilt additions in The Oval Office.
Maybe, Boehly and Eghbali will start to plan the demolition of the East Stand and replace it with a huge ballroom to take the attention away from the horrific play on the pitch.
Fackinell.
Yes, I stayed to the end. It’s what supporters do. It’s in the job description. Thousands had fled the scene of the crime by the end though. Bizarrely, I clapped the lads off. Don’t ask me why.
Outside, I met up with Ollie, Jerome and Franck underneath the Osgood statue and I took a photo of them. They were smiling, I am not sure how, and I bellowed “jeux sans frontières” as I left them, and I smiled too.
Don’t ask me why.
On the way home, with Manchester City dropping points at Everton – bollocks – I took a quick look at the league table, and our current form shook me to the core.
L L L L L L
And next up, Liverpool away.
Oh boy.
See you there.
