Tag Archives: Blackburn Rovers

Tales From My Blackburn Scrapbook

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Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 1 November 2023.

Treacherous waters ahead…

But first, we hoped, a little respite in the form of a home tie in the season’s Carabao Cup against Blackburn Rovers. Here was a game that we should win, surely?

This was another early start for me; a 4.30am alarm ahead of a day’s toil that would allow me to pick up my three usual passengers at 2pm. We were all well aware that Storm Ciaran was soon to hit the south of England and so I hoped that the drive up to London would be ahead of the expected rainstorms and gales. I would, we presumed, have all of that to contend with on the return drive home after the game. PD kept saying that the rain was due in London at 9pm.

On the drive towards the capital, the skies to the east and the north were fine, devoid of much cloud, and all very pleasant. However, behind me, in my mirrors, dense grey clouds haunted us most of the way but thankfully did not hit us.

Already through to the quarter finals were Port Vale and Middlesbrough. Could there possibly be a case of me tempting fate by writing about Port Vale in my previous match report? Should we get through later in the evening, an away game at Vale Park would undoubtedly be my favourite draw. The last time we played them was in 1929, almost a century ago. Alternatively, Ipswich Town would be decent; Portman Road is a ground that I am yet to visit. Alternatively, an away game in Newcastle or in Middlesbrough or in Liverpool or in Manchester would severely test me. Ouch.

At just after 5pm, I trotted into “The Rylston” to join up with PD and Parky, who I had dropped off forty minutes earlier. They were with Salisbury Steve’s mate Sam. I ordered some food and we chatted a little about the club at the moment. I could not lie; I told the boys that I honestly wondered if we would – could? – pick up a single point from the next treacherous six league games. I stayed in “The Rylston” for an hour and then an hour was spent in “Simmons” where there was a little pre-match meet-up between some friends from the US. I enjoyed a natter with Nick from California, Tim from Texas and Kim from California. I left the bar just after 7pm and was amazed, but pleased, that the rain had not yet hit.

Tickets for this game were back at the £26 level. Well done Chelsea.

Blackburn Rovers, eh? It has been a while.

In fact, the last time that we had met them was the weekend before a certain game in Munich in 2012, a narrow 2-1 win. In that game, we wore the 2012/13 kit and I hoped that it would not be worn in Munich. I did not like the precedent of the 2008/9 shirt being worn in Moscow. On that day, we thought that we had seen the last of Didier Drogba at Chelsea. After the game, the FA Cup was paraded and Roy Bentley made the Matthew Harding laugh with his antics. It was a lovely day, almost dreamlike from this point in time in a little less optimistic 2023.

Blackburn Rovers were relegated that season and have been battling to get back to the top flight ever since. They suffered relegation to League One – I still like to call it Division Three – in 2016/17 but were promoted the very next season.

I used to like going up to Ewood Park. On a few occasions I travelled up with my Rovers mate Mark, including my first visit in 1994/95, a 1-2 loss. There was a game in 1995/96 when I watched with my mate Alan in the home seats when we lost 0-3 and we were immediately sussed when we didn’t spring to our feet when Rovers’ first goal went in. In more hostile environments, we would not have got off quite so lightly.

There was the Gianfranco Zola debut in 1996/97 when Chelsea completely filled the lower section of the away end, but also had some fans in the top tier too, a healthy 4,000 in total. A fine game ended 1-1 on that occasion.

There was a game that I watched with Mark in a hospitality suite in 1997/98 as guests of a supplier for the toiletries company that we worked for. Until the opener this season, it is the only Chelsea game where I have “gone corporate” and it was an odd experience. The two of us had watched a Rovers vs. Villa game from the same hospitality suite the previous season too.

I have been up there eleven times in total, but all at the redeveloped Ewood Park, none at the original version. I missed the two most famous away games up there in recent years; the 4-3 win in 1998/99 and the 1-0 win in 2004/5, both mid-week games and difficult for me to reach.

The last time that I saw a game at Ewood with Mark was in 2003/04. By then Chelsea were the un-loved money men where once Blackburn Rovers held that mantle. One wonders if the media would have been so against Jack Walker and Roman Abramovich had their monies gone to more favoured teams on Fleet Street. I think we know the answer to that question.

Arguably our most famous game ever with them was the FA Cup Semi-Final at Old Trafford in 2007, a nice 2-1 win.

Of course there have been plenty of games at Stamford Bridge too. The first one for me was the opening game of 1988/89 when our terraces were closed due to the near riot against Middlesbrough. On that day, just 8,722 saw us lose 1-2. Depressing times.

I also remember the last game of 1995/96, a 2-3 loss, but acknowledged by everyone at Chelsea as the game in which the fans played a major role in determining the next Chelsea manager. Glenn Hoddle was to take over as England manager from Terry Venables and according to the English press, Ken Bates’ mind was full of George Graham as the replacement. The Chelsea choir had other ideas.

“You can stick George Graham up your arse.”

We serenaded Ruud Gullit that Sunday afternoon. He was soon named as our manager. Job done.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.15pm.

Still no rain.

Rovers only had 3,000 having turned down the chance to have more. This surprised me somewhat. On the Shed balcony were two away flags. One simply said “Darwen BRFC” and I quickly messaged Mark. It is his home town. It was Mark who first spoke to me about Adidas designer Gary Aspden – himself a native of Darwen – about his collaborations with the sportswear giant and the Spezial range especially. It was his story which eventually lead me to tracking down Carlos Ruiz at his incredible shop in Buenos Aires in 2020.

Just before kick-off, a brief flurry of texts.

Chris : “Good luck.”

Mark : “Not expecting much.”

Chris : “That’s OK. Neither am I.”

Good God, that Rovers away kit was shite.

Us?

Nice to see Benoit Badiashile back in the team. Reece James was starting again. Enzo back. Jackson too. And “Les”. No Mudryk.

Sanchez

James – Disasi  – Badiashile – Cucarella

Ugochukwu – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

The Rovers team included solidly British and Irish names such as Brittain, Hill, Carter, Pickering Wharton, Travis, Moran, Garrett and Leonard, whoever they were.

I used to be able to name the Blackburn Rovers team, nay squad. Sigh.

At least I recognised their exotic-sounding manager Jan Dahl Tomasson, who once briefly played for Newcastle United among others.

As the game kicked off, I presumed that the folk from Blackburn, Darwen, Accrington, Rawtenshall, Oswaldtwistle, Clayton-le-Moors and Ramsbottom would be singing songs throughout the evening about Burnley Football Club.

It’s their thing.

The game started.

Still no rain.

We were treated to a very rare occurrence at the kick-off as Enzo pumped the ball up towards Nicolas Jackson who got a shot in from an angle within ten seconds of the whistle.

It was a decent enough start, though it hardly got our pulses racing. Unsurprisingly, the away team were in no mood to attack and aimed to soak up pressure. Raheem Sterling, away in the far corner, cut inside and there was a strong penalty appeal as he tangled with a defender. Enzo then released James down the right but his shot was low and straight at the Rovers’ ‘keeper.

Our play deteriorated a little and there were some moans around us. Rovers tried to get in the game but their attacks were rare. The noise, even from the away support, was not great. The three of us – PD, Alan and I – sat with our arms crossed. We must have looked as grumpy as hell.

There was an easy save from Robert Sanchez down below us as Rovers threatened a little.

At last, something to cheer us up; we witnessed a sublime spin and turn from Cole Palmer on the half-way line. In fact, it was Palmer who produced most of the pleasing play in the opening period. His touch, skill and awareness was a constant treat. Enzo set up James again, and our right back advanced to find space but his low shot was drilled low and eventually wide of the far post. A fine shimmy from Enzo allowed him to create space but his weak shot was kept out by the Blackburn ‘keeper.

On the half-hour, a short corner was worked well – for once – and Conor Gallagher lofted a cross into the six-yard box. The ‘keeper flapped at it and the ball fell towards a Chelsea player.

I snapped with my SLR.

In it flew.

Who was the scorer? Ah, the returnee.

Badia – Badia – Bing.

We were 1-0 up.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

The Matthew Harding reprised one of its current songs.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

I found it reassuring when I heard Alan solemnly comment that he refuses to sing that song. I refuse to do so too. I would feel uncomfortable singing that man’s name, giving him some sort of recognition.

I have already heard enough from Todd Boehly to regard him as a fool.

The away team mustered up a late effort on goal in a rather dull first-half, but Andrew Moran’s effort faded past Sanchez’ far post. Our ‘keeper had completed a couple of Word Search puzzles in that first-half.

At 9pm, as PD predicted, rain.

There was a slight scare at the very start of the second period when an early Chelsea attack broke down and Rovers attacked down the right. Harry Leonard just about kept ahead of the chasing pack but his shot was hit meekly wide, with the watching three-thousand away supporters no doubt trying to suck the ball in.

We improved in the second-half.

I loved an early through-ball that Enzo pushed forward early and into space. Two Chelsea players attacked the ball but the chance evaporated. But I loved this variation to the tap tap tap of balls being pushed around for the sake of it.

Sterling started to dazzle and he set up Enzo, who again left his shooting boots at home, a tame effort straight at the ‘keeper. It was then Palmer’s turn to shake off a defender with some fancy dancing, and he created an angled shot that flew over via the ‘keeper’s fingertips.

On the hour, the two players then combined, Palmer stealing the ball from a Rovers defender and feeding it inside to Sterling, who curled a fine shot into the goal, clipping it around the closest defender. It’s becoming his trademark goal. I snapped that one too

Get in.

[thinking : “Vale away next please”]

We had heard that West Ham were beating Arsenal, Newcastle were winning at Old Trafford. My mind drifted a little as I played with various scenarios. We had all admitted pre-match that getting to a League Cup Final, or even a semi-final, with this current team and squad in its current state of health and mind would indeed be something to celebrate.

What’s that saying about cutting cloth accordingly?

Once proud Chelsea, serial-winners, getting excited about a League Cup Final?

Yes. Absolutely.

It’s amazing how a – relatively – poor spell re-jigs expectations and aspirations. I think most of my close mates would kill for a stint in the Europa Conference next season.

A couple of substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

We could relax a little now. Sterling set up Jackson who lazily blasted over. He was not having a great game. There was more trickery from Palmer and a low shot from outside the box. The ball took a deflection en route and hit the base of the post. A low shot from Gallagher went just wide. We were treated to The Sterling Show, with one mazy dribble into the heart of the Rovers’ penalty box drawing gasps from us all.

Two more substitutions.

Moises Caicedo for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Palmer.

The away team broke through our ranks but the strong fist of Sanchez thwarted the low shot from the substitute Sigurdsson.

It stayed 2-0.

A much better second-half, with Sterling excellent.

On the walk back to the car, the rain continued, but the drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset was not as bad, truthfully, as on Saturday. However, the road near my house was even more flooded than on Saturday so I avoided it and quickly adjusted the last half-a-mile. I reached home at 12.45am.

Oh, another home draw, awaits us in the Quarter-Finals; Newcastle United.

Vale Park will have to wait until the Semi-Final.

Next up…groan…Tottenham away on Monday evening.

See you there.

1988/89

1995/96

1996/97

1997/98

2003/04

2011/12

2023/24

Tales From A Fun Time

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Burnley vs. Chelsea : 7 October 2023.

Oops, I had best call it a proper fun time. It seems to me that everyone in London, and maybe beyond, uses “proper” at every opportunity these days.

Here’s how it happened.

The planning for this game in Lancashire began a long time ago. When it became evident that there would be no European adventures for Chelsea Football Club in 2023/24, we soon realised that we would really miss these excursions to distant locations. We therefore decided to fully make the most of this domestic season and would aim to stay over at a few Northern towns and cities. Once fixture lists were announced, and then the fine tweaks duly followed, I jumped into action. Rather than visiting Turin, Milan, Nuremburg and Salzburg as we did last autumn, this season’s early adventures would feature stays in Burnley, Newcastle, Manchester and Liverpool.

With a hospital appointment imminent, Parky was unable to take up his place on this trip and so was replaced by PD’s son Scott. Glenn would join us too. I booked our accommodation; a house that was only a fifteen-minute walk from Turf Moor. There would be a room each for about £40 each. It looked decent. We anxiously waited for the days to drift past. The Monday game at Fulham came and went. Another win, two on the trot, could we make it three in a row?

I picked up the chaps in Frome at 6am and headed north. We stopped off for a quick bite to eat at Strensham Services near Worcester at around 7.30am and then made excellent time. We all recognised the approach into Burnley; I always make a point of acknowledging those terraced houses with the grey slate tiles to the west of the town centre and those brooding Pennine moors to the east. We drove close to the digs on Leyland Street but aimed for the Queen Victoria pub instead. This would be our base camp. We walked in to the pub, which sits adjacent to a quiet curve of the Liverpool and Leeds Canal, at 10.28am. We soon found out that alcohol was to be served from 10.30am.

Perfect.

I may or may not have uttered my line about working in logistics.

Unbelievably the pint of “Madri” – a relatively new addition, Spanish sounding, but English – was my very first alcoholic drink of this football season. For all of the previous twelve Frome Town and nine Chelsea games I had driven, and thus not been tempted by a single bevvy.

And you know what? It didn’t taste particularly nice. Maybe I was a changed man. I followed it up with a “Diet Coke”, but only because I had to drive the car back to the digs for an early check-in at midday, and I just didn’t want to tempt fate. I almost enjoyed the “Coke” more than the “Madri.”

I walked back to the pub in only five minutes.

“Great digs lads. Really nice.”

Deano and Dave from further west and north, Silverdale in Lancashire, had joined us. The pre-match chat was animated and surprisingly varied. I told a story from another time.

“Just after the Second World War, maybe when she was sixteen or so, my mother spent one summer in the Land Army, as a Land Girl, I think in Sussex. She befriended a girl, Muriel, from Burnley, and she once travelled up from Somerset to Burnley by train to spend a few days in Burnley at Muriel’s house. I wonder what my mother would have thought about a son of hers staying in Burnley almost eighty years later.”

I suddenly felt old, the town felt old and the memories of my mother talking about that visit seemed positively ancient. I paused by myself for a moment, thinking about Mum’s journey from a bucolic Somerset village to a grey mill town in post-war Lancashire. That must have been a drastic contrast for my mother. I pondered if there has always been a “north/south divide.”

I had told my good mate Mark, a Blackburn Rovers fan, that I would be staying overnight in Burnley, and I was only surprised that he did not pepper me with abuse. Blackburn and Burnley are two ends of a great divide too. There is no love lost whatsoever.

I also remembered the time, in November 1996, when my mother and I stayed at Mark’s mother’s house in Darwen one memorable weekend. Mark and I had lost our fathers within a year of each other and there was a bond that soon grew. Our mothers had lots to talk about as they wandered around the shops of Bolton while Mark and I went off to Ewood Park to the match. It was Gianfranco Zola’s debut, the 1-1 draw. I am sure that my mother’s stay in Burnley, almost exactly fifty years previous, was mentioned on a few occasions

In 2023, Mark’s text message was simple.

“Just beat them.”

I was warming to the pints of “Madri” and a few other Chelsea faces were flitting around; Spencer from Swindon, Mark and his father Chris – I always call him “Mr. Pink” for the shirt that he always wears at away games, plus a few more.

I didn’t know this, but PD told me that his first-ever football game was a 0-0 draw at Eastville between Bristol Rovers and Oldham Athletic in the mid-‘seventies. He went with his father and he hated it.

“Dead boring.”

I was hoping to tie down the exact date, but there are a few choices; Bristol Rovers drew 0-0 at home to Oldham on 26 August 1976, on 24 September 1977 and on 24 March 1979. I think PD was going to Chelsea by 1979, so that very first game was either in 1976 and 1977.

I asked Deano how he first became part of our extended family clan. It officially started when he was watching England play cricket in Barbados. He watched our FA Cup game at Wigan Athletic on a TV in a bar on 26 January 2008 (that date is easier to pin down) alongside mutual friends Pauline and Mick and the rest, as they say, is history.

It was 2pm and time to head to the ground. We strode past our house – a new build – on Leyland Road, but I was lost in thought as I wondered if the older terraced houses opposite might have housed Muriel’s house in 1946. The sun was beating down and everything was perfect in my immediate world. We slid past the cricket club, where hundreds of Chelsea fans were enjoying beers, with many stood outside on the boundary.

The façade to the main stand at Turf Moor has had a lick of paint since our last visit eighteen months ago, so I inevitably took a few “scene setter” photos before joining up with the lads in the large awning outside the away end that housed a busy bar. It was only pint number four. This was quite a gentle start to the day’s drinking from me. The songs boomed around the tent. I chatted to a few friends.

I soon met up with Alan, John and Gary in the seats and Scott joined us too. PD was a few rows behind us, with Glenn and Deano close by also.

I like Turf Moor, a nice mix of old and new, but I am not a fan of how the corners opposite have been infilled with executive boxes, a little like Craven Cottage. I used to like peering into the gaps and spotting smoking chimneys above terraced houses, and a glimpse of the hills behind. Maybe I am just too much of a football romantic. They only hills that can be seen now at Turf Moor are a thin slither away to the right, squeezed between the away end and the slight stand that runs along the touchline.

Thoughts turned to the game, to the team.

During the week, I had re-read my match report from the game at Fulham in January to contrast what I had just written about Monday’s match. To my absolute surprise, I was amazed that only Thiago Silva had played in both games; from January to October, just this one player linked both teams.

This actually saddened me. Some of the players from January had been passengers at times but at least I knew them.

This lost were just new.

I don’t really know them at all yet.

Maybe this would be the day that this would change.

The teams walked diagonally onto the pitch. Both clubs in their traditional colours. No real surprises in our team.

Sanchez

Cucarella – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Palmer – Broja – Sterling

The Chelsea crowd were in fine form but there were a few unsurprising boos as both teams kneeled before the game began. Despite a few beers, I had not yet joined in with any of the pre-game songs. Forty-seconds in, the away choir aired “Amazing Grace” and I was sucked in.

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

The sun shone down on Turf Moor and the players danced in and out of the shadows.

“Come on Chels.”

For the first quarter of an hour, we absolutely dominated the ball. Raheem Sterling was involved but exuded that hard-to-like mix of skill and spill.

On thirteen minutes, he was set free by a fine pass from the educated boot of Cole Palmer. He turned inside and we all shouted “shoot!”

He did, but the ball narrowly evaded the far post.

“Ooooooh.”

Then, a real calamity. The home team broke quickly on their right, and Axel Disasi was easily passed. The ball was pushed from Vitinho to Lyle Foster who in turn found Wilson Odobert outside. Marc Cucarella was unable to block the shot and he calmly slotted low past Robert Sanchez.

And just like that, with one attack, we were losing.

It was all too easy.

Fackinell.

A quip from Gary.

“There’s more holes in our defence than in Gallagher’s socks.”

Our play deteriorated, with little variation. Not for the first time nor the last time, we were obsessed with hitting the wide men. On a couple of occasions, a huge tract of land leading right through the central area, from Silva to Broja, was clear, yet we chose to go laterally.

We needed to give Broja something to sniff.

I heard voices in my poor head of TV experts talking about “passing lanes” and I wondered if our passing lanes were so poorly marked – maybe like motorway lanes that are festooned with temporary markers – that nothing is clear, nothing is simple, chaos reigns.

Burnley themselves had the occasional sniff.

We created only half-chances; not good enough from Sterling nor Enzo. The songs and chants continued to cascade down from the supporters all around me, but this was becoming difficult to watch.

Then Sterling, our most consistent threat in a poor half, went close at the near post.

Just before the break, with a few Chelsea supporters heading off to get served in the tight concourse below, I was making a few notes on my phone and therefore missed the equaliser. Was it a goal from Sterling or was it a deflected own goal? I did not know.

It was 1-1 and thank heavens it was.

At the start of the second-half, Nicolas Jackson took over from Broja.

As the game re-started, I decided to sit down, such was my lack of enjoyment and involvement with the game. This really is unlike me. I feared for humanity.

Thus, to go along with me missing the goal, I also missed the apparently reckless foul on Sterling that lead to a quick penalty decision. But of course, VAR had to poke its nose into everything so there was the usual delay – which surely favours the ‘keeper rather than the penalty-taker – before the decision was upheld. It was so obvious a penalty that the VAR decision was applauded by nobody in our end. Jackson had grabbed the ball, but it soon ended up in the hands of Palmer.

He slotted it home nicely.

I captured it on film, maybe making up for earlier errors.

Get in.

The Chelsea crowd roared as the scorer raced down to the corner flag to celebrate.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD” – plus a photo of Alan too.

Smiles all round.

One lad to our left was seen wearing the away shirt from the new “Chelsea Collection” range. This much derided kit, home produced in 1986 for one year only, was hated by virtually everyone at the time; crap design, crap quality, crap Millwall badge. Yet, here we are almost forty years later, and the club has re-issued it.

It’s proof, if any is needed, that people will buy any old shite.

But I spotted some flaws.

“Both the jade and the grey is too dark, Gal.”

We joked about it further.

“If you hold it up to the light, an image of Ken Bates appears.”

“Like a hologram.”

“Like the Turin Shroud.”

We chuckled.

On fifty-three minutes, Burnley forced a fine finger-tip save from Sanchez at the other end, Odobert the threat once again.

Scott began to bang the metal panels next to him and the crowd responded with loud shouts in support of the team.

On sixty-five minutes, a really fine counter. Moises Caicedo broke up the play, pushed the ball to Conor Gallagher and found Sterling in the inside-left channel again. The whole away end sensed a goal. How quickly things had changed. He calmly struck low past James Trafford in the Burnley goal and the scorer again drifted down to the corner to celebrate.

It seemed we were on fire in this increasingly impressive second-half. On seventy-five minutes, we attacked with pace and venom again. There was a ball out to Sterling and I honed in on his facial expression. His face was lit, his eyes were popping, he was full of joy. He attacked with the ball at his feet, and it seemed to me that his whole body language was saying “this is my moment, this is what I do well, just watch me.” I looked up to see an unmarked Palmer at the far post. Sterling had seen him too. His long cross was just perfection. But Palmer, rather than smash it at goal, took a touch and moved it inside to Jackson who was positioned centrally. He was marked tightly, but a quick spin and the defender was out of the game. The striker then tapped the ball in.

It was a wonderful goal.

Burnley 1 Chelsea 4.

Down to the far corner again.

Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy.

Mauricio Pochettino made two late subs; Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling and Ian Maatsen for Palmer.

By then, it was all over bar the shouting, but there was a lot of that in the away end.

There was even a heavily tongue-in-cheek round of “We’re Gonna Win The League” and we all laughed.

I received a text from Mark.

“That will do.”

Indeed, it would.

I backtracked and realised that on my last four visits to Turf Moor, we had scored four each time.

28 October 2018 : Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

26 October 2019 : Burnley 2 Chelsea 4.

5 March 2022 : Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

7 October 2023 : Burnley 1 Chelsea 4.

Even Mark’s Rovers won 4-0 at Loftus Road.

Back at “The Queen Victoria” there was the warm glow of a victory mixed in with the warm glow of alcohol. We had bumped into a few more Chelsea supporters at the game and on the way back, and there was a lovely mood in the pub for a while. We were in no rush to move, so pints were ordered again and again. Eventually, Deano and Dave said their goodbyes, then the four of us walked back to the digs.

We then spent a couple of hours in Burnley’s town centre. We wished that it was busier, we wished that there was more of a buzz. There wasn’t. It’s no Newcastle. It’s not even a Middlesbrough. Still, we extended the evening in two adjacent bars; a lively bar with music where we downed an improbable mixture of pints, shorts and shots, while I got talking to some Corinthians fans from Sao Paolo.

Lastly, a solo pint in “The Boot”, but things were dead quiet by then, and the only others in the pub were a gaggle of locals sitting nearby, and three of the five women were wearing those leopard print tops much favoured by women of a certain age. It was time to leave. I had seen enough sterotypes for one day. I think we dropped into the first bar for one last nightcap, then we picked up a kebab at a late night chippy, then caught a cab back to our digs. It was about midnight.

“This isn’t our place.”

“Yes, it is, Chris. There’s your car.”

“Fackinell.”

It was time to call it a night.

It had indeed been a fun time.

Tales From A Winning Team

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Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 4 March 2023.

Chelsea versus Leeds United. It sets off something in the brain doesn’t it? It triggers, for me anyway, a deep link to my childhood and beyond. It’s a classic football rivalry, forged almost sixty years ago.

The memories of the 1967 FA Cup semi-final, the epic FA Cup final and replay in 1970, the battles on the grass and mud of that era, the idolised hard men in both teams, but then the hostilities off the pitch in 1982/83 and 1983/84 when both firms rejuvenated the rivalry along different lines, and then the new era of rivalry in the mid to late ‘nineties when games still engendered deep feelings of dislike between the clubs’ hoolifans and supporters alike.

It seems ridiculous that in light of the stature of Leeds United and with a nod to this ancient rivalry that still exists between us and our foes from West Yorkshire that this would only be our third league game against them at Stamford Bridge since 2004.

“Where have you been?”

Yet this fixture caught all of us at Chelsea Football Club at a low ebb. We were undoubtedly struggling on the pitch – shape, desire, creativity, leadership, confidence – and many of us in the stands, the pubs, the bars, the cars and many social media and internet chat sites were struggling too.

In the parlance of modern day living, I declared myself “Potter Neutral” and I explained this to a few friends around Fulham on the day of the game.

“I want what’s best for Chelsea. No doubt. Deep down I want him to succeed, of course, but as for the bloke himself, I am neither for nor against.”

If the truth be known, I cared a lot less about him than I ought to. The manager simply doesn’t inspire me. I don’t feel engaged by him. I am not stirred when I hear him speak. To be truthful, the sad fact is that I have rarely heard him speak. Our form has been so poor that I rarely watch our highlights on “MOTD” these days, and if I do, I usually avoid his post-game utterings.

The new owners – I am still finding it hard to figure them out too – seem to want to keep Graham Potter in charge for the foreseeable future, however, so I do feel duty bound to support him – or at least his team in the wider context – at matches as best as I can.

We are supporters after all, right?

I have never really understood the booing, or the planned absences from games, but that’s just me. Hundreds of other teams throughout this nation have endured greater disasters than us and many clubs’ supporters still show up week in week out.

Besides. It’s the weekend. What else are you going to fucking do?

Shopping? Get excited about a new kitchen? Wash the car? TV gaze?

Nah.

The new owners? There are undoubted reservations. My main worry is – to my eyes – this desire to colour a European football club with shades of red, white and blue, to somehow take the methodology of running a US sporting franchise – no promotion, no relegation, time to build over many years, farm teams, a different sports model completely – and jam it into the modus operandi and ultimately the psyche of our club.

Baseball, Clearlake’s forte, is a sport that I used to love with a passion, but as I have devoted more and more hours to football, my interest and working knowledge has dwindled. But baseball is a sport much loved by statisticians, nerds and geeks – God knows, I have met enough of them – and it makes me chuckle to think that a stat-based process of defining talent can work for football.

“This right-handed knuckleball pitcher has an awesome record in night games in the month of August against right-handed batters when the count is in his favour in late innings when there is a runner in scoring positions when he has had eggs over easy, bacon and hash browns – with grits on the side – for breakfast and when the batter has a Sagittarius birth sign and who is chewing Juicy Fruit flavoured gum.”

We’ll see.

Additionally, after the euphoria in many parts of our Chelsea-supporting community about the new owner’s brash spend-up in January, I can’t be the only one, surely, who now looks back on it with a little embarrassment?

All that money, so little cutting edge.

Again, we’ll see.

Ultimately, we all want a winning team on and off the pitch.

It had been a fine pre-match spent with friends from my home area, plus some from further afield. I have known Ollie for a few years and he had travelled over on Friday from his home in Normandy. I last saw him at an away game at Watford a few years ago. Ollie works on a toll-bridge and I love the story of him spotting Frank Leboeuf approaching his little booth. He quickly showed Frank his Chelsea tattoo. He comes over once or twice a season. I would imagine that COVID hit him so hard.

I also spent time with Jason and Gina from Dallas. I last saw Jason in 2016/17, the Manchester City home game, but this was to be Gina’s first game at Chelsea. There were photos with the captains Ron Harris and Colin Pates. We flitted between Stamford Bridge and “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham. Tickets were sorted, plans for upcoming games were made, the others got some drinking in.

Andy and his daughter Sophie arrived and I joined them in “Chit Chat Corner” for a lovely walk down memory lane.

Jablonec 1994.

Stockholm 1998.

Rome 1999.

Baku 2019.

I shared something that I had recently seen on “Facebook.”

It would appear that Chelsea, and none other than Manchester United, are in talks about setting up friendlies against Wrexham in the US in the summer, though these are just rumours at this stage. When I read this a few days ago, I was gobsmacked.

Wrexham? It would appear that Chelsea are no longer just a football club, but are now contemplating being a bit-part player in a reality TV series. Fackinell. What next? Chelsea versus the Kardashians?

Modern football, eh?

I had shared all this in a WhatsApp group and my pal Steve in South Philly commented: “Hollywood, baby.”

I remember tipping off Andy and Sophie about venues for a potential US tour back in 2020 – they were both very enthused about Nashville being heavily touted as a venue – but obviously COVID put a kibosh on those plans. With a season without a UEFA campaign looking quite likely in 2023/24, there is a part of me that has been quietly contemplating a trip to the US should our summer tour plans send us west once more.

“When the three of us are sat in a roadside diner in North Carolina this summer surrounded by families wearing Wrexham shirts and scarves, yelling “way to go” every ten seconds, we’ll look back and laugh about this moment.”

The mood in “The Eight Bells” was mixed. Everyone seemed to be full of laughs, but I have rarely witnessed a pre-match where there was such little optimism. Everyone was joking about where the next goal, let alone a win, would come from.

“If you gave me £1,000 and asked me to pick the score today, I’d definitely go for 0-0.”

At 2pm, we set off for the quick journey from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. There was a little band of Leeds lads exiting onto the Fulham Road – all the gear, Aquascutum scarves, CP and SI, dark jackets – and chants were exchanged, but on this occasion there was no hint of physical “afters”. This was clearly post-modern football hooliganism.

During the past week, a holiday for me, I had spent time on a magical mystery tour of the North of England and Scotland – Newcastle, Edinburgh, Liverpool – and my last port of call was at The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool, just off Lime Street. “The Art Of The Terraces” was an excellent graphic review of the times of our collective lives when the wedge haircut, rare clothing imports, rain jackets, trainers and all associated finery took over our working class lives and football terraces to such a huge extent that the mainstream media chose to completely overlook it. I laughed when I saw the exact same edition of “The Face” from the summer of 1983 that I still possess to this day on display in a cabinet.

Talking of 1983…

After the surprisingly fine 3-3 draw against Leeds United – who? – the next opponents were Blackburn Rovers on Saturday 26 February. We found ourselves in fifteenth place on thirty-two points, just four points above a relegation place. The visitors were in eighth place on thirty-nine points, but a full twelve points off a promotion berth. To my surprise, we won 2-0 with goals from Clive Walker and Peter Rhoades-Brown. In my diary on the Friday – my week had been crammed full of the agony of mock A-Levels – I guessed that the gate would be around 7,000. I wasn’t far off. It was 6,982. I wished that “guessing football attendances” was an A-Level subject. I might have done OK at that.

Incidentally, Colin Pates was featured in the Blackburn programme – “the first priority is to steer clear of relegation” – and I love it that his team mates John Bumstead and Paul Canoville, from 1982/83, all work for the club on match days to this day.

I was inside Stamford Bridge early. I spoke to Oxford Frank behind me. Neither of us were enthralled nor optimistic. There was a dull, grey vibe pre-match, certainly not befitting a tussle between such two fine rivals. I was tasked with taking a few photographs of the match mascots as my dear friend Gill’s grandson Elliott was one of the eleven taking part. There had been a nine-year wait. I found that staggering. We had a mascot in 1983 and I am sure there wasn’t a nine year wait in those troubled times.

I spotted that, at last, attendance figures had found their way into the current season’s programme, though not against each match as detailed in the fixture list but in a separate panel. Very odd.

The team? Still no out-and-out striker.

Kepa

Koulibaly – Badiashile – Fofana

Loftus-Cheek – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Sterling – Havertz – Felix

“Blimey. Ruben at wing back. He’s got the turning circle of the QE2. Any winger just needs to dink it past him and beat him for speed.”

“Potter must really hate Aubameyang.”

“Despite our January madness, Enzo and Felix definitely look good additions, decent players.”

Chelsea in blue, blue, white and Leeds in white, white, navy.

The game began.

It certainly seemed that there had been a collective decision among our support to put any personal grievances against the under-fire manager to one side and to wholeheartedly get behind the team. Within the first five minutes, a few of the old standards were aired, primarily by the MHL.

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

“Carefree, wherever you may be.”

“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC.”

There was a brightness to our start, with plenty of diagonals out to Ben Chilwell from various players. We were undoubtedly fired up and we soon tested Ilian Meslier down at the Shed End. There was a high-flying leap from Wesley Fofana but his header was high and wide. Our best chance came on fourteen minutes with a break from Kai Havertz, played in by Raheem Sterling, and we watched expectantly. Sadly, his attempted dink over the ‘keeper was clawed away.

Cue the usual moans.

Just after, a reassuringly loud “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” to the tune of “Amazing Grace” boomed around Stamford Bridge. Lovely stuff.

It was virtually all Chelsea with very few Leeds forays into our half.

On twenty-one minutes, the best move of the match thus far. We won the ball inside our half and Joao Felix pushed ahead before playing in Sterling on our right. The ball was then played back and into the path of Felix, who had supported the move well. His first-time effort from twenty-five yards crashed against the bar. The crowd were purring with appreciation, but in the back of all of our minds we began to wonder if we were in for another of “those” days.

On twenty-four minutes, a clean shot from Enzo, but straight at Meslier.

“He can strike a good ball can Enzo.”

On the half-hour mark, we had enjoyed virtually total domination. The away support seemed subdued, probably with reason, and were only able to be heard a few times.

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

Next up, a great chipped ball from Havertz found Chilwell out on the left-hand side of the box but his effort on goal was hit first time and went well wide of the far post.

On thirty-four minutes, a terrible tackle by Fofana, with limbs everywhere, was punished with a yellow card.

In the final portion of the first-half, a couple of dicey moments took place down below us as the visitors finally found confidence to attack in greater numbers. The ball was loose inside the box but Ruben Loftus-Cheek was on hand to thump the ball away in the six-yard box. Just after, a low cross into our box was also hacked away.

At half-time, there seemed to be a familiar story being played out on the pitch; tons of possession, but the lack of a finish.

The second period began. There was an immediate attack but after some neat passing, Sterling was unable to keep the ball down after a pull-back from Loftus-Cheek.

On fifty-three minutes, a corner was swung in – but out, away from the ‘keeper – by Chilwell down below us. Fofana met the ball with a perfect leap and the net rippled.

Get in you bastard.

I roared my approval but was still able to capture the scorer’s wild celebrations as he raced away; shame his leap is too fuzzy to share though.

The stadium was alive now.

Soon after, a song of self-deprecation.

“We scored a goal. We scored a goal. We scored a goal, we scored a goal, we scored a goal.”

Altogether now…phew.

A loud and proud “Carefree.”

I liked the way that all three defenders were playing, Kalidou Koulibaly especially, not always everyone’s favourite. There was a fine show, too from Mateo Kovacic, who chased and ran all afternoon.

However, the visitors showed some life. A shot from Tyler Adams flew over the bar. Then, a stab at the ball was luckily picked up by Kepa. For us, Sterling went close.

On sixty-eight minutes, Potter replaced Felix with Denis Zakaria and Sterling with Conor Gallagher.

On seventy-five minutes, Kovacic was replaced by Carney Chukwuemeka.

Not long after, just after a Leeds United move broke down, Chelsea had spare players in midfield but chose to move the ball slowly, almost at walking pace, rather than counter with pace and the Stamford Bridge faithful vented their displeasure. There were boos.

With the clock ticking away, the game became rather tense, and it really was no surprise.

On eighty-four minutes, Nino Madueke replaced Enzo.

With two minutes to go, Gallagher showed magnificent energy and desire to keep an attack live on the goal line in the far corner and send over a cross.

Late on, very nervy now, a cross flashed right across the face of the goal but thankfully there was nobody on hand to finish. Just after, Kepa dropped to save an effort from Mateo Joseph. In the very last minute, Meslier deserted his posts and came up for a corner. His header, thank the high heavens, was easily caught by Kepa.

At the final whistle, relief, huge relief.

At last a goal, at last a win.

On the last few steps of my descent of the stairs in the Matthew Harding, I overheard a fellow fan say “I can watch ‘Match Of the Day’ again” and I turned around to reply.

“And I can hear what Graham Potter sounds like.”

Next up, a potentially epic encounter with Borussia Dortmund on Tuesday evening.

I’ll see you in the bar.

Colin Pates : 1983 & 2023.

Tales From East Somerset To East Lancashire

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Burnley vs. Chelsea : 5 March 2022.

We were in the midst of a run of away games at venues that could well be described as “old school.” After Selhurst Park and Kenilworth Road now came Turf Moor. Many in our support hate a trip to Burnley’s home and many dislike the team too. Under Sean Dyche, and over the past eight seasons of top flight football, the team has become known for its rather rudimentary and physical style of football. But I love a trip to this particular corner of East Lancashire. I especially love the approach up to the ground from the town centre. I have shared a few words about this walk in previous episodes so I won’t repeat myself again. Suffice to say, it takes me back to an older time, and that is no bad thing. And in this old mill town, football goes back a long way. Burnley Football Club have played at Turf Moor since 1883.

I had set off from East Somerset at 7.30am and had made perfect timing. As I turned onto the M62 from the M6, the road signs soon indicated that I was in the middle of the old football heartland of England. There were signs for Manchester and Leeds, but also for Blackburn and Bury, for Rochdale and Oldham, for Accrington and Burnley. On my last visit to Turf Moor in the October of 2019, our pre-match took us to a pub in Clayton Le Moors. On this occasion, I had highlighted a pub in Accrington. But this was not just any pub. My destination was “The Crown Inn” and what made this pub so special was that it was right outside one of the entrances to Accrington Stanley Football Club. We arrived bang on midday.

This was just perfect. Burnley was only a ten-minute drive away. The pub looked warm and inviting. PD, PDs’s son Scott – on his birthday – and Parky ordered pints of lager, and I sipped at something a lot less alcoholic. It was time to relax for an hour and a half or so. A friend of a friend – David from Silverdale on Morecambe Bay, last seen at Anfield in late August – soon arrived and picked up a spare ticket.

I zipped outside to take a small selection of photos of the nearby Wham Stadium, a ground where I am yet to witness a game, looking neat and tidy in the winter sun. A local, who had been sitting in the pub when we arrived, walked past me on his way to watch Accrington’s away game at Portsmouth in a brand new hospitality suite that was opening for the very first time that day. He spoke to me about his joy of how the ground has been recently developed. The club has risen from the ashes after being turfed out of the Football League in the ‘sixties. He enthusiastically answered my question about the whereabouts of their old Peel Park ground which was evidently just a mile away.

“Where are you from, then?”

“Oh, Somerset. We’re Chelsea.”

“Are you going to the game?”

“Yeah.”

“Hope you beat those bastards.”

This was a view shared by a lad in the pub, who was drinking next to us with a mate. I had to ask of his allegiance.

“Are you Blackburn?”

“Oh aye. He’s a Knob Ender, like, but yeah.”

The fact that the two lads were watching Blackburn Rovers’ game at Craven Cottage – in SW6, of all places – was a clue, but nothing is ever a certainty in football.

In a space of five minutes, I had met supporters of Accrington Stanley, Blackburn Rovers and Preston North End. It was a perfect welcome to the area.

Back in 1888, all three clubs – plus the seemingly despised Burnley – were founder members of the Football League. It seemed just right that we should be drinking at the epicentre of the origins of the game in England.

All four clubs lie within twenty miles of each other. Bolton Wanderers, another inaugural member, are close by. The other seven clubs – Everton, Stoke City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, West Bromwich Albion, Aston Villa, Derby County and Notts County – are further afield.

At the end of our spell in the cosy pub, we wished each other well and the Blackburn fan said “I hope you beat them four nil.”

The short drive from Accrington to Burnley was a breeze. I must admit I love the sight of the naked Pennines to the north-east of the town and on this occasion they didn’t disappoint. I have noted before that other clubs might well be geographically more northern, but there is no club that is spiritually more northern that the one that resides along Harry Potts Way in deepest Burnley.

We nabbed what seemed like the last car park spot near the town centre and were soon walking towards Turf Moor. The cold wind almost cut me in two, but nearer the stadium, in among the terraced houses, the wind seemed to quieten. There has been a fair amount of gentrification of good old Turf Moor of late – a splash of paint here and there, the wooden seats in the away end have eventually been replaced, there are corporate tiers rising up above two of the corner flags and the Blackburn fan had warned us of every spare inch now being devoted to neon signage – but I liked how “Burnley Football Club”, in ‘sixties font, was still emblazoned on the old stand adjacent to Harry Potts Way.

There was time for one more drink in the awning adjacent to the away concourse and we then made our way to our seats in the away end. In that packed concourse, it again seemed that Aquascutum scarves were everywhere. It must have been the threat of the cold. As with my last visit, I was adjacent to the home fans, right behind the goal. A few very drunk youngsters stumbled in. I was stood next to Parky and Gary, but also Sophie – Porto 2021 – and her father Andy was two rows in front. PD and Scott were ten rows behind us.

The minutes ticked by.

The teams were shown on the two large TV screens in the corners.

Chelsea lined-up as follows :

Mendy

Chalobah  – Silva – Rudiger

James  – Jorginho – Kante – Saul

Mount – Havertz – Pulisic

Talking points? No room for Romelu Lukaku then, and I had no complaints. Saul at left wing-back? I trusted the manager.

The teams appeared. Chelsea wore the nasty and messy jade, orange and black. I suddenly felt nauseous.

There was an announcement from the PA that detailed a minute of applause for the people suffering in Ukraine. The teams stood in the centre circle. The scoreboard, the advertising boards, the balcony walls and the roof fascia all around the ground turned yellow and blue. I took a few quick photos and then joined in by clapping alongside thousands. I was far from pleased that hundreds of Chelsea fans decided at that moment – during the minute of applause – to yell out the name of our owner.

Sophie and I spoke.

“We’ve done ourselves no favours there.”

Indeed.

The timing of this support of Roman Abramovich was completely wrong. This was no time to roar his name. This was no playground pissing contest. This was a moment to show solidarity with the poor folk who were being shelled by Russian troops. It came over, I am sure, as a reaction against the minute of applause rather than a show of support for our owner. I just didn’t need it. Chelsea Football club didn’t need it. The locals a few yards from me were pretty livid. And I think they had a point.

Fackinell.

There were prolonged periods of debate about our recent funding between a few Chelsea fans standing nearby and some equally headstrong locals throughout the game. It was a sideshow that I didn’t warm to.

It was a dire first-half. In the first twenty minutes, Burnley – playing with light blue shorts at home just didn’t look right – easily carved out the better chances. Thankfully our defence were strong both individually and as a unit. As with the last visit – OK, not last season, that doesn’t count, I couldn’t even remember the score – Dwight McNeil looked dangerous on their right. Wout Weghorst is a big lump, eh? A cross from Aaron Lennon found Weghorst but that prince among men Thiago Silva was able to clear off the line. A few defensive headers at set pieces kept Burnley at bay.

Thankfully, Chelsea saw off the early Burnley pressure and saw more and more of the ball. However, a long shot from outside the box from Toni Rudiger, which the ‘keeper Nick Pope did well to smother at his post, was the only real effort on goal.

The locals to our left were noisy at the start of the game but neither Sophie nor myself could decipher much of it.

It’s funny how I sometimes pick on certain things during games. In that first-half, as we were positioned right behind the goal, it was so noticeable that on three or four occasions when Silva was bringing the ball out of defence, I noticed a channel of space right up the middle of the pitch – maybe five yards wide – with no players blocking a pass to a run from a player into space. Alas, there were no runners and thus no ball was pinged at pace into the final third. And if anyone could ping a crisp ball to feet it was Silva. It was so annoying. But this lack of movement encapsulated our play in that woeful first forty-five minutes. It was exasperating stuff.

With our goalkeeper only a few yards away, he was serenaded loudly with his own song.

“He comes from Senegal.”

Thankfully, the home team ran out of ideas and were pushed back by us.

Gary : “they’re playing for 0-0.”

Chris : “So are we, mate.”

On the half-hour, a ball was skied way high and Mendy had to time his leap to perfection. Sadly, he seemed to mist-time everything and his punch fell to Jay Rodriguez, but his shot was off target. We applied a little more pressure as the first-half came to its conclusion but created only half-chances.

In the crowded concourse, I crept past a few pals on the way to the miniscule gents. Our performance was summed up by myself in the briefest of ways.

“Shite, eh?”

The second-half began and how. Chelsea were now attacking us, the two and a half thousand members of the away army. With the second-half just three minutes old, I had a perfect viewpoint to watch Reece James collect the ball just outside the box with a defender immediately up against him. Some sublime skills – a beguiling mixture of twists and dummies – allowed him a spare yard. I expected a cross. Instead, the ball was drilled into the far corner, low at the post.

We erupted.

Reece beamed. His face was a picture as he raced off down to the far corner. We love our post-goal celebrations at the corner posts, eh?

Just five minutes later, a magnificent cross from the boot of Christian Pulisic was absolutely inch perfect, allowing Kai Havertz to leap and head in at the far post. Space was at a minimum. The header had to be as perfectly placed as the cross.

It was.

We roared again.

Two minutes later, we watched a cracking move involving Mason Mount, N’Golo Kante and James develop. A low cross was bundled home by Havertz from very close in.

Three goals in ten minutes. Bloody hell. Nobody could have expected such a blitz at the start of the half. Surely the game was safe? Maybe not. In 2019, we went 4-0 up with goals that included a perfect hat-trick from Pulisic, only for us to gift the home team two late goals.

The home fans were quiet now, with only the occasional song about “Bastard Rovers” to keep them warm.

Sophie joked that three goals in ten minutes had given us a false expectation as the second-half continued. As ten minutes and then twenty passed, we grew restless.

“Boring now, innit?”

I laughed.

With twenty minutes to go, Saul knocked a ball into the danger zone. James Tarkowski took a swipe in an attempt to clear but Pulisic was on hand to smash it in from inside the six-yard box. Thankfully there were no chants of “USA” – ironic or not – to accompany our fourth goal unlike in 2019.

Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

Excellent.

We had now scored four goals on each of my last three visits to Turf Moor. That Blackburn fan in the pub would be happy.

Thomas Tuchel made some late changes to rest weary legs.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for James.

Mateo Kovacic for Kante.

Timo Werner for Mount.

“Bloody hell, Soph, Ruben is playing right back now.”

We saw the game out. I summed the game up in one sentence.

“First-half everyone was 5/10, second-half 8/10.”

We shuffled out into the dusk of a Burnley evening and there was the usual amount of posturing behind the guard of two police horses from the home fans as both sets of supporters headed under the bridge on Harry Potts Way. We made it back to the car in double-quick time; it was our quickest ever exit from the town centre. A smash and grab raid? Maybe. As I headed west towards the M6 on top of the ridge of high land on the M65, the views of the Ribble Valley beneath the hills to the north and the peaks of the Lake District further west were quite spectacular.

Burnley never lets me down.

Next up, a long drive east to Norwich City on Thursday.

“Thursday?”

“So am I, see you in the pub.”

Tales From Lancashire

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Blackburn Rovers vs. Chelsea : 9 November 2008.

I had arranged to meet up with Jamie ( aka Crowtrobot ) at her hotel in Blackburn before the game. I knew there wouldn’t be much for her to see in Blackburn on the Saturday. I texted her to let her know that if she was struggling to find something to watch on TV, maybe The Remembrance Service from the Royal Albert Hall would be worth watching. I always like to catch this every November. I think it is something that the British do so well – nice and understated, but rich on ceremony. As a child, I always used to keep a watch out for the Chelsea Pensioners ( just the sound of the word Chelsea used to make me go all goose-pimply ). Then there is a moment when thousands of poppies are released from the rafters, each representing the life of a serviceman or woman lost in the defence of the things we hold dear.

“At the going down of the sun – and in the morning – we will remember them.”

I do like the idea of Pensioners leading us out for home games.

I set off for Blackburn – the stereotypical Northern town – at 7.45am…a sunny start to the day, the beech trees looking especially golden as I headed towards Bristol. Every time I drive through Bristol, I think back to 2006 and Jenni’s ( aka BlueBelle ) first ever Chelsea game up at Wigan. Jenni was staying with friends and I collected her en route. I’m lucky to be able to share all of these experiences with you lot.

This will make you laugh – as I drove past Bristol Temple Meads station, I glanced up at a billboard for the forthcoming pantomime at the local Hippodrome. It was starring none other than Mickey Rooney! 88 years old ( I’ve looked it up! ) and still working. Amazing! I told a few mates this at Blackburn and they responses were “are you sure?” I then doubted my sanity for thirteen hours until I spotted it again on the way home at 9pm. It certainly is a mad, mad, mad, mad world – I loved that film!

Lovely sun on the M5, zipping up past Cheltenham, but then – ominously – clouds at Birmingham, then rain at Stafford, then atrocious rain at Stoke.

I stopped for a coffee in the dry at Sandbach. Alan and Gary were en route too…they had left Chelsea at 6am. Depeche Mode gave way to the Cocteau Twins. As Winter Hill to my east was spotted – it overlooks The Reebok – I mused on the importance of a few venues in the North West to Chelsea Football Club…1905 – first ever league game at Stockport…1970 – first ever FA Cup at Old Trafford…2005 – first League title in fifty years at Bolton.

At last the roads were dry at Wigan. Darwen Tower was spotted ( looking like a ‘fifties space rocket ) and as I approached Blackburn, I saw signs for Burnley too, their hated rivals. Burnley is just 11 miles to the east, nestled under The Pennines, almost on the border with Yorkshire. I have a good mate who comes from Darwen – Mark is a Rovers fan and has told me Rovers don’t object to Bolton or Preston – they just abhor Burnley, or “the bastards” as he calls them.

I made good time and reached the Premium Lodge, just a mile south of Ewood at 11.15am. Time for a coffee with Jamie – I had brought along my 2007-2008 photo album to show her…around 220 photos from that emotional season.

We then parked up and made a beeline for The Fernhurst, the focal point for all Chelsea fans, as it is one of the few “away fans” only pubs in England. Unfortunately it was mobbed and it took ages to get served. The Nuneaton lot were well represented – about ten – and Lovejoy was right in the middle. I introduced Jamie to him. I had sorted a ticket for Mark Coden via one of the Nuneaton lot…said “hi” to a few people…then outside to meet up with Alan and Gary, nursing pints, in the porch. Cathy and Dog were nearby. We wondered if the eastern-European girl who was with Lovejoy in Rome was still around. Gary said he thought her Visa had run out. I replied that it was Lovejoy’s Mastercard that had more likely ran out!

The weather was shocking as we trudged to the ground. Bumped into Mark’s mates Lee and Jon. Good lads.

I demolished an excellent steak and ale pie, then found my seat, halfway back, behind the goal.

So – the same team as Rome, except Kalou in for Joe. A lot was made of the “poor” 20,000 gate on the radio, but – to be fair – Blackburn only has a population of 105,000. I think 20,000 is a fine effort to be honest. London’s eight million and its eight teams – the same pro rata figure would be gates of 200,000!

I made the point that I did wonder why, on such a dark day, we were wearing the all black kit. Received a text from Bob – now in Paris – saying exactly the same thing.

The conditions really were atrocious in the first-half…rarely have I seen the ball “hold up” on the pitch like it did. But I think we adapted a lot better. We had all of the play in the first-half and the much derided Paul Robinson made many crucial saves. Anelka was Anelka – good one moment, lazy the next. What an enigma. I was losing my patience with him…was just about to shout “Anelka – move!” as Bosingwa shot from a distance…it hit Anelka and just about made it over the line…much laughter. Me and my mouth! He had stayed completely still and had scored. I will shut up next time.

I guess we had around 2,000 at Blackburn…maybe a bit less…quite a few empty seats. Jamie was ten rows in front and loving being so near the players. The singing wasn’t great, but I think the damp conditions were to blame…pretty poor though, really. One or two nice “ZZs” from Martin.

The second half was a bit more open – and the rain had slowed – but we still had the edge. I thought Mikel and Alex – big men, not hindered by the greasy conditions – were our best players by a mile. Cech played well. But Deco was poor – really poor. Good 6 and 7s out of 10s for the rest.

A nice move and a slick finish from “Doves” and it’s looking great…safe. Say what you want about Anelka, but ten league goals so far! He should have scored a third, eh?

By the way, referee Chris Foy was awful…I commented that he seemed to be making decisions on things which had happened five minutes previously. What about that foul throw?

“Have another go, son.” A joke.

The final whistle…our sixth away win out of six…goals for 16, goals against 1. Just beautiful. We love it up north.

Jamie and myself raced back to the car and I dropped her back at Blackburn train station. Left Blackburn at 4pm…listened to the Spurs game…pah! Annoyed they took 3,000 to City. I guess they are all euphoric about moving out of the bottom three…ho ho ho.

I stopped for food at Knutsford – saw Mark, Jon, Lee – but was feeling really tired, so caught thirty minutes sleep in my car…the weather was awful on the trip south…there were signs for spray, wind gusts and standing water. Not enjoyable. It was really tiring. Had to stop for another coffee, but eventually reached a windswept Somerset at 9.45pm. Time to see the replay on “MOTD2 “ but I soon crawled to bed…

Rovers’ rivals next!

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