Tag Archives: Bishops Cleeve

Tales From The Anniversary Game

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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 Deepest SW6

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 7 January 2026.

This match at Craven Cottage would be the first of six consecutive games in London, and for this I was truly thankful. There have been some long hauls over the past month or so, including Leeds, Newcastle and Manchester, and I was looking forward to this spell in the capital.

These games are coming quickly in the month of January, and the club will play a total of nine matches this month.

On the Monday after the game at the Etihad, the club interviewed Liam Rosenior, and on the Tuesday morning it was announced that the former Fulham player who was in charge at our sister club Strasbourg would be unsurprisingly joining us. The length of the contract, of six years, baffled me, but much of modern football leaves me baffled so I tried not to dwell too much on it.

Liam Rosenior, then.

I remembered him from his time at Fulham, but struggled with his spells at other clubs. My first ever game at Craven Cottage with Chelsea was in the 2004/5 season and I quickly checked to see if our new manager was playing on that day over twenty-one years ago. In fact, he was a non-playing substitute. As an aside, I really enjoyed that match, with Arjen Robben on fire, and we won it 4-1. I chuckled when I realised that I recognised virtually all the Fulham team that day. The surnames were listed and I quickly barked out their first names.

Mark Crossley

Moritz Volz

Zat Knight

Zesh Rehman

Carlos Bocanegra

Steed Malbranque

Mark Pembridge

Papa Bouba Diop

Luis Boa Morte

Tomas Radzinski

Andrew Cole

The only two I struggled naming were Carlos Bocanegra and Andrew Cole; I thought it was Andy. Of course, these days I would bloody struggle to name many of the Fulham team’s first names. Sigh.

Anyway, enough of this shite.

Welcome to Chelsea Football Club, Liam Rosenior.

Best wishes for a long and successful career on the Fulham Road.

…stop sniggering at the back.

Incidentally, I used to feel haunted every time that I heard the Rosenior name, including when Liam first came to my attention when he played for the local Bristol City team in 2002. You see, dear reader, his father Leroy played – and scored – against us in a 1-4 defeat at Upton Park on a Bank Holiday Monday in May 1988. That defeat effectively consigned us to a play-off position in a fight to avoid relegation that season. And we all know how that worked out.

In twenty years’, time, I hope that the name Rosenior doesn’t haunt me further.

I worked an early shift and collected PD and Parky at 2pm. I updated the lads on Frome Town’s fine win at Bishops Cleeve the previous night. I fuelled up at Reading Services, and enjoyed a good run in. I dropped them off at “The Eight Bells” at just before 4.30pm.

After parking up at 5pm on Gowan Avenue, I trotted the fifteen minutes down the Fulham High Street to meet up with the lads. A group of five slow-moving Fulham fans were in my way and I sped past them. I hoped it was a metaphor for the evening’s match. I peered into “The Golden Lion” with its “Home Fans Only” sign, then crossed the great divide as I passed “The Kings Arms” and “The Temperance” – away fans – and approached “The Eight Bells” with its “Only Away Fans” sign.

At 5.15pm, I was in, and shot round to join up with PD, LP, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Texas Aleksey. I stayed about an hour, and it was lovely to see so many other Chelsea faces appear in our local. It seemed like we were having a little party in the front room of our house and word had got out. It was splendid.

I found it funny that Scott, Gerry, Martin and I were last together in a bar outside Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx in July, and here were all were again in a pub near Craven Cottage in South Fulham in January.

Things, sadly, would take a turn for the worst.

My friend Chris in North Carolina – formerly of Windsor – messaged me at 5.45pm to inform me that a mutual friend, Mick Collins, had passed away after heart surgery the previous night. I was shocked and stunned. I first met Mick, who retired a few years ago, in Chicago in 2006 for our game against the MLS All-Stars, and our paths would cross on many occasions, in the US and in England. He was a lovely man and will be sorely missed.

RIP Mick Collins.

This was the last of Texas Aleksey’s run of games on his trip and this would be his inaugural visit to Craven Cottage. We all left the pub within a few minutes of each other, but while Jimmy walked ahead with PD and LP, I wandered through the park with Aleksey. It was a bitterly cold night alongside the River Thames.

I took a few photos outside the familiar red brick frontage on Stevenage Road.

I was in at 7.15pm.

Such is the benign nature of Fulham’s support, that it is only at Craven Cottage where home and away fans can walk side-by-side once through the turnstiles and inside the concourse behind the stand.

Very Fulhamish.

However, I wasn’t impressed with my view; although I am an away season ticket holder, I was right down by the corner flag alongside the lower tier of the Riverside Stand.

This little area is full of tourists – It’s easy to tell – and I wondered which ones I would become fixated upon as they looked across at the travelling support, open-mouthed, at the volume and humour of our support. It’s a game I always play at Craven Cottage if I am towards that stand.

Of course, it was the Tyrique George chant that got us all energised last season, and I wondered if the youngster might be included in the squad to act as a catalyst for noise if no other reason.

Well, no. He wasn’t even on the bench.

With Liam Rosenoir watching in the stands, Calum McFarlane took charge for his second game and chose this team :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto

Trevoh Chalobah

Tosin Adaradioyo

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto

Enzo Fernandez

Cole Palmer

Liam Delap

So, Enzo in the hole and Cole out wide. I suspected some abuse from the home fans for Tosin.

Was it just me, or did others feel like we would be treading water in this game as we waited for the new man to take over? I expected a hard game against Fulham and predicted a tight 1-1 draw.

Pre-match, some flames flew up into the sky in front of the Riverside Stand while the PA played what sounded like an ACDC song. What could be further from Fulham than ACDC? I think a song by the Brotherhood of Man would have been more fitting. The players marched across the pitch from the cottage, and yet more flames and fireworks zipped up into the cold black sky. The bloke on the PA was even more “shouty” than our dickhead at Stamford Bridge.

Fackinell.

Fulham play in an all-white kit these days, so it was a nice-and-simple whites vs. blues battle on this evening in deepest SW6. The home team attacked us in the Putney End in the first half, and they engineered a shot on goal in the very first minute when Harry Wilson shot low at goal, but Robert Sanchez saved easily.

Just after, the first of many Roman Abramovich chants got going in the away section of the stadium.

Then, the usual chants for players who were not on the pitch, what an odd custom.

I barked out “It’s Salomon.”

In the first fifteen minutes, we dominated possession but with no real effort on goal.

Then, as we neared the twenty-minute mark, two corners on our left in front of the Hammersmith End from Enzo caused a few problems for Bernd Leno. After the ‘keeper clawed at the ball to save it from reaching Liam Delap, another corner swung in and he watched as an Andrey Santos header hit the bar. Another corner was not so problematic and went behind for a goal-kick. With Chelsea having camped out in the Fulham box for a few minutes, Leno spotted a one-on-one and smashed a long ball forward towards Wilson. He was in a simple battle, a running duel, with Cucurella who had been his usual combative self in the opening quarter of the match. To our horror, Cucurella pulled at an arm and Wilson went down.

It was on the edge of the box, and Cucurella was the last man. We were rather unsighted, but the referee gave a straight red. Phone messages arrived to say the same thing.

“Stupid defending. Definite red.”

Thankfully, a VAR check denied Fulham a penalty. Wilson only hit the wall with the free kick.

Calum McFarlane replaced Santos with Jorrel Hato, who slotted into left-back.

Fulham then penned us in for the next period of the game. They dominated possession but didn’t really hurt us.

On thirty-five minutes, more Roman Abramovich chants, quickly followed by one demanding that Eghbali went forth and multiplied.

The mood was getting fractious in the Putney End.

On forty minutes, a decent break involving the hard-working Delap and Enzo, but a tepid shot from Palmer at Leno.

The game deteriorated and I pondered how truly awful the Fulham badge truly is. It sits there atop the gable of the old Leitch stand, now the Johnny Haynes Stand – an exact replica of our old East Stand – and I just shook my head. It looks like it was designed by an eight-year-old in a school detention.

A Fulham effort from Emil Smith-Rowe flew over the bar.

Six minutes of injury time were signalled.

Fulham put the ball in our net via Wilson, but Raul Jiminez looked offside to everyone around us. The Fulham fans roared as the players raced away, and after what seemed like ninety seconds, a VAR sign was flashed up on the screens. Why it took so long I will never know. It seemed to an increasingly cynical me that they waited for the Fulham players to finish celebrating – “great TV, let’s not spoil that” – before VAR was signalled.

All part of the modern football experience, all bloody shite.

Thankfully, VAR ruled offside.

Phew.

Being so low down – the bottom fifteen rows have a shallow rake – I couldn’t get many decent photos at all. As Chelsea attacked us in the second half, I hoped for an improvement.

In the first minute of the second period, a break and Pedro Neto fired over. Just after, a daisy-cutter from Wilson was deflected wide of Sanchez’ goal for a corner. Enzo sent in a corner, but Hato’s header was glanced over.

I found myself momentarily checking some scores – “United losing, Tottenham losing” – and looked up to see a Jiminez leap, alone, that resulted in his header nestling into the corner of the goal.

Fackinell.

Fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

I liked the way that our support responded with the loudest chant of the night from us.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The world has ever seen.”

Well, in New Jersey in July maybe, perhaps not in Fulham in January.

A Fulham shot whipped past Sanchez’ left post. Many home fans presumed it was in. Thankfully, the side netting rippled from the outside only.

On the hour, more Roman Abramovich chants.

And then the other one.

“Fcuk off Eghbali, fuck off Eghbali.”

A pass from deep from Tosin, and Palmer intelligently stepped over it and allowed it to run to Delap who cantered away at the Fulham goal. The young striker went for placement and not power, but Leno got an arm to it and a covering defender headed away.

I want to see more early balls to Delap for him to run onto; surely it is his strength?

Then, the chant of the night, perhaps of the season, or at least the recent weeks.

Zeitgeist at Fulham.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.

They don’t care about us.

All we care about is Chelsea FC.”

On sixty-five, Reece James replaced Enzo who, apart from those flighted corners, had done little.

Then another chant aimed at Clearlake but one man in particular.

“You’re not wanted here.

You’re not wanted here.

Fcuk off Eghbali.

You’re not wanted here.”

A low shot from Moises Caicedo, who himself had been unusually quiet thus far.

From right in front of me, no more than twenty feet away, Neto – minus ‘tache these days – floated in a near-post header. Under pressure from the leaping Gusto, Antonee Robinson could only flick the ball on, and it smacked against the far post. I could not see a jot, but I saw the reactions to a Delap goal.

GET IN YOU FCUKER.

I tried to take some worthwhile photos of the players celebrating but only really succeeded in snapping us fans.

We’re the important ones anyway, right?

It was 1-1, my prediction on the night.

On seventy-five minutes, Josh Acheampong for Gusto and Joao Pedro for Palmer. Unfortunately, Cole had struggled and didn’t look his old self. He seemed frustrated too, which is clearly not a good sign.

Of the two teams, it was Fulham who then upped their challenge, and we had to resort to some desperate defending, hacking away balls, blocking shots and throwing bodies at crosses. There was one absolutely magnificent “star fish” jump from Sanchez that foiled an effort from close in.

“There’s only one Robert Sanchez.

One Robert Sanchez.

He used to be shite.

But now he’s alright.

Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

This was tense stuff now.

On eighty-one minutes, Sanchez dropped quickly to save well from Smith-Rowe but the rebound fell nicely for Wilson, who had been a threat all night, and he shot low past Sanchez.

I screamed “OH NO.”

Bollocks.

Interestingly, I looked over to my left to the tourist section and only a very small proportion of the one hundred or so fans closest to me were up and celebrating.

Were many of them Chelsea supporters?

Maybe, but perhaps unlikely.

I suspect most just happened to be in London and fancied a game of football to add to their list of boxes to tick. A Premier League game these days sits right alongside a Harry Potter studio tour, a coach trip to Stonehenge, a visit to Harrods and a plate of fish and chips.

£150 or more later, they sat in stoney silence and perhaps wondered what all the fuss was about.

Nine minutes of normal time and four minutes of injury time did not result in any worthwhile Chelsea effort on the Fulham goal.

This ended as a 1-2 loss.

It was Fulham’s third win against us in the past eight encounters after being winless in the previous twenty-one games.

For a club that has never won a major honour in one hundred-and-forty-seven years, this might be the nearest they come to anything worthwhile.

Bless’em.

As I made my way up the steps at the Putney End, and out into the concourse, the PA system played “Good Times” by Chic and I mouthed an obscenity.

One Chelsea lad barked “the Fulham lot are buzzing. One of them has cracked open a cheeseboard” and I had to smile.

I raced off to collect my car from Gowan Avenue and soon picked up my two mates on Findlay Road. We were soon on our way. I reached home at 12.45pm, a relatively early finish compared to recent trips.

It was a weak performance and nobody except Sanchez really shone. The reason for this malaise? Who bloody knows? We are, as ever, a confusing club and a confused club, and I can churn out the usual platitudes about hoping that the new manager can sort everything out, but he is untested at this level and will find himself under huge pressure if things do not go as Clearlake wish.

I wish him well, but…

Our next match is against Charlton Athletic in the FA Cup Third Round on Saturday, one of the great days in the football calendar. It will be my first visit to The Valley since the opening day of 2002/3.

I’ll see some of you there.

HOME AND AWAY

DEEPEST SW6

GOOD TIMES

Tales From A Cold Night

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 April 2024.

After the game at Bramall Lane on Sunday 7 April, I was again treated to a two-game football weekend. But this was no Saturday and Sunday double-header. No, nothing as easy as that. With modern football being modern football, this was one that featured matches on a Friday and a Monday.

The reward for working my first five-day week for a month – what a slog – was a Friday evening at Frome Town with a game against Bishops Cleeve, a team from near Cheltenham in Gloucestershire. After the dropped points at Exmouth Town the previous Saturday, this was a match that my local team just had to win. Thankfully, a Sam Meakes goal mid-way through the first half gave the home team a slender 1-0 win. However, it was a tough match, despite the visitors having a player sent off just before half-time. In the second half, the visitors enjoyed much of the possession, and everyone became more and more nervous with each passing minute. Thankfully, Frome’s defence were resolute and kept attacks at bay. The Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips, in fact, did not have too much to do. Frome, defending deeper than we thought necessary, took all three points, which kept the team at the top of the Southern League South. The attendance was a very pleasing 690, which took the home average up to 483 for the season. Frome have just three games left; if we win them all, we will be automatically promoted.

Saturday and Sunday came and went, but with some pretty hilarious football results along the way.

Newcastle United 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0.

Liverpool 0 Crystal Palace 1.

West Ham 0 Fulham 2.

Arsenal 0 Aston Villa 2.

I worked another early shift on the Monday. At 2pm, I set off from Melksham in Wiltshire with PD and LP. There was a little chat about the evening’s game with Everton, who last won a league game at Stamford Bridge almost thirty years ago. Did I expect us to win against the SW6-shy Toffees?

Yes. There I said it.

I dropped the lads off near “McGettigans” on Fulham Broadway at 4.30pm so they could enjoy a quiet drink with Salisbury Steve. My pre-match was spent at Stamford Bridge where I took a few photographs of the pre-match scene. Overhead, there was a clear blue sky, but despite the Spring sun, it was bitter. In fact, it was so cold, thanks to a raw wind, that I had to disappear inside the megastore for twenty minutes to keep warm. It’s a place that I hardly ever visit these days. I am still trying to get over the sight of a bloke, probably in his early thirties, with a small Chelsea crest painted on his face. Outside under old The Shed wall, I bumped into a few friends before I finally made my way inside the ground at 7.30pm.

As I walked up the steps to the MHU and made my way to my seat, I was serenaded – appropriately enough – by “Blue Monday” by New Order.

Perfect.

I wondered if there might be a Chelsea-themed sequence of songs, but no. However, the next three songs were decent enough.

“Going Underground” by The Jam.

“Echo Beach” by Martha And The Muffins.

“Call Me” by Blondie.

Ah, four favourites. Four classics. The person choosing the set list certainly knew his target audience; it always seems that the match-goers around me in The Sleepy Hollow are children of the ’eighties, in thoughts, words and deeds.

Then, “Money For Nothing” by Dire Straits.

Ugh. Oh well, four out of five ain’t bad.

It was still light as the kick-off approached. The lightshow and the flickering flames did not have quite the same impact in the evening dusk.

The teams appeared.

Us?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Them?

A smattering of familiar names, a few young ones, and two old ones; Seamus Coleman, aged thirty-five, and Ashley Young, aged thirty-eight. Young always looks like he has his legs on incorrectly.

Just before kick-off, Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – from Riverside in California and last spotted at Sheffield United – appeared twenty-yards away in seats to my left. It would be their first match at Stamford Bridge; I had managed to get them tickets via a mate. They looked ridiculously excited. Alan and Clive sat alongside PD and little old me, the first time that all four of us had been present at Chelsea for a while.

The game began at 8pm. I wasn’t keen that we were attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

Everton, dressed in an all pink ensemble that reminded me of Daytona Beach in the late ‘eighties, began quite brightly. In front of the three thousand away fans, a cross came in from the Everton right – that man Coleman – but Beto thankfully stabbed his shot over the bar.

On thirteen minutes, a magnificent Chelsea move was played out in front of us. Cole Palmer received the ball forty yards out, nut-megged one of the young Evertonians – Jarrad Branthwaite –  and adeptly back heeled a pass to Nicolas Jackson who quickly returned the ball to Palmer. I felt myself relax. Palmer’s body language reeked of self-belief and as he coolly and calmly slotted the ball towards the far post with a delicate flick of his left-foot wand, it seemed churlish for me to be worried about the outcome. The goal quickly came.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

It was almost too easy.

Alan : THTCAUN.

Chris : COMLD.

Just after, Noni Madueke, who had begun positively, drilled a ball in from the wing. From our position high above the corner flag it appeared that the forward movement of Palmer had hindered the path of the ball into the net. Palmer looked momentarily deflated.

On eighteen minutes, we attacked again. Moises Caicedo to Mykhailo Mudryk and a burst down below us, and a pass to Jackson. The young striker’s shot was parried by Jordan Pickford, who used to be a goalkeeper. The ball sat up nicely for Palmer to nod emphatically home from just inside the six-yard box.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan had noted that his two goals had been scored by his left peg and his head, and so was already thinking ahead about a perfect hat-trick.

It was an open game. Chances were shared. Mudryk raced back well to hack away a goal bound effort off the line at the Shed End. Jackson, not shy to come forward, fired a blooter just over the bar.

On twenty-nine minutes, a terrible pass out of defence by Pickford was pounced on by Palmer of all people. He instantaneously accessed the situation. His GPS was spot on, as he quickly lifted the ball high over Pickford’s gurning face, and the flight of the ball immediately impressed me.

…thinking : ”this looks in.”

Yep, the ball dropped into the empty net.

A roar from the Chelsea crowd.

Chelsea 3 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

I looked over towards the Two Tommies; oh boy, they were loving it.

Alan : “was that his right foot?”

Chris : “yep.”

Alan : “Perfect.”

Stamford Bridge had taken a while to make some worthwhile noise, but now the place was rocking to one or two “Carefrees.”

We thought that the visitors had pulled a goal back but I quickly spotted a raised flag for offside.

Phew.

To their credit, Everton kept attacking, but they looked awfully exposed when we got on the front foot. On forty-four minutes, Marc Cucarella – most definitely an improved player from last season – sent over a cross towards the near post. Jackson brought the ball down with a really exquisite move, and swivelled smoothly before slotting the ball home. This was another beautiful goal. What a performance.

Chelsea 4 Everton 0.

At half-time, all was well in the world. I joked with the lads that I had not taken too many photographs of the game thus far, but 90% of them had been of goal celebrations. The actual breakdown was as follows :

Total photos : 58

Goal celebrations : 28

So, the actual percentage was 48% but never let the truth ruin a good line. In truth, we hadn’t exactly peppered the Everton goal with shots, but we found ourselves four goals to the good. In a season – or more – when we have bemoaned our lack of quality in front of goal, it was lovely to see our goals to shots ratio increase, if only for one game.

Baby steps and all that.

The second-half began and I was dreaming of a cricket score. I am sure that I was not alone. The new Chelsea midfield of Caicedo and Gallagher was performing well, allowing others to move forward to exploit the tiring Everton defence. We kept to the same script and were rewarded in the sixty-fourth minute when Madueke tumbled after a crude challenge by James Tarkowski. The referee quickly pointed to the spot.

The madness that then ensued caused unnecessary tensions in the stadium, both on the pitch and off it. While Palmer, who had fallen just before the foul on Madueke, gathered himself, there seemed to be a feisty altercation on the penalty spot between Madueke, Jackson, Silva and Gallagher. In everyone’s mind, Palmer was the obvious – and only – choice for the penalty. Madueke and Jackson seemed to have other opinions. Silva and Gallagher wrested the ball away from Madueke, who flounced off in a pathetic strop.

Palmer placed the ball on the spot.

Palmer scored.

Chelsea 5 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan asked me to name the last occasion that we were 5-0 up at home in the league. I could only think of that magnificent game – better than this one – in November 2016 when we beat Everton 5-0.

(The correct answer was Norwich City in 2021 when we went in to win 7-0.)

Mauricio Pochettino made some changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Madueke.

Madueke had played well, but had blotted his copybook with his stupid tantrum on the penalty spot. I expected a few boos, but there were hardly any.

The Everton fans, wh had sreadfastly resisted the desire to return to Merseyside began to leave en masse.

More changes came.

Cesare Casadie for Palmer.

What a player this young lad is. Twenty goals for our number twenty this season, level with a certain Manchester City totem. The applause for Palmer was loud and sustained.

Ben Chilwell for Mudryk.

Not Mudryk’s best game, not his worst, he was applauded too.

Thiago Silva was serenaded on many occasions during the game, especially with him defending down below us in the second-half. I am sure that everyone wants to let him know how much he is loved in these last few weeks of his Chelsea career.

Two more late changes.

Alfie Gilchrist for Gusto.

Another decent outing for young Gusto, who was warmly applauded.

Deivid Washington for Jackson.

Jackson is getting there, there are improvements taking place, and he was applauded too.

In the ninetieth minute, a cross from the left by Chilwell eventually fell to Alfie Gilchrist. The youngster took aim and fired a strong shot past the hapless Pickford and a huge roar enveloped the stadium. It was, of course, his first goal in the first team. The scorer raced towards the corner flag and seemed to be accelerating as he ran on. I thought he was going to keep on running onto the West Stand forecourt and down the Fulham Road before eventually stopping at “Chubby’s Grill” or whatever it is called these days for a hot dog and onions.

Fackinell.

The joy in Alfie’s celebrations warmed us all up on a very fine night at a cold – Cole Palmer cold – Stamford Bridge.

Whisper it, but our team is slowly coming together. Those glimpses of quality are becoming more frequent. In our last two home games in the league we have scored ten goals. We have a difficult run of games to finish this season, but let’s see how high we can get.

Next up we meet Manchester City in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley, bloody Wembley.

See you there.