After the expedition north to the wilds of West Yorkshire during the week, here was an away trip that was a lot more agreeable.
AFC Bournemouth, to give them their rather annoying full name, play at the Vitality Stadium and it’s only fifty-eight miles from my house.
This would be a breeze; the car journey, if not the match.
PD shot off at 7am to collect Parky and I picked them both up in Frome at 8am, with Glenn shortly after. We were all chatting away during the first twenty minutes and I inadvertently took the slightly longer way down to the coast via Salisbury, through force of habit, rather than via Shaftesbury. It didn’t matter too much. We would be returning via Shaftesbury after the match since PD and I had remembered the lovely meal we enjoyed at “The Half Moon” pub a few years back, and we decided to repeat this.
PD remembered it well.
“We all had a starter of belly pork, and it was bloody lovely.”
“If it is a main course, I am having that again” I replied.
We had heard rumours that the weather was going to be wet and miserable in Bournemouth, but the weather was decent as I drove south. I was parked up at about 9.30am and we strolled into the Wetherspoons in the centre of the town, close to where the team stay at The Hilton, at about 9.45am. We have been using this as our base for this away jaunt ever since our first visit in the Premier League in 2015/16. This would be my tenth visit to the Vitality Stadium, on top of two visits to Dean Court in 1988 and 1994.
We devoured a typically good value breakfast.
The phrase “cheap and cheerful” fitted perfectly, and that’s the description of the breakfast and not PD, Parky, Glenn and me.
At about 10.30am we trotted upstairs to our usual tables and waited for enforcements to arrive. First to arrive was Johnny Dozen from Southern California, full of his miserable experience at Elland Road on Wednesday. Salisbury Steve and his son Leigh arrived. Dane from Bracknell joined us, as did Nick and his son Robbie and Nick’s brother Vince, who now lives in Dorchester and always pops up at Bournemouth.
After my bought with the flu, I was a little jaded and found the chit-chat a little tiring. I needed some fresh air inside me. I popped outside for about an hour and slowly walked through the park to the beach and the pier. Doing the same walk in 2020, I walked alongside the Chelsea squad for a few minutes. It was around midday this time and I suspect that “the walk” had taken place an hour or so earlier. When I returned to the pub, Jimmy The Greek joined us.
I include some photos of the beach and the pier to add some local flavour.
I also include a photo of what we called the “J12 Summit Meeting.”
At just before 2pm, I drove the two miles to the stadium. I have used “JustPark” on virtually every other visit to this ground but on this occasion, I surpassed myself. My parking spot was in a driveway on Thistlebarrow Road, no more than a two-minute walk to the stadium, or a four-minute walk to the away turnstiles.
There is never an issue getting my SLR in at Bournemouth.
Phew.
On this occasion, we – Alan, Gary, John and me – were further towards the corner flag, but only in the fourth row. It would hopefully be an ideal place to nab some up-close-and-personal photos.
As kick-off approached, there were no clouds in the sky.
Perfect.
The team was announced but I couldn’t stop thinking about that pork belly at Shaftesbury.
Sanchez
Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella
James – Enzo
Neto – Palmer – Garnacho
Delap
No surprises with the number of changes since the Leeds debacle. This looked and felt more like a Chelsea team that meant business. It would Cole Palmer’s first start since the game at Old Trafford way back in September.
We were subjected to the usual “make some noise…for the boys” nonsense from the PA announcer who sounded like he had just taken charge of a primary school disco and had been overdosing on “Panda Pops” and “Sherbet Dip Dabs”.
The game began.
“They owe us one, Chris” barked Gary.
Within the first real attack of the game, the home team managed to bundle the ball in via Antoine Semenyo, and it appeared that we were already up against it, shades of Elland Road. It took a while for my grey matter to realise that a VAR review was taking place, and thankfully the goal was chalked off.
Bournemouth had begun the game with a flourish, but thankfully we were able to withstand this early pressure, helped by another offside flag and a little luck.
We began to attack with a bit more solidity, but our final ball was wanting on many occasions. With twenty minutes gone, however, we were on top.
The Chelsea choir wasn’t too loud, but after Robert Sanchez’ decent showing at Elland Road, and elsewhere this season, an old song was reworked.
“He used to be shite. But now he’s alright. Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”
With that, a corner from Alex Scott in front of us was whipped in and Sanchez contorted his body to punch the ball away after the trajectory of the ball changed at the last minute. How I wish I had taken a photo of that.
A cross from Pedro Neto on the right was aimed towards the far post but Marc Cucurella headed over.
The ground was now shrouded in cloud. I hoped that the rain would stay away…
On thirty-two minutes, Liam Delap – who had struggled with the paucity of service – was injured and was replaced by Marc Guiu.
On thirty-five minutes, Sanchez reacted well to divert the impressive Semenyo’s low shot at goal, and thankfully Evanilson was unable to pounce on the rebound.
At the other end, Neto was faring better than Garnacho and curled a shot up and around the far post. It had been our best effort the entire half.
Yes, it really had been as bad as that.
We then fell apart in the closing minutes of the half as we called on Sanchez to save our bacon…
…mmm, pork belly.
Shots from Scott and Semenyo were parried. A rapid break in the final seconds thankfully resulted in a shot being flashed wide.
I was surprised that there were no Chelsea boos at half-time. Maybe everyone was in a football-induced stupor. It had been so quiet in all areas of the ground thoughout the first forty-five minutes. We might have controlled most of the possession, but our passing in the final third was very poor, and the home team probably deserved to be ahead at the break. Cole Palmer had began well, but got lost amid the mess of a very poor game thus far.
The second half began and we hoped for an upturn in our fortunes.
But again, the home team were on top as the game restarted.
In the forty-sixth minute, Marcus Tavernier dragged a shot wide when he really should have scored.
Five minutes into the second period…shock horror… a rasper from Pedro Neto was saved by our old friend Djordje Petrovic. It was the first time our former stopper had been tested.
Then, in a crazy spell – well, comparatively, let’s not get too fucking excited – we peppered the Bournemouth goal.
A Guiu header was saved, we hit the post via Garnacho and then shots from Enzo and Palmer were saved by Petrovic.
The noise levels within the stadium were still pretty low, but I liked the “In the net, Boscombe” chants from the home crowd who suddenly grew restless.
On fifty-eight minutes, Joao Pedro replaced the tiring Palmer.
A low shot from Guiu was easily saved.
On sixty-six minutes, a delightful shimmy from Garnacho – it was really enjoyable to see him go at defenders a mere five yards away from me – set up Guiu but he embarrassingly shanked it high and over the bar.
In the closing quarter of an hour, the travelling support somehow managed to make a little more noise; long overdue.
On seventy-one minutes, a strong shot from Garnacho grazed the far post.
On seventy-seven minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the Argentinian. This surprised me. Garnacho had been our most impressive player in the second half whereas Neto wasn’t at his best. I think Maresca took off the wrong wide man, but that’s just me.
The game detiorated.
There was an error from Malo Gusto and Semenyo pounced, but Sanchez was his equal, saving well at his near post.
The game finished with a lazy shot from the very disappointing Enzo that drifted over the bar.
It ended 0-0.
I was pleasantly surprised that hardly any Chelsea left until the final whistle. This was, at least for me, a big plus. Nobody likes to see empty seats in the away end at a Chelsea game well before the end.
I packed my camera away and sped back to the car.
From stand seat to car seat, it surely broke all records.
Glenn arrived, then PD and Parky.
It didn’t take me long to slide out and onto Wessex Way and I was soon heading north by north-west over the hills to Shaftesbury.
And it didn’t take us too long to dissect the game.
“Well, that was absolute dogshit, boys.”
“Yep. That stadium wasn’t full of any vitality today.”
“Both teams were awful.”
Outside, the night, and I drove on.
At about 6.15pm, I pulled into the car park of the pub in Shaftesbury.
We found a table and I grabbed the large menu.
“Oh great. It’s a main.”
Slow-cooked pork belly, served with creamy champ mash, braised red cabbage, roasted carrots with apple puree and cider gravy.
“Fantastic. Order that for me, Paul, I am off to turn my bike round, I’m bursting.”
When I returned, the waiter was still in conversation with Paul, a bad sign.
Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.
I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.
The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.
But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.
I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.
Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.
The Setting Sun.
I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.
Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.
A Little Bit Of America.
I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.
“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.
I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.
In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.
It got me thinking.
In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.
I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.
Pre-Match Razzle.
I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.
She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.
1985, eh? More of that later.
The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.
Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.
Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.
I tut-tutted, as per.
“The game’s gone.”
At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”
But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.
It wasn’t Chelsea.
Fackinell.
Us.
The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.
Anyway, this was us –
Jorgensen
James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Enzo – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.
Shut up mate.
Just shut up.
Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”
Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.
Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.
Wigan Athletic Away.
After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.
Sheffield Wednesday Home.
On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.
Sheffield Wednesday Away.
This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.
The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.
“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”
What a game.
Leicester City Away.
On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.
It was the done thing.
I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.
Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.
Brilliant times.
I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.
So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.
After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.
“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”
But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.
There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.
Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.
Let’s return to 2025.
First-Half.
Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.
Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.
Blimey.
That must be a record.
The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.
Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.
Who?
Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.
On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.
West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.
We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.
Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.
Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.
On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.
But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.
On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.
On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.
Fackinell.
Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.
Bollocks.
On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.
We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.
Must do better Chelsea.
A Half-Time Show.
During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.
Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.
At half-time.
While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.
The game is gone.
Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.
Do fuck off.
The Second Half.
The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.
Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.
Marc Guiu for Jackson.
Pedro Neto for Sancho.
Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.
West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.
On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.
“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”
More substitutions.
Christopher Nkunku for Madueke
Malo Gusto for James
Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.
First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.
Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.
“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”
Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.
Well done.
Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.
Smack.
The ball made it through a forest of legs.
Goal.
I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.
I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.
Oh bloody hell.
VAR.
A long wait.
Maybe two minutes?
Goal.
Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.
Fuck VAR.
It has ruined my favourite sport.
Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.
Palmer’s celebrations were muted.
Everybody else went ballistic.
GET IN.
Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.
On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.
There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.
At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.
It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.
I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.
Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.
4.45am to 3am.
Monday Night Football.
Thanks.
Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.
After the 3pm kick-off on the previous Saturday, I felt rather off-kilter as I made my way up to London with PD and Parky for a Tuesday evening game at home to Bournemouth. There is always a nice and natural rhythm to a run of Saturday games and one week seems to me like a perfect rest period for players and fans alike. After a week of inactivity – no Chelsea – most fans are chomping at the bit for the next instalment.
However, after a rest of just two days, the Sunday and Monday, we were at it again.
I had to chuckle after I had just after picked up the lads in Melksham and Parky, sitting at ease in the back seat, had commented “it’s tiring work, these midweek games” without a hint of irony.
Before setting off from Melksham, the football world had received the sad news that the former Manchester City player and manager Tony Book had passed away at the age of ninety. I would not normally mention things such as this, but Tony Book once played for Frome Town for a short while at the start of his career, which later took him to Bath City and Plymouth Argyle before joining City at the age of thirty. My father always told me as a youngster that Tony Book came from Peasedown, no more than eight miles from my home village, but it would appear that his home city was indeed Bath, but he played his first football for Peasedown Miners. There was a trial at Chelsea in his early years.
Tony Book was undoubtedly Frome Town’s most famous ex-player.
RIP.
As I stopped for fuel at Membury Services, I spotted that my mate Clive posed a question to me via a WhatsApp message.
“Who was the first British goalkeeper to win the European Cup with two separate teams?”
As I drove off, I had an idea, a strong idea, of who this might be. As I was driving, I asked PD to message Clive my answer.
I was pleased that I was correct.
Anyone have any ideas?
At around 4.30pm, I dropped the lads off along the Fulham High Street and they made their way to “The Eight bells.” Our pre-match activities were to differ on this occasion. I shot up to Charleville Road, just off the North End Road, to park up. I dived into an Italian restaurant and treated myself, but although the food was tasty, the portion sizes were miniscule and the prices expensive. Not even the charms of the two Italian sisters who work there might entice me back.
I shot off down to the re-opened “Broadway Bar & Grill” – formerly The Kings Arms – and met up with Mehul, originally from India, but now living in Berlin via a few years in Detroit. I last met up with him at Christmas 2019 on a boozy pub-crawl around Fulham. He was with his friend Pete, originally from near Swindon, and now living in Berlin too.
This was Pete’s first top-flight football match since Swindon Town’s lone season in the Premier League in 1993/94. Pete explained how Glenn Hoddle, who jumped ship to manage Chelsea after winning promotion for the Robins in 1993, is still referred to as “Judas” in Swindon circles. I can readily remember a Swindon Town supporter who worked as a fitter alongside me in a factory in Trowbridge, who had a snarling expression at the best of times, who seemed to hold me personally responsible for Hoddle’s deflection from his local team. Football, eh?
I explained to them both how Glenn Hoddle played an absolutely pivotal role in the upsurge in Chelsea’s fortunes over the past thirty or so years. Having seen Swindon’s entertaining football during the 1992/93 season on TV and at one game against Newcastle United, I can certainly remember being so thrilled to hear that he was to join us, despite his Tottenham past.
I made it to my seat at 1905, as good a time as any.
I noticed that Bournemouth did not take their full 3,000 allocation. It looked like the lesser 2,200 which resulted in a slightly different configuration to the away section.
The starting eleven caused a slight stir with Moises Caicedo again starting at right-back, but with Reece James and Malo Gusto available but on the bench. I was surprised that the long-term injured Romeo Lavia was the only player retained from the Morecambe game on Saturday. Would he be able to manage two games in four days?
Anyway, Enzo Maresca is the manager, he has the badges, while I will admit that I am a tactical moron.
This was the line-up :
Sanchez
Caicedo – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella
Lavia – Fernandez
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
I had said to various friends in the pre-match chitter-chatter that although three points were vitally important, it was just as imperative to play some good football, to see our confidence return, to “get back on the treadmill.”
The game began, and nobody could complain about our opening. There was an early Enzo miss from close in during the first few seconds, and on six minutes Cole Palmer had a free-kick saved by the Bournemouth ‘keeper Mark Travers. On nine minutes, there was a delicate lob from Palmer that drifted just past the frame of the goal. All of this was a pre-amble to a lovely piece of football on thirteen minutes.
The ball was pushed into Nicolas Jackson by Enzo, and despite being surrounded by three Bournemouth defenders – Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew – Nico managed to hold on to the ball with great strength and wriggle out of a tight space with the ball. There was a finely gauged pass to Palmer, who had made a run past three more Bournemouth defenders – Cuthburt, Dibble, Grub – to perfection. With the ‘keeper in front of him, just one man to beat now, he paused slightly, effectively a dummy, and as the ‘keeper fell to one side, Palmer cooly slotted the ball to the other side and into the net.
There were joyous celebrations all around Stamford Bridge.
Alan : “THTCAUN.”
Chris : “COMLD.”
I likened the cool finish to Jimmy Greaves. Alan likened it to George Best.
CFC 1 AFCB 0.
On twenty minutes, the away team enjoyed a little more of the ball, but we still looked in control. We seemed more tenacious in midfield than in previous games.
On twenty-eight minutes, Enzo showed some lovely close skill and forced a low save from Travers to his right from twenty yards out.
On thirty-two minutes, all eyes were on Noni Madueke who was faced with the prospect of having to beat two Bournemouth defenders. I caught on film his tight control, his acceleration, his changing body shape as he miraculously sped clear. His final decision – a shot and not a pass – was his downfall. It smacked the near post. If only.
On thirty-seven minutes, yet another piece of shambolic play from Robert Sanchez gifted the away team with their first real chance of the first period. He played the ball straight to Justin Kluivert – a pass intended for Palmer – and after a little pinball in the Chelsea penalty area, it was the same Bournemouth player who hit the base of the left-hand post. The ball was hacked away by Moises Caicedo down below us and again Jackson did ever so well to wrestle himself from a physical challenge, turn and sprint away. This was gorgeous football. Alas, his strike at goal hit the base of the left-hand post at the other end of the ground and it stayed 1-0.
On thirty-eight minutes, a deep curler from out on the right wing by Palmer evaded everyone apart from the leap of Jackson. His downward header was superbly parried by Travers, and the bouncing rebound was slashed wide by Jackson again.
Snot.
It was a real curate’s egg of a first-half. Good – no great – in parts, but with still an annoying number of wayward passes. We created way more chances than Bournemouth – as evidenced by the predominance of the name of Travers thus far – but it stayed, worryingly at 1-0.
The noise in the stadium was truly terrible too.
But you knew that.
I joked with Frank who sits behind me that “we can’t bring Cucarella on to liven things up because the fucker is already on.”
Ho hum.
The second half began, and we seemed to be sleep-walking during the opening moments which was a big worry. Three minutes into the half, the otherwise impressive Enzo gave a loose pass to Romeo Lavia, and it was snapped up. The ball was played to Antoine Semenyo and as he raced away. As he set himself to shoot, Caicedo bundled him over. It was a penalty all day long.
Kluivert smashed it high into the goal.
CFC 1 AFCB 1.
I loved the crowd’s reaction, immediately after the goal.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
The loudest of the night.
There was a bonkers foul by Lavia just after, and I was fuming. Just when we needed leaders to calm things down and to steady the ship, we gave away a cheap free kick. Thankfully it came to nothing.
I didn’t see the foul on Cucarella – the hair pull, give me strength – and I only saw the quite pathetic rolling around by Cucarella, no doubt screaming in agony. There was confusion as VAR got involved, players hounded the referee on the touchline, the referee seemed the centre of attention again.
A yellow, no red.
Pah.
On fifty-six minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia, with Caicedo trotting inside alongside Enzo.
On fifty-seven, a solid crunch of a tackle from Enzo, and the ball fell to Jackson, but that man Travers was able to save.
The away team grew in confidence. They were a well-trained unit that broke well. I said to Alan “we’ll do well to draw this.”
A Bournemouth corner resulted in a fine block by Sanchez from a shot by Brooks.
Just as I was thinking something along the lines of “well maybe if they attack us, we can exploit the space they leave behind them”, a rapid break down the inside-left channel cut us open and Semenyo, danced past Josh Acheampong way too easily and slashed the ball high past Sanchez with his left foot.
CFC 1 AFCB 2.
Fackinell.
Sixty-eight minutes had passed.
There was an immediate substitution. Although he had impressed against Crystal Palace, Josh had struggled here. He was replaced by Tosin.
A shot from Jackson was blocked by either Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthburt Dibble or Grub, I forget who.
With a quarter of an hour to go, I noted that there was a bit more fervour from the home support, thank heavens.
But Bournemouth still created two chances of their own with ten minutes to go, and our second-half fade, a trademark of late, was all too familiar.
On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution from Maresca.
Pedro Neto for Madueke.
Joao Felix for Caicedo.
There was a magnificent save from Travers, at full stretch, a header from Tosin from a Palmer free-kick.
Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.
More than a trickle of fans had decided to leave.
Four minutes in, from virtually the same position as the previous free-kick six minutes earlier, Palmer and James stood over the ball. It was Reece’s turn. I snapped as he struck. The ball stayed low and miraculously bent its way around the wall and nestled into the goal.
The net rippled.
What a sight that is.
CFC 2 AFCB 2.
Reece wheeled away in ecstasy.
Phew.
In the ninety-ninth minute, Tosin headed wide. No last-minute madness this time. It stayed 2-2.
It was, alas, only our third point out of the last fifteen. And the really worrying thing is that these five games were against teams that we ought to be beating; Everton, Fulham, Ipswich, Crystal Palace, Bournemouth.
Oh well, on we go.
Next up is a home game on Monday against Wolverhampton Wanderers.
Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.
My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.
Games on!
And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.
I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.
Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.
I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”
Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.
Thanks mate.
I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.
Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.
Or maybe not, eh?
Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.
First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.
“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”
Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.
On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.
In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.
During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.
I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.
Fackinell.
Back to 2024.
Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.
We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.
Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.
We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.
I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.
There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.
Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.
…little did we know.
The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.
“Is that a professional camera?”
“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”
“OK.”
I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.
I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.
Kick-off soon approached.
Flames, flags, smoke.
“Make some noise for the boys.”
Pah.
Us?
Sanchez
Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Veiga
Madueke – Palmer – Neto
Jackson
First thoughts?
“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”
Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.
The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.
The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.
We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.
It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.
Sigh.
Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.
“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.
Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.
The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.
Fackinell.
Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.
A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.
On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.
Penalty.
One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.
“Yeah, right.”
Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.
It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.
Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”
At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.
We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.
On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.
Tosin for Disasi.
Joao Felix for Madueke.
The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.
Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.
Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.
Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.
Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.
The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.
On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”
The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.
“Thank God there is no Game Three.”
Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.
Goal.
We exploded.
Talk about a “fox in the box.”
What a finish.
Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.
“Need to get a photo of this.”
I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.
I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.
Snap.
Phew.
I took the money shot.
There was still time for another Sanchez save.
The Sanchez and Sancho Show.
At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.
But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.
“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”
Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.
I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.
Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.
The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.
Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.
The Chelsea website would call this an entertaining game.
I beg to differ.
Here’s my take on the match at the Vitality Stadium, plus a few other football-related anecdotes thrown in for good measure.
Our home loss against Nottingham Forest – that match feels like it took place ages ago – was followed by a period of inactivity for Chelsea as the increasingly despised international break took over the football calendar. It took over my calendar too; I buggered off for an international break of my own in Italy and France.
I flew to Genoa and then took a train to Diano Marina on the Italian Riviera, a town where I have enjoyed many visits – and football-related incidents – since I first visited it in 1975. On the Friday, I caught a train to Nice, passing through Monaco, the scene of our first UEFA Super Cup win against Real Madrid, a fine trip that one. I met up with my good Chelsea friend Dave, who I had not seen since Sheffield United at home in 2019. We first met up in Los Angeles while on tour with CFC in 2007 and he has lived in the South of France since around 2016. We updated each other with our recent histories while enjoying a few lagers in a couple of bars. It was a joy.
On the Saturday and Sunday, my work colleague Lorenzo from Milan, and his wife Marina, met up with me in Diano Marina, and we had a lovely time walking west to Imperia and then east to Cervo along the site of the old Roman road the Via Aurelia. There were beers, fine food and tons of laughs. That I was staying in the same hotel that my parents visited during their first holiday to the town made my stay even sweeter.
On the Monday, before my flight home, I even managed to pack in a three-hour walking tour of Genoa; such an historic, cramped and photogenic city. It left me yearning for more. As fate would have it, I used the services of the same taxi driver on two separate occasions, quite by chance. He was a Samp fan, and also favoured Chelsea as his English team. As I left his cab, we toasted the memory of Gianluca Vialli. They idolise him in Genoa.
Incidentally, on the Thursday, as I darted in and out of a couple of bars near the city’s Piazza Principe train station, I spotted many folk wearing Genoa colours. I panicked a little and wondered if I had made an error and that they were playing that night, a chance to see a game at the Luigi Ferraris Stadium missed due to poor planning. I was to find out that the fans were instead off out to celebrate the club’s birthday, formed one hundred and thirty years ago to the day. It made me think; do any British fans celebrate their clubs’ birthdays with such a show of public affection? I think not. Maybe Genoa are a special case; Genoa Cricket And Football Club, as they are officially known, are Italy’s oldest club after all.
One last comment about my mini visit to the twin Rivieras of Italy and France. Over the five days of my stay, the most popular replica shirt that I saw?
Not Juventus. Not PSG. Not Milan. Not Inter.
Real Madrid.
I hate modern football.
As the following weekend approached, I had the English Riviera in sight.
Kinda.
On the Saturday, Frome Town were playing an FA Cup tie at Plymouth Parkway. This naval city is not exactly on the English Riviera, which the tourist boards of Torquay, Paignton and Brixham have chosen as their own moniker, but not too far away. On the Sunday, I had the Chelsea game in Bournemouth. The Dorset Riviera anyone?
The FA Cup game, a keenly-contested 2-2 draw in front of almost 400, was very enjoyable. Frome Town twice led through Owen Humphries and then James Ollis, only to conceded a late equaliser. The two teams would meet again the following Tuesday at Badgers Hill in a replay. This really pleased me; two Canadian relatives were to visit my local area during the week and had been keen to see a football match, any football match, in person during their short stay in Somerset. With the draw, they now had a game to watch.
Another North American tourist came into my plans, like a last-minute substitution, when I awoke on Saturday morning before my flit down to Plymouth. Tom, from Orange County in California, was staying at a hotel only two miles from my house and was angling for a place in The Chuckle Bus for the short trip to Bournemouth on the Sunday. Some strategic logistical planning quickly took place and everything was sorted. One Chuckle Bus became two, parking was arranged outside the Vitality Stadium, and everyone was happy.
Sunday soon arrived. I picked Tom up at the hotel at eight o’clock, but before we headed down to join up with Glenn, PD, Parky and Sir Les in Bournemouth, I treated Tom to a whistle-stop tour of both my home village of Mells and my home town of Frome.
I darted around Mells, quickly combining facts about the village – “fifteenth century church”, “Manor House”, “my mother was born in that house”, “I spotted Robert Plant outside that house last year”, “Fussell’s Ironworks”, “Little Jack Horner”– with a few football-related things too – “here’s where I kicked a tennis ball against the wall opposite my house, breaking many windows in the process”, “this is the school where I first became a Chelsea fan”, “I played for my village the first time here” before then heading into Frome.
We even had time to stop off – and step inside – Badgers Hill, the home ground of Frome Town, where I watched my first real football game in 1970.
I zoomed down to Bournemouth and we joined up with the chaps in “The Moon On The Square” at around 10.20am. It was wet outside. So much for the Riviera.
A few other friends drifted in as I ordered a light breakfast, and Tom ordered his second breakfast of the morning. Glenn said he’d attend the Frome game on Tuesday. There wasn’t too much talk about the Chelsea game. It had been such an underwhelming start to the season.
And not just at our club.
In many ways, I have been struggling further with football in general. In a rare and lucid moment before a Depeche Mode concert with my mate Dennis from DC, at a pub on the River Thames in Richmond in June, I stumbled across a phrase that summed it all up.
With a nod to my deepening alienation from top level players, my dislike of VAR, of UEFA, of FIFA, even the FA, the deadening of the atmosphere at games at Stamford Bridge, the entitlement of many fans, players’ obscene wags, late changes to kick-off times, blah, blah, blah, I summed it all up.
“I am not a fan of football, but I love being a football fan.”
I love the planning of travel to games, the sorting out of tickets, the driving, the endless driving, the drink-ups in the pubs, meeting new Chelsea friends from various places, the away days, the clobber, the laughs, the piss-taking, the banter, the memories…and I like being at games, live-games, taking in all in, the architecture of stadia, the history, the terrace humour…and I’d like to think I am a good supporter too, singing and cheering as much as I can, being there for the team…then there is the photography and the words in this blog.
I enjoy it all.
I love being a fan.
The football?
Not so sure.
We got drenched – absolutely soaked – on the short walk to the multi-story car-park. The two Chuckle Busses set off :
Glenn, PD, Parky, Sir Les, Daz in Glenn’s van.
Tom, two of Daz’ mates and me in my car.
We arrived at the same “JustPark” location – a large space outside a house on Littledown Avenue – at around 1.20pm. The rain still fell.
I was soon inside, evading the eyes of the tedious “bag gestapo” at the away turnstiles.
Made it.
A few “hellos” and a few handshakes in the away concourse…before I knew it “bloody hell, it’s ten to.”
Into the away seats we went.
The floodlights were on, the sky was dull grey, the rain still fell.
The teams appeared and Chelsea were to wear the newly-confirmed third kit of Eton Blue. For once, I approve; a nice nod to our inaugural colours of 1905. Typically, I was amazed how many of our new fans were blissfully unaware of the light blue racing colours of the Earl Cadogan. It’s such a subtle shade. I think it looks fantastic.
Our team?
Definitely a back four, right kids?
Sanchez
Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill
Gallagher – Uguchukwu – Enzo
Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk
There was the usual “make some noise – for the boys” bollocks from the PA, plus some social deviant yelling out “Red Army!” on the TV screens.
Oh aye.
Conor was captain.
Before the game, a minute of silence for those that perished recently in Libya and Morocco.
The game began, and it began ever so brightly as the Eton Blues attacked the goal to our right. A move down the right and some deft interplay between Mykhailo Mudryk and Nicolas Jackson set up Gallagher but he could not fully connect.
“Big game for Mudryk, Gal.”
Jackson then thumped an effort against a post after being set up by Mudryk.
We had a decent start, but the play was tending to by-pass Enzo. Both Sterling and Gallagher were combining well and creating a few solid advances into the opponents’ half. The game then struggled along, and Bournemouth slowly got back into the game. A low reaching cross towards the far post was met by Dango Quattara but Robert Sanchez made a fantastic block, spreading himself out, and the chance was fluffed.
There were songs for Frank Lampard and Dennis Wise?
Why – oh, why the fuck why?
Then, an odd moment. Sanchez was in possession just in front of his goal and as he ran through his options, we were treated to the bizarre sight of all four defenders lined up along the goal line. It was football, but not as I knew it.
The problem was that the home team weren’t necessarily taking the bait and pushing up. They stayed back. This was just hideously sterile football.
On the half-hour mark, more Bournemouth possession. They enjoyed a little spell.
But then a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played in to Conor in a central position. He shimmied himself. The world seemed to stop. He took aim. His shot was saved, damn it.
Damn you, Neto.
A Bournemouth effort was smashed so high into the air, and so wide of the goal – it went out for a throw-in – that I immediately Christened it the worst shot that I had seen in almost fifty years of football.
It was one of those games.
As the first-half neared completion, the noise levels had dwindled.
“You can cut the atmosphere with a shovel, Gal.”
Sigh.
There was a lack of cohesion and urgency after the initial flourish, and only Sterling and Gallagher could take much comfort from the first-half. However, Sterling’s fine touches in tight areas and purposeful spins into space just seemed to peter out as he reached the final third. He – and we – lacked a cutting edge.
Sound familiar?
Soon into the second-half, that man Sterling sized up his options at a free-kick. He struck a spectacular curler at goal, but it ping’d the underside of the bar and bounced down and across the goal. Levi Colwill was on hand to knock the rebound in, but the goal was immediately chalked off for offside.
Bollocks.
“Will be 0-0 this, Gal.”
The sun came out, and it got uncomfortably hot in the away section.
Jackson was in on goal but slashed an effort ludicrously wide. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
We came close after a scramble that followed a Jackson effort. However, the Bournemouth ‘keeper managed to get a strong hand to a goal bound prod while lying on his back.
At the other end, Richard Billing drilled a shot just wide of our goal from a central free-kick.
Both teams struggled.
“Their final ball is worse than ours, Gal.”
Nearing the end of the game, the home team broke down our left and engineered a chance for our former striker Dominic Solanke. Again, Sanchez saved well.
I noticed that Jackson was too easily out-muscled in many of his his one-to-ones with his marker. But we have to give him time.
There was a plethora of substitutions :
Cole Palmer for Mudryk.
He hadn’t had that good game that he needed.
Ben Chilwell for Colwell.
We all moaned when he had passed, obliquely, after a fine run, the goal at his mercy.
Ian Maatsen for Enzo.
I disliked Enzo’s slow walk off the pitch as he was substituted.
Our last chance came from a rampaging Palmer – “keen Gal, but no options” – chose to pass to Sterling rather than shoot himself. Sterling then crossed to Palmer, whose snapshot was saved well by Netto. A follow-up shot by Maatsen was blocked.
It was all pretty woeful.
“I enjoyed Plymouth yesterday more, Gal.”
It was so dull that I sighed when eight extra minutes were announced.
I just wanted to go home.
It ended 0-0.
Next up, Plymouth Parkway on Tuesday, Bemerton Heath on Saturday and Aston Villa on Sunday.
Yet another crazy Chelsea season was nearing completion. There were five games left; three away, two home. The next match was Bournemouth away, the easiest of trips for me.
With PD resting at home and out of action until the new season, we called in a last minute replacement. Mark, from nearby Westbury, was able to pick up a spare ticket and would join Parky – recovering after his own hospital appointment this week – and little old me as I made my way from Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset, via the slightest of incursions into Hampshire.
I left home just after 7.30am. I knew that a few fans had already travelled down on Friday to make a weekend of it. I collected Parky at 8am and I picked Mark up in the Market Place in Westbury at 8.25am.
This brought back memories from almost forty years ago. The first time that I ever met Mark was on a trip up to London to see Chelsea play Leeds United in April 1984 when we went up in the same car. The driver was Mark’s mate Gary, but he has not been seen for years. Also in the car was PD and Glenn who obviously still go. Thirty-nine years later, four out of five ain’t bad, is it? We beat Leeds 5-0 that day and on the way back to Frome, we stopped off at the Market Place in Westbury and enjoyed an evening pint in “The Crown”.
My route from Westbury was simple enough; down the A350 to Warminster and then down the A36 to Salisbury, then the A338 – via a brief stretch on the A331 – to Bournemouth. As the crow flies, from my house, it is an hour and a half. With my two pick-ups, it took me two hours and ten minutes.
I had not seen Mark since the away game in Milan, so we had a good old catching-up session while I ate up the miles. We agreed on lots of things.
“Why hasn’t Badiashile featured at all? He was calm and efficient in his starts. Since then, nothing.”
“Can’t understand what Frank sees in Sterling. Hope he doesn’t start today.”
“Mudryk is a raw talent and needs game time.”
“In a four, no reason why Chalobah can’t play right back.”
“I like Enzo, though.”
For some reason, I fancied us to win at Bournemouth. I told everyone that I met before the game that “we surely can’t lose all our matches this season?” Although I was never sucked into believing that we had a bona fide relegation fight on our hands, we knew that a win would make us mathematically safe.
In fact, deep down, I suspected that those in our support that were genuinely worried about relegation had not really understood the complexities involved in a relegation struggle. I also think that some of our newer fans were almost revelling in a mock concern about this alleged relegation fight to help them get some “sufferance” brownie points among their peers.
For those who have been reading about 1982/83 this season…now then…THAT was a relegation fight.
I dropped Parky and Marky off outside “The Moon In The Square” and joined them a few minutes later. We breakfasted like kings while many in the pub sat watching the royal coronation on TV.
We met up with a few friends and the time soon passed.
At 1.30pm, we drove the ten minutes out to the Vitality Stadium, spotting a few Chelsea fans along the way. I squeezed my car into the allotted “JustPark” space on Holdenhurst Road and made my way towards the away end. It was ironic that while we have enjoyed many fine days out in Bournemouth since 2016, from October to April, here we were in May and there was drizzle in the air.
I stood alongside Gal, John and Al in the fifth row.
Just before the teams appeared, the noisy and overly-enthusiastic PA announcer pleaded for each of the individual four stands in turn to make “noise for the boys” and my eyes continually rolled.
The teams stood at the centre-circle and “God Save The King” was sung with gusto by all.
As the players lined up in readiness of the kick-off – we attacked our “end” in the first-half, not usually the case here – I absolutely loved Frank’s choice of a starting line-up.
I checked position by position. It was the team that I would have picked in a 4/3/3.
Kepa
Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell
Kante – Enzo – Gallagher
Mudryk – Havertz – Madueke
Did Frank read the comments in my Arsenal blog?
I relaxed knowing that Raheem and Pierre-Emerick were not involved.
The drizzle had mostly petered out but the floodlights were still on. I noticed a surprising number of empty seats in the home areas. Sadly, a fair few were not filled behind me in our section. I find it inconceivable that one of the top fifteen clubs in Europe can’t fill all 1,200 tickets for an away game just one hundred miles away.
It was an open start to the game. The home team – ouch, those nasty zig-zag stripes – created a couple of tasty chances, but Kepa spread himself at his near post to save our blushes while another flashed past a post.
There were a couple of positive chants in support of Frank in those first few minutes.
“Super, Super Frank…”
“Scored two hundred…”
My man Noni Madueke had settled in well on the right flank, twisting and turning, running past defenders, a threat. On just nine minutes, from that right flank, Trevoh Chalobah touched the ball to N’Golo Kante who had time to cross. Conor Galagher moved towards its flight glanced it in at the far post past the marvellously named Neto.
GETINYOUBASTARD.
I just couldn’t bring myself to sing along to the “we are staying up” chants, nor could the young lad next to me. I get the desire for self-deprecation.
But.
Just.
Not.
Right.
Now.
Enzo set up Chalobah but Neto saved well. We looked neat on the ball, with Enzo looking to play in whoever he could whenever he could. Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Dominic Solanke and Ryan Christie set up Matias Vina who ghosted past defenders and, as he set himself up for a shot, I absolutely feared the worst. His lofted curler was perfectly placed beyond the reach of Kepa.
The game was tied 1-1.
I liked the way that Madueke feared nobody as he attacked down the right. His shots on goal showed confidence even if his shot selection and execution were awry. Down our left, seemingly within touching distance, a growing relationship between Gallagher and Mudryk was starting to flourish. The Ukrainian is certainly fast.
I glimpsed into the future at the potential of our very own “M & M” boys – “Mad/Mud” anyone? – causing havoc down the wings, the days of Arjen Robben and Damien Duff reincarnated perhaps, if not the days of Peter Rhoades-Brown and Phil Driver.
Ah, 1983.
Forty years ago, on Friday 6 May, I had an uneventful day at school but the twin nightmares of “A Levels” and a probable relegation were lying heavily on my mind. The very next day – Saturday 7 May 1983 – Chelsea were to visit Bolton Wanderers, one point and one place above Chelsea, in a pure “relegation six pointer”, and my diary noted that if we lost I felt that we would surely be relegated.
Despite seeing the game against Bournemouth being advertised by a few people, who really should have known better, as a “relegation six pointer”, this game wasn’t. It really wasn’t.
We were decent enough in that first-half and at the break I was quietly confident that my pre-game prediction of a Chelsea win would prevail. Kante was producing another 8/10 performance and while he is in the midfield, and Thiago Silva is in defence, we have a chance.
We lost our way a little at the start of the second-half, however, and while Bournemouth created a few chances, we slowed.
I turned to Gal : “Havertz always wants to take one touch too many, doesn’t he?”
This was a strange game now. There were patches of quality; we loved a magical twist out on the touchline from Madueke that made his marker look foolish. This had us all purring. But these were matched by moments of farce; an optimistic volley from Kante went high and so wide that the ball didn’t even leave the pitch.
The pro-Frank songs continued. However, on sixty-three minutes, he had us scratching our heads.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kante.
He was our best player. There was no midweek game to worry about. Was he carrying a knock?
Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.
Oh bloody hell, Raheem…you again?
In the away section, things were getting a little testy. A chant for Roman Abramovich was loud, and an undoubted reaction to the substitutions that seemed to exemplify the current, failing, regime. A chant about the current owner was more forthright.
“Boehly – you’re a cunt.”
There were punches exchanged between two Chelsea fans a few seats behind me.
Christie blasted over. A superb sliding tackle on Solanke by Silva inside the penalty area went to VAR, but there was no foul. Havertz took an extra touch as he broke in on goal from an angle and the moment was lost.
The game rumbled on, with the mood seeming to change inside the away section every few minutes. Ben Chilwell pulled up on the far side and we feared the worst. Dave replaced him. At the same time, Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.
The appearance of Hakeem didn’t thrill me, or many, with much joy, but he hugged the near touchline and looked to cause trouble with that tip-tapping style of his.
Vina was clean in on goal to my left, but Kepa made an absolutely brilliant shot, his arm outstretched, strong wrists, magnificent. A Ziyech cross found the head of Havertz, but the effort was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, a corner was headed back across the face of the goal but Dango Ouattara headed over from virtually underneath the bar.
At this stage, it seemed we had lost the momentum and that a Bournemouth goal would be the typical, obvious, sad conclusion.
“Why did I think we’d fucking win this?”
On eighty-two minutes, Sterling and Ziyech stood over the ball at a free-kick on the right hand side of their defensive third. Ziyech floated an in swinging curler towards the penalty spot. The cross had everything. It always looked like it might trouble the defence and ‘keeper. The trajectory, pace and dip were all to perfection. A few Chelsea players rose and the leg of my boy Badiashile flicked the ball past Neto.
The net rippled beautifully.
YES!
His joyous run and slide was lovely to see, his smile wide.
We were back in front.
Phew.
Another substitution, just after, Joao Felix for Havertz.
“How long to go, Gal?”
“Six minutes.”
“Let’s hang on.”
The Chelsea crowd were rocking now.
“We’re gonna have a party, when Arsenal fuck it up.”
On ninety minutes, a beautiful run by under-fire Sterling set up Felix who calmly slotted the ball low past Neto.
I screamed my joy at this one. The game was safe.
AFCB 1 CFC 3.
What a beautiful sight.
These were good times now at The Vitality.
“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”
One win doesn’t make a season, but this bugger was a long time coming. After six consecutive losses, at last three points for Chelsea, and for Frank.
After the game, the players walked over to reciprocate our applause for them. We were happy. They were grateful.
Back in the car, we realised that we had risen to eleventh place.
I made a very quick exit out, and dropped Salisbury Steve off on the way back. I was home by 7.30pm.
Easy.
Next up, two-time European Champions Chelsea take on two-time European Champions Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge.
After a break of forty-five days, Chelsea were back in action. To be honest, compared to the extended hiatus due to COVID in 2020 and 2021, this had been a breeze. In fact, we had all agreed that after the Newcastle defeat, the third league loss in a row, we were clearly at a low ebb and so the enforced break came at just the right time. I know that I needed the rest too. The match at St. James’ Park was my twelfth in forty-one days.
Fackinell.
I didn’t watch a single second of the Qatar World Cup. Instead, the plan always was for me to get my football fix from watching my local team in November and December. However, due to Frome Town’s schedule getting hit with a few postponements, I only saw three games; a 4-1 home win against Slimbridge, a 0-1 defeat at Bashley and a 2-3 loss at Melksham Town. I did, however, attend a game up in Scotland in early December; a Queens Park match against Hamilton Academical that was played at their traditional Hampden Park home for the first time in a few seasons.
For the home game with Bournemouth we planned to be up in London at around midday. I had woken with not too much enthusiasm, and I must admit I felt a little guilty. Despite the fact that I hadn’t seen the team for a month or more, a home match against Bournemouth was hardly going to set the pulses racing. Such games are never a visceral assault on the senses, nor are any Boxing Day – which this effectively was – encounters these days, more’s the pity.
None of the passengers in my car were expecting too much from the game. We guessed it wasn’t set to be a feast of football. We just wanted a win, any win.
Three points was king.
But oh the guilt. I was only too aware that my enthusiasm was lacking and a dark cloud of guilt followed me up the A303 and the M3 into London. While PD and Parky began drinking at our usual hostelry, Glenn and I had decided to have a pre-game wander around Stamford Bridge and the local area. We found ourselves in the Copthorne Hotel way before the match day crowds would appear. The bar area was quiet. I spotted a favourite photograph on a wall, far from the madding crowd, and it is one that always brings a smile to my face.
I love this.
There is so much to take in.
The four players are John Boyle, Terry Venables, Ron Harris and Eddie McCreadie. The photo is from around 1965, and I always think that the photographer is about to get pelted with those recently formed snowballs. There are a couple of other players in the frame too. The pitch has evidently been cleared of snow and you just wonder what sort of a mammoth task that must have been. I have an image of the regular ground staff being augmented by a legion of apprentices, armed with brushes, rakes, spades and shovels, clearing the pitch in preparation of the upcoming game. I am sure that I can spy the traps of the greyhound racing beyond the players. The crush barriers on The Shed terrace are clearly those patented by Archibald Leitch, the Glaswegian architect responsible for so many of the old stadia in Britain, who not only designed stands and terracings, but crush barriers too. Those originals were eventually replaced in the mid-seventies by an altogether different design. I can see what might well be braziers, equally placed on the mid-terrace walkway, presumably lit with coal or wood to clear those walkways of snow and ice. And look at the Harlem Globetrotter shorts, which I remember, from colour photos in various publications, being red and red stripes. I can’t even imagine how Chelsea ended up with those.
Snow, striped shorts, snowballs and The Shed.
It’s a classic, eh?
Despite the brief appearance of some snow and some decidedly cold temperatures during the week before Christmas, this particular day was much milder, but with rain forecast to hit London later.
Glenn and I circumnavigated the stadium and I took a few photographs of the pre-match scene. We chatted a little about the club wanting to purchase the land currently owned by the Oswald Stoll Foundation, and we await further details of how all of that extra land might aid a stadium upgrade. If nothing else, it will surely assist in the thorny topic of entrance and egress.
There’s new signage atop the central column of the West Stand facade. God knows why.
We walked up the deserted King’s Road – admittedly the game was still four hours away – but bloody hell it was quiet. We stayed to the east of Stamford Bridge – Chelsea, not Fulham – and there was just no sign that there was a top-ranking game of football taking place half a mile away. Heading north to the Fulham Road, we stumbled across a previously unvisited pub, “The Sporting Page”, and we dipped in alongside four other drinkers. In my quest to visit every hostelry within two miles of Stamford Bridge, I had ticked another one off the list.
On our wander around the deserted streets of SW10, Glenn had admitted that he had been far from enthused about the game against Bournemouth and this made me feel a little better about myself…that I wasn’t in the boat alone.
We briefly touched on my retrospective of the 1982/83 season.
And so.
13 November 1982 : Barnsley 1 Chelsea 1 – 13,286.
My diary entry for this day starts with a brief synopsis of events at Oakwell.
“We were one-nil up at half-time so a bit fed-up we only drew 1-1. That’s our sixth draw this season. Gary Locke was sent off – pillock.”
Our goal was scored by Mike Fillery, who was probably our best player at the time and possibly the most adored. Born in Mitcham, he had come through the ranks and debuted during the end of the dreadful relegation season of 1978/79. He soon became a crowd favourite in the Second Division seasons that followed, where his stylish passing and scoring ability shone in many games. He was left-footed, and could piece together some lovely passes. He had a languid style, but was never one for a 50/50 tackle, and I can see him gliding around the pitch to this day.
20 November 1982 : Chelsea 1 Shrewsbury Town 2 – 8,690.
A week after, another Saturday, and my diary began with a depressing moan.
“How the hell can Chelsea lose at home to a snotty little team like Shrewsbury? That means that we have only won four games out of fifteen. And we are away to Rotherham next week. Oh dear. Please God don’t let Rotherham score six against us again. All I can say is that Chelsea must be shit.”
The seventeen-year-old me was clearly unimpressed. Indeed, this was a very poor result. It was goal-less at half-time, and Colin Lee scored for us but the visitors nabbed two. Just as worrying as the result was the crowd figure. Although attendances had dipped to below 10,000 in the closing stages of the previous season – the nadir being 6,009 for the London derby with Orient – this was the first sub 10,000 gate of 1982/83. I remember being pretty depressed about the state of the club after this game and my previously positive spin on our squad seemed to be based on fantasy and not fact. I had been off school with mumps for a week too, so life was pretty depressing in late November 1982.
27 November 1982 : Rotherham United 1 Chelsea 0 – 8,793.
In the previous season, we had lost both games against Rotherham United by the horrific aggregate score of 1-10. We had lost 0-6 at Millmoor in October and then 1-4 at Stamford Bridge in March. The 0-6 loss is often cited as our most embarrassing defeat. I can understand that. In the circumstances, a narrow 0-1 loss in 1982/83 could almost be seen as a moral victory. Yes, dear reader, things really were that bad forty years ago. The game also marked the Chelsea debut of Mark Falco, on-loan from the hated Tottenham, and this was regarded as pretty much a low point in the credibility of the club. A loanee from Tottenham? Good fucking grief. My diary summed it up.
“A bit depressed about Chelsea. No promotion again.”
4 December 1982 : Chelsea 2 Burnley 1 – 8,184.
Out of nowhere, an upturn in my fortunes. Not only was a girl in the Lower Sixth, Rachel, showing interest in me – the fool – Chelsea managed to eke out a slender 2-1 victory against Burnley at Stamford Bridge. Goals from Micky Droy and David Speedie, both in the first-half, gave us three points and my diary even conceded that I was happy with the 8,184 gate as I had expected one of around 6,000. The game marked the home debut of Falco, and I can only imagine the horror. This time it was the turn for Colin Lee to get sent-off. But, the three points were all that mattered.
11 December 1982 : Middlesbrough 3 Chelsea 1 – 8,836.
My diary entries throughout the week detailed my futile attempts to summon up enough courage to ask Rachel out. A couple of words, exchanges, took place, but I am afraid my shyness had got the better of me. On the Saturday, Chelsea travelled up to a probably cold and hostile Ayresome Park where John Neal’s team lost 3-1 against his former club. Mike Fillery scored our solitary goal via a penalty. In the home team was former Chelsea youngster Paul Ward and in the ‘Boro team, future Chelsea midfielder Darren Wood. Amid my fluttering heartbeats, my diary ended with a blunt message.
“Chelsea sont merde.”
18 December 1982 : Chelsea 2 Bolton Wanderers 1 – 6,903.
On the Monday after the Middlesbrough game, at a Sixth-Form Disco, my shyness disappeared and all was good with the world. Rachel and I danced the night away. I always remember that as I tentatively approached her on the dance-floor for the first time, the bastard DJ started playing “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye, and there is no need for a punchline. Throughout the week, we chatted a little and exchanged Christmas cards.
On the day of the Bolton game, the last Saturday before Christmas, I was called in to assist at my father’s menswear shop in Frome. It was the first time that I had worked a shift in his shop. After a nervous start, I almost enjoyed it. I never really saw myself as a salesman. My father always had a little wireless tucked away on his desk in the small office and it would have been via this medium that I would have heard that Chelsea had scrambled a narrow 2-1 win against Bolton. The goals came from Colin Pates and an own goal. Bloody hell, a love interest and a Chelsea win. What on Earth was happening?
27 December 1982 : Queens Park Rangers 1 Chelsea 2 – 23,744.
On the Monday after the Bolton win, I had planned to meet Rachel in a pub in Frome with some friends, but she never showed up. Bollocks. My World caved in. I plucked up enough courage to ‘phone her the next evening but she was non-committal about future plans.
“Back to Chelsea, mate” I no doubt thought to myself. Rachel, in fact, favoured the hated Manchester United and there is no need for a punchline here either.
Christmas 1982 was a pretty dull one. However, I was pleased to be heading up to Stamford Bridge on 28 December for the Fulham game at Stamford Bridge. It would act as an emotional safety harness after my recent romantic rebuttal. However, the day before it we visited QPR for another West London derby. At Christmas 1981, we had won 2-0 on their plastic pitch, and – miracles at Yuletide – in 1982 we won again. The goals came from Clive Walker and David Speedie as QPR were beaten 2-1.
I always remember that the attendances on this particular day were monumental, and I was so pleased that football could still attract such numbers at a time when gates, not just ours, were plummeting.
These were the First Division games, and the attendance at St. Andrews really shocked me; it was almost three times their average.
Arsenal vs. Tottenham – 51,497 /average 24,153.
Birmingham City vs. Aston Villa – 43,864 / average 15,593.
Brighton vs. Southampton – 21,794 / average 14,673.
Ipswich Town vs. Norwich City – 29,596 / average 19,679.
Liverpool vs. Manchester City – 44,664 / average 34,836.
Luton Town vs. Watford – 21,145 / average 13,429
Manchester United vs. Sunderland – 47,783 / average 41,574.
Nottingham Forest vs. Coventry City – 24,487 / average 17,567.
Stoke City vs. Everton – 25,427 / average 16,631.
West Bromwich Albion vs. Notts. County – 17,756 / average 15,258.
West Ham United vs. Swansea – 23,843 / average 22,774.
In retrospect, they don’t look too large do they? But in 1982/83, the average gate in Division One was just 20,158. My diary noted that I hoped for 20,000 for the Chelsea vs. Fulham game on Tuesday 28 December 1982.
From a Christmas past, to a Christmas present.
We headed west to Stamford Bridge and the pubs of Fulham. We were soon back in familiar territory.
Down in deepest SW6, at “The Eight Bells”, we joined forces with PD and Parky, alongside Salisbury Steve. This pub was pretty quiet too. But it was good to be back. It is the epitome of the word “cosy”; wooden-panelled walls were festooned with old prints of old river traffic and old London scenes, tables, settles and chairs were squeezed miraculously in, a chalkboard described the food on offer, pint glasses and wine glasses were stacked above the bar, a Christmas tree twinkled in the corner. I half expected Bob Cratchit to hobble in and ask for a pint of porter.
Outside, the rain was falling. It was time to make a move.
We were inside Stamford Bridge with well over half-an-hour to go. The team was announced and it looked like a standard 4/3/3.
Kepa
James – Silva – Koulibaly – Cucarella
Zakaria – Jorginho – Mount
Sterling – Havertz – Pulisic
Before the game, we observed a minute of applause for George Cohen, a member of the England 1966 World Cup winning team who recently passed away.
RIP.
A quick scan around. A few empty seats. Around two thousand away fans. The night had fallen. The rain continued.
However, my pre-match vibe hadn’t really improved.
“We’re World Champions, but we’re half a team.”
A few agreed.
My match day companions in the North by Northwest corner of Stamford Bridge arrived.
John, Gary, Alan, PD, Clive, JD, Kev and Anna, Paul.
For the first time in ages, Glenn was down in The Shed. Since the rebuild in 1997, we all agreed that he had only seen a game down there once before; in the upper tier alongside Alan and myself for the Vicenza game on a rainy night in 1998. On this occasion, he was a few yards away from Parky.
Despite my negativity, we began brightly, less laboured than in recent games, and a thrusting run from deep from Christian Pulisic showed our intent. There was an early Bournemouth free-kick from Phillip Billings that Kepa easily saved. A strong low cross fizzed in from our right but there was nobody in the box to connect. Soon after, a header from kai Havertz did not worry Mark Travers in the Bournemouth goal. A fine ball in from Kalidou Kouilbaly set up Pulisic but as his shot was released, there appeared to be a shirt pull. Alas, no penalty was given. But this was a good positive start from us.
Soon after, on sixteen minutes, while Alan and I were abusing Clive for watching Arsenal on TV, a nice move developed. Mount to Raheem Sterling and a low skidder of a cross that had just enough legs and drift on it to reach Kai Havertz, who delicately prodded it home.
Phew.
The stadium, however, was hardly bubbling over with noise. But things would improve ten minutes later when a move again developed down our right. A neat series of passes moved the ball on and Havertz kept the move alive. The ball was pushed back by Havertz to Mount and his sweetly-placed shot nestled inside the right-hand post.
Excellent stuff.
There were a few late chances for us as the first-half was played out, with Denis Zakaria looking a fine player in midfield and Thiago Silva as impressive as ever in defence. Travers saved well at the near post after a strong shot towards goal from Sterling. Another penalty shout for a foul on Havertz was waved away.
As the referee blew for the half-time whistle, I was full of praise.
“Nice one Chels. Well done.”
Alas, the second-half did not run along similar lines. After just eight minutes into the second period, a player went down on the far touchline. A quick scan of other players confirmed my darkest fears.
“It’s Reece.”
He walked off and we wondered how serious this latest setback would be. He was replaced by Dave.
A lovely move ended with a Zakaria shot being deflected over and we enjoyed a little pressure. On fifty-eight minutes Havertz forced his way into the box with a strong dribble but screwed his shot wide.
An effort from Mount, a wild shot from Pulisic, a header from Zakaria and that was about it.
We really faded in the last quarter, inviting them on, and barely able to maintain possession when needed. Too often our passes were mishit, too often we gave them too much space.
Some changes.
Conor Gallagher for Zakaria.
Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Pulisic.
Trevoh Chalobah for Sterling.
A fine save, down low, from Kepa at his near post kept Bournemouth at bay, but they definitely finished the stronger. In their Denis the Menace colours, I half expected them to claim a goal to set up a nervous finale. Kepa certainly earned his colours late on. Thankfully, their menacing came to nothing.
Chelsea 2 Bournemouth 0.
We climbed to eighth.
I battled some awful weather along the M4 on the drive home, but thoughts were already on our next match.
“It’s great that we have a game at Forest next. It’s not a new ground, but it seems like it. A new experience. Our first visit in decades. Just what we need to keep our spirits up. And our interest.”
Just fifty-nine days after our European Cup triumph in Porto, we were back in business. Or rather a thousand or so other Chelsea supporters and I were back in business. Some players had been back for a few weeks, and the management team rarely rest, but for the rank and file match-going addicts among our multi-million strong support base, this was Day One of the new season.
By a strange quirk of fate, the last domestic away game played by Chelsea Football Club where away fans had been able to attend took place at Bournemouth on Leap Year Day last year, Saturday 29 February 2020. And here we were again headed for the same town on the Dorset coast on Tuesday 27 July 2021.
I like a bit of symmetry as I never tire of saying.
When we left the Vitality Stadium last year, how many of us could have possibly dreamt that we would not be able to go to a single away game in almost seventeen months?
Not me. Not you. Not the next man. Not the next woman.
One abiding memory from that day is of me – quite by fate – stumbling into the players as they ambled through the Lower Gardens by the pier and beach on their mid-morning walk. I offered my hand to Antonio Rudiger for him to shake and for me to wish him “all the best” for the game but he was almost embarrassed as I saw him shoo me away with the ominous words “Corona Virus”.
The interim has tested us all. It has certainly tested my love of football, maybe of Chelsea, and I have experienced fluctuating opinions of football, fandom and the universe. It certainly has not been easy. Season 2020/21 was my least enjoyable football season ever – OK, maybe tied with the dire 1978/79 campaign – and yet we reached two Cup Finals and ended up as winners of the biggest prize in club football in the whole world. And universe.
Rationalising football was never easy, right?
I watched the European Championships recently with middling interest. International football just isn’t for me these days. I can’t even be arsed to explain why. My focus was always about getting back to the love of my life; Chelsea Football Club.
However, a lovely little present afforded itself to me on my birthday in the first week of July. My first Frome Town game since the cessation of matches last November saw me attend the Frome Town vs. Bath City friendly on Tuesday 6 July; the town of my domicile versus the city of my birth on my birthday. Perfect, eh? It was a lovely evening, even though Dodge lost 4-1. A couple of friends made a surprise visit from Bristol and Portsmouth, we all had a lovely catch-up and I survived my first session since Everton at home last March. Evenings like that are priceless.
I was tempted to attend the home friendly against Tottenham but the whole thing seemed like a massive waste of energy. My take on it was that I would be haring up to London on many other midweek evenings in the autumn, arriving home late, waking up tired for work the next day, and so why bother with an overpriced – £30 – friendly where there wouldn’t even be any away fans to abuse. No thanks. A lovely little dip down to Dorset – just fifty-five miles away – to be followed by a jaunt over to Belfast for the UEFA Super Cup (Parky and I re-joined the UEFA Away Scheme recently so are assured tickets) and then the Grand Reunion with all the familiar faces against Crystal Palace a few days later.
That will do me nicely thank you very much nurse.
So, AFCB versus CFC on Tuesday 27 July. It soon came around. And here was a first for me; my first-ever Chelsea trip after working at home for the day. I set off at 4.40pm, alone – none of the other Chuckle Brothers were available – but with my mind full of being part of a genuine match day experience once again. I was hoping for a full house and a 1,200 away contingent. Great though they were, both Cup Finals at the end of May were odd affairs, almost surreal, certainly strange.
The drive down to Bournemouth didn’t take long. How nice of the football Gods to bestow upon me the easiest of away trips. Over the past year and a half, I have spent many an hour out walking in England’s “Green and Pleasant” and I have fallen in love again with our countryside, often taking too many bloody photographs. On the way to Dorset, I was at it again. I stopped off momentarily at a few choice locations – at Longleat, on the chalk uplands near Longbridge Deverill, ascending Zig Zag Hill – not on the scale of L’Alpe D’Huez, the famed climb of the Tour de France, but with a series of acute turns – and overlooking Cranbourne Chase. It was a glorious drive.
Nearing the outskirts of Bournemouth, though, the ominous gloomy clouds darkened the early evening light. Down came the rain.
The first “fackinell” of the season.
But on the dual carriageway, I had my first “moment” of the new season.
As I accelerated away and overtook a car, I realised that I have a decent job, a nice car, my own house, my friends, my health – God, my health – and I was about to see Chelsea play. Hardly a life-defining moment but important enough for me to mention it three evenings later.
And although I have spoken with some close friends how I might be in a situation this season when I might have to choose between a classic Frome Town away day and a common or garden Chelsea trip, deep down I knew that there would only be one winner.
I was parked up on a pre-booked private driveway on Littledown Avenue at 6.30pm. The ninety-minute drive had been lengthened by twenty minutes as I stopped to snap, snap, snap. I include a few of the photos.
The air was a little muggy outside. I had brought a light rain jacket. The walk to the stadium only took ten minutes. I spotted a chap wearing a Flamengo shirt – Bournemouth colours, but turned ninety degrees – alongside his mate who was wearing a Chelsea top. I couldn’t resist walking over to say a few words, but I avoided mentioning that, if I was pressed, I favoured their rivals Fluminense. After my jaunt to Buenos Aires last year, I have Rio in my sights too, though perhaps only after another trip to Buenos Aires.
File under : “Too many stadia, not enough time.”
I will be honest, it felt odd being among a crowd who were, in the main, not wearing masks.
I chatted to Long Tall Pete and Liz outside the familiar away turnstiles, the first of around a dozen friends or so that I would talk to during the evening. Big praise to Scott who would endure a 590-mile round trip from his home in Lancashire for this friendliest of friendlies. Just amazing.
There were three security checks to get into the stadium; a scan with an electronic device, a bag check, a body frisk. It seemed all a bit pointless. Anyway, my camera was in, unlike on 27 July 2019 when it was banned from a friendly at Reading.
I would normally trawl the concourse to chat to some familiar faces, but – I think that I felt at risk slightly – I decided to avoid the closeness of the crowded bar areas and head inside.
For the third game in a row, I was positioned in row three; clearly not my favourite viewing position. The evening sun was still glaring. I chastised myself for leaving a perfectly fine pair of sunglasses in my car.
The players – in a set of training gear sponsored by a completely different company to the playing kits – warmed up in front of us. There were a few familiar faces, but some strange ones too. I find it amusing that I can rattle off fringe players from 1983/84 – Phil Priest, Terry Howard, Perry Baldacchino, Paul Williams, Stokely Sawyers and Robin Beste – but struggle with the current crop.
With five minutes to kick-off, the PA played “Life Is Life” by Opus. I had a little smirk to myself. I was reminded of that classic film of the one and only Diego Armando Maradona’s pre-match warm up to this very song in 1989. If you have not seen it, do yourself a favour.
I wondered who on Earth could replicate that breath-taking performance at Bournemouth in 2021.
The 7.45pm kick-off soon arrived. So much for a 12,000 full house. The home areas were half empty and our section wasn’t full. There was a line of ten empty seats right behind me. So much for the lure of the current Champions of Europe. A few friends had notably lost a few pounds over the previous eighteen months; well done Jayne, Sam and Rob.
Just before the game began, probably just as the teams were being announced – hence my confusion with the starting eleven – I saw a deeply tanned Pat Nevin rush past. I shouted out to him and told him that I had loved reading his recent autobiography. We shook hands – another weird feeling – and he went on his way to take up a commentary position.
Lovely. My favourite-ever player. A fine start to 2021/22.
I was tempted to ask the PA chap to replay “Life Is Life” and get Pat on the pitch.
It was a nice thought…
Our team?
Kepa.
Sterling / Baker / Sarr.
Hudson-Odoi / Drinkwater / Gallagher / Alonso.
Ziyech / Pulisic.
Abraham.
The game began and Chelsea attacked the “home end” to my right, the scene of those devastating four second-half goals in early 2019.
First thoughts?
“I wish that bloody sun would soon disappear behind those towering clouds.”
“I don’t recognise a couple of these players.”
“That new kit is truly horrific.”
Zig fucking zag.
My heart has sunk over the summer as I have witnessed from afar – oh my disbelieving eyes – how a notable number of acquaintances throughout Chelsea World had succumbed to the dog’s dinner of our new Nike abomination.
We can’t be friends, real friends, now.
I am sorry.
But you should be the ones apologising.
Fackinell.
The effect that it has on me, if I may offer some sort of comparison, is as if those Hawaiian shirts favoured by our American cousins – I never know if they are worn ironically or not – are matched with the same pattern on accompanying shorts.
Get my drift?
The Chelsea crowd – some who had evidently been on the ale for a few hours – were lively in the first quarter of an hour. There were two early songs in praise of Frank Lampard. The Timo Werner one was soon aired and there were a few hearty renditions of “The Only Team In London With A / Two European Cups.” I joined in and tried to warm my vocal chords up for the new season. My view from row three was tough. Everything looked so flat.
Now then dear reader, let’s get this clear. This was a pre-season game in which virtually all of the Chelsea protagonists would be bit-part players throughout the upcoming season. Some – Kepa, Mendy, Alonso, Barkley – would have parts to play, but others would find themselves elsewhere. Some might get the odd League Cup game. Some would inevitably go out on loan. Some would begin a zig-zagging journey down the football pyramid. Some – sadly – would find themselves as footballing equivalents of the unclaimed black pram on the baggage carousel at airport arrivals.
The game against Bournemouth was always about getting game time for as many players as possible. I’m certainly not going to go into nerd mode and produce a deeply analytical report of each of the players’ performances. What would be the point of that?
That said, I was looking forward to watching Conor Gallagher – alas no relative of oor Hughie – to see what the hype was all about.
There was neat football from us in the first-half. Danny Drinkwater, of all players, started well, pushing the ball intelligently. Up close, I appreciated the pace of our right-sided defender (later identified as Dujon Sterling, ah of course…) and Malang Sarr (the other player who I was hard pressed to recognise) certainly possessed an impressive shape. Conor Gallagher was involved. Nice to see the old war horse Alonso again. Chances fell to Hakim, Callum, Tammy, Tammy and Tammy but our finishing was off the mark.
The singing from the away section quietened as the half progressed.
I wanted Our Callum to burst past his marker, but there always seemed to be a reticence from him. A shame.
Interceptions from Sarr and Baker thwarted Bournemouth, whose main threat on our goal was a series of deep free-kicks and corners. Dominic Solanke was upfront for the home team. We had high hopes for him a while ago, eh? For all of our possession, we went into the break without a goal to show for our dominance.
As the players lined up for the second-half, I spotted some changes, although not wholesale.
Mendy.
Miazga / Chalobah The Younger / Clarke-Salter.
Hudson-Odoi / Gallagher / Loftus-Cheek / Alonso.
Barkley.
Abraham / Broja.
Things were a bit disjointed, off the pitch as well as on it. This is pre-season for us fans too. Whereas we all stood during the first-half, many began the second-half sitting. Were we jaded already? Surely not. The home fans were a quiet bunch, though and there was little noise from them. However, a little riposte from the otherwise silent area to our left resulted in an embarrassing chant from us.
“Champions of Europe. You’ll Never Sing That.”
Fucksake.
I rolled my eyes so far backwards I almost saw Tottenham. Then I looked up at the roof, if not the heavens.
I turned to the young lad to my left.
“Fucking hell. Mugging off Bournemouth. Bournemouth!”
This football lark can be testing at times. By all means take the piss out of our main rivals, but not lovely and cuddly – hardly rivals to us, hardly anything to us – benign Bournemouth.
It was lovely to see Our Ruben back in royal blue again. For a big man, he certainly has a lovely touch. But he struggled a bit to get into the game. He played a deeper role than usual. He was pulled back – one of my most hated aspects of modern day football – so many times. So frustrating. It was his lazy pass to the covering Gallagher that set up David Brooks but his shot thankfully glided past the left-hand post.
A lad behind me roused the away contingent with a loud “Zigger Zagger” and the noise leapt a few levels.
“We’re The Only Team In London.”
A fine save from Mendy thwarted Bournemouth from close in. Alonso, urged to “shoot” by us, did so but his effort whistled wide.
Zappacosta – last seen by my eyes at Reading in 2019 – replaced Our Callum, Baba Rahman – just wow – replaced Alonso and Ugbo replaced Tammy.
Sadly, just after these changes a cross from the right found the head of Emiliano Marcondes and Mendy was beaten.
The crowd went mild.
Our reaction was immediate. A brilliant cross from that man Baba was whipped in immaculately into the “corridor of uncertainty” and the new man Armando Broja took a neat touch and avoided a Tammy-like entanglement of limbs to slam the ball home. Broja then charged down a clearance from the Bournemouth ‘keeper but the ball whizzed past the far post. Shortly after, that very rare thing; a crisp near post Chelsea corner – from Ross Barkley – that cleared the first man and Ike Ugbo was able to head home from mere inches.
Bournemouth 1 Chelsea 2.
In the final fifteen minutes, the home team made many changes and the game petered out.
At the final whistle, the Chelsea players soon headed for the tunnel. No signs of celebration at all. After all, it was only Bournemouth right? Fans take note.
I walked back to the car just before the rain came again. It took me an age to get out onto the main road out of town. But within the hour I had retraced my steps and was winding my way down the intense bends of Zig Zag Hill once again, the night now dark, my headlights on full beam.
“Steady as you go Chris.”
I was home at midnight and I was immediately reminded of my midweek football routine.
Get home. Try to relax a bit. Scan my photos. Chose one for Instagram. One for Facebook maybe. Check a few social media posts. Watch the game highlights on YouTube. Work in the morning. Bollocks. Head full of football. Try to get some sleep…
The heavens had opened during the night and, although I thankfully slept through the deluge, the scenes as I left my home village at just before eight o’clock in the morning seemed to be from a different world. There were huge puddles of surface water lapping at my tyres as I drove down past the pub, the church, the war memorial and the village shop. As I started to head up Lime Kiln Hill, two separate torrents of murky brown water cascaded across the road. I splashed through it all and continued my drive into Frome. I soon collected PD and Parky. We were on our way.
Not long into the fifty-five mile journey to Bournemouth, there was relief :
“I’m just happy that I have an away game that doesn’t involve a four-hour drive.”
This was an easy one. The easiest of the season. The only blot on the horizon was a possible continuation of the atrocious weather of the past twenty-four hours. At Shaftesbury, where Wiltshire rubs up against Dorset, I turned off and headed across the hills and across country. I’m all for exploring different routes to away games and I think that PD, alongside me, was a little nervous that I had chosen an unfamiliar route. My first ascent was up the wonderfully named Zig-Zag Hill – not Zigger Zagger, more of that later – which is a series of tight bends. I was enjoying this. The weather was fine, if not a little overcast. Good vibes.
I made excellent time. By 9.30am, I was parked up at the Bournemouth International Centre, site of the former Winter Gardens, where in the summer of 1980, I was forced to attend a Max Bygraves concert while on holiday in nearby Southbourne with my parents. I still haven’t forgiven them.
By 9.45am, we had ordered a hearty breakfast at “The Moon On the Square” which is one of the few ‘Spoons that I like. I think it might have been a department store in a previous life. There are still a few art deco flourishes on the main stairwell. The breakfast went down a treat. We spotted the first of a few friends arrive. But, rather than sit – stone cold sober – and watch others drink for four hours, I had plans to get out and see a little of the town, despite the threat of inclement weather. I had remembered that “John Anthony” – I often visit the menswear shop in nearby Bath throughout the year, especially when there are sales on – has a store in Bournemouth, and that this was the final day of an afore-mentioned sale.
“It would be rude not to.”
I headed off in search of cut-price clobber.
“John Anthony” did not let me down. I picked up a navy blue Hugo Boss sweatshirt for just £44 (and I immediately thought to myself that this will not look out of place alongside the ninety-seven other navy tops that I bloody own.) I had only been reminiscing about Boss sweatshirts during the week as there was a post on “Facebook” about them when they came out in around the 1985/86 football season, and the first wave of them had the “Boss” logo on the back of sweatshirts and not the front. I liked that. Something different. Though I never owned one, they always looked the business. The era of Timberland shoes. At the time I opted for a lime green “Marc O’Polo” which were very similar in style. This one, thirty-five years later, would be – I think – my first ever “Boss” sweatshirt.
Better late than never, eh?
Football, music, clobber.
The staples of so many of my generation.
The sun was out, I was happy with my purchase, I was bouncing. I began to walk through the Central Gardens, knowing full well that the Chelsea squad – for the past few years – always walk through this small and narrow area every match day morning. The team always stay at the nearby Hilton, which we had walked past on our way from the car park to the pub. I stood in the sun for one moment, and texted a mate to let him know that I had struck gold in the sale, when I happened to look up and to my right. Around twenty yards away, I spotted a burst of blue.
Blue tracksuits. It was the team. Perfect timing.
I quickly sent my text, then caught up with the players.
I wished Antonio Rudiger all the best and offered my hand.
He declined.
“Corona virus.”
Ah, of course…
”OK, sorry.”
I spotted Billy Gilmour in conversation with Mason Mount. I said a few words. They were dead friendly and posed for a great photo – “thumbs up” – with a gaggle of other players behind them. A nice moment. As the players drifted past – alas no Frank Lampard, unless I missed him – I changed from ‘phone to SLR and took a few more.
“Thumbs up” from Willian.
“Thumbs up” from Mateo Kovacic.
Good stuff.
My two minutes of giddiness completed, I continued on towards the pier. The sun was out now, and despite the strong wind, it was gorgeous.
I was feeling rather proud of myself. This day was going perfectly. A good drive down. A full English. A bit of clobber. A few fleeting moments with the players. Lovely.
Of course, I could easily have followed the squad around their circumnavigation of the gardens, but that would have been painful. I would never want to overdo it. It reminded me of the rush of pure Adrenalin that I used to get if I was lucky enough to get some players’ autographs pre-match at Stamford Bridge in the ‘seventies. I remember being a few feet away from Ray Wilkins in the tunnel – Ray Wilkins! – in 1978 and being beside myself with unquantifiable joy. It was hardly the same in 2020, but it was a nice moment regardless. I hope that I never lose that childlike – not childish, that’s different – wonderment when I am ever lucky enough to meet our heroes.
God knows what I’ll be like if I ever meet Clare Grogan.
Our match tickets included a neat graphic of the Bournemouth pier, including the large Ferris wheel that sits alongside it. It’s quite stylised, quite fetching. I approved. As I walked on, beneath the Ferris wheel – not in use – I headed towards the pier to take a few shots with the waves were crashing in on both sides. Towards the east of the pier, there were around twenty surfers braving the elements. The wind was so strong that I had visions of my top flying out of my shopping bag into the murky mire down below. Everyone was happy, everyone was smiling, in the way that a combination of sun and seaside always elicits this response. I don’t often get to the coast these days so hearing the waves crash brought back some lovely childhood memories. Many trips to the beach were spent in and around this part of the world; Bournemouth, Southbourne, Sandbanks, Shell Bay, Studland, Swanage. It’s a beautiful part of the world.
I stepped off the pier and thought about hiking down to Boscombe and visiting that pier too. But that was a little too far. As a kid on holiday in Southbourne, when I obviously possessed unlimited energy, I often used to walk the promenade from Southbourne to Boscombe to Bournemouth and back. I took some more photos. The brightly coloured pastels of the regimented beach huts were an easy target. The sand flew off the beach as the waves crashed. It was, and it surprised me, a bloody fantastic little walk.
“Shame the bloody football will inevitably bugger all this up” I thought to myself.
I turned to return to the pub and at that moment I felt a few spots of rain. Thankfully, this soon passed. I met up with the drinkers again – PD, Parky, augmented by Andy and The Two Ronnies, and also Nick, Pete and Robbie, then Leigh and Jason and their team – at about midday or so.
“Good time, Chris?”
“Yeah. Superb.”
We chatted about the state of the team at this exact moment in time. Plenty of different opinions, plenty of concerns, plenty of hope too.
“Gotta win this one boys.”
At about two o’clock, we returned to the car. I had booked a driveway space – using “JustPark” – as I had done last season on a road a few minutes’ walk from The Vitality Stadium. It only took me a quarter of an hour to find it, though I took the home owner by surprise. I think I was her first-ever customer. She had to ask her friend to move her car to allow me to slip in alongside. Sorted.
There was a little deluge of rain, damn, as we walked around the ground to reach the away turnstiles on the far corner. A bag search – “is that a professional camera?” – and I managed to bullshit the camera in with a little sweet talk.
We were in with about twenty minutes to go.
Overhead, the weather was changing constantly.
We were in the fifth row.
The stands filled up.
We were playing in white. Have we ever played in blue at Bournemouth in the Premier League?
Some annoying tosser on the PA must have recently realised that the words “noise” and “boys” rhyme because the fool kept repeating the basic phrase “make some noise for the boys” as if he was on piece work.
“Oh do shut up you twat.”
The team?
Wing backs again.
Caballero
Azpilicueta – Christensen – Tomori
James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Alonso
Pedro – Giroud – Mount
The Chelsea twelve-hundred were in relatively good voice at the start.
As always, we attacked the goal to our right in the first-half. Apart from the fact that there wasn’t really a great deal of meaningful attacking by us in the first quarter of an hour or so. Indeed, there was moaning from everyone around me regarding our sluggish play in the first part of the match. I remembered Philip Billing and his retro hair from the defeat that Bournemouth inflicted on us in December and Willy Caballero was called into action in the first few minutes to deny him. This was a good reaction save with his legs. Fine stuff. Fikayo Tomori then misjudged the ball and let the same player have a second shot on goal, but this went narrowly wide.
You can imagine the mood in the away segment.
“Fackninellchels.”
Our play was slow, slow, slow. No urgency. The ball was hardly ever played to the two wing backs, but neither were pushed-on anyway. We were content to knock the ball sideways and never forward.
“Someone take ownership of the ball.”
Eventually, we got it together. Mason looked neat and blasted a couple of efforts towards goal. Reece James was more involved. At last we were starting to run, to exploit gaps. Olivier Giroud made a couple of darting runs into space, not really his thing, and it almost – almost – paid off.
“This is better Chelsea.”
A couple of rows in front, “The World’s Most Tedious Chelsea Fan” was sadly positioned within earshot. All by himself, he was singing songs incorrectly and with no desire to get the words right. On and on he bellowed.
“For fuck sake, shut up.”
Poor old Beardy couldn’t take it. He was trying to edge away.
The home fans – no noise for the boys – were ridiculously quiet. We were quiet too.
On thirty-three minutes, Reece James sent in a fine low ball from the right which Giroud met perfectly. His touch sent the ball rising up against the bar and the ball spun off at an angle. Thankfully, Marcos Alonso – whose role had been increasing – slammed the ball home from an angle with a fierce volley.
GET IN.
We celebrated that one alright. And so did the players. I loved Giroud’s fist pump. There was a slight – slight – thought of VAR, but nothing came of it.
Alan, quite matter-of-factly : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris, the same : “Come on my little diamonds.”
BOSH.
Bournemouth 0 Chelsea 1.
We continued to play the upper hand as the first-half continued. A shot from James forced Aaron Ramsdale in the Cherries’ goal to save well.
We finished the half in control.
And, with the sun out, at times it was surprisingly warm.
At the break, with “TWMTCF” leaving for a half-time pint, I suggested to everyone within earshot “right, everyone change seats” in an effort to confuse the fucker.
Honestly, I have never seen him sober at a Chelsea game.
As luck would have it, as the second-half began, “TWMTCF” was nowhere to be seen.
I have never seen Beardy look so relieved.
And then, the football went pear-shaped.
Soon into the second-period, Alonso nimbly set up Olivier Giroud, but the shot was rushed and whizzed wide.
“TWMTCF” then appeared but in the wrong section completely. He was told to “fuck off” to the correct seat. Bollocks. Beardy disappeared to try to find another seat.
The football then nose-dived. A corner to Bournemouth on their right. A well-flighted ball into the mixer, and Jefferson Lerma rose unhindered to head home.
“Bollocks. Another free header. Another set piece. Fuck it.”
Just after, a swift passing move cut right through us. We were collectively and individually nowhere. A few neat passes and Josh King swept the ball home.
Memories of the four second-half goals being scored, and celebrated, at the same end last January.
Winning 1-0 with ease, we were now 2-1 down.
Bollocks.
There was half-an-hour left.
Willian for Tomori.
We changed to a flat four at the back.
Ross Barkley for Jorginho.
For the rest of the game, with the home side more than happy to defend very deep with a very low block, we absolutely dominated possession. But Bournemouth defended well and gifted us no space. We were then treated to rain hammering down on the players and supporters alike. Those in the first few rows scurried to the back of the seats. We then were pelted with sizeable hailstones.
“Lovely.”
Then, the sun came out, and we could concentrate a little better on the game. It felt odd not to have Eden Hazard down in front of us on the left wing at this intimate stadium. Instead, Pedro and Alonso did the twisting and the dancing. A Giroud header wide.
I was hoping that the manager might be tempted to play two up front, but Giroud was replaced by Michy Batshuayi, whose first real involvement was to score an offside goal.
Fackinell.
We kept piling on the pressure, but there seemed to be no fissures in gritty Bournemouth’s defensive rock. We passed and passed. Ross Barkley was centrally involved. But there was no space to exploit. At least we kept possession well. A shot from Barkley, a shot from Batshuayi, a shot from Azpilicueta.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
A very poor “Zigger Zagger.”
Thankfully, “TWMTCF” had stopped singing. He had run out of fuel.
On eighty-five minutes, Pedro was gifted a few inches of space. His shot was well saved by the excellent Ramsdale but the alert Alonso was on hand to pounce, and adeptly headed home. His finish was similar in reality to his first goal; on hand to stab home a rebound.
“GETINYOUFUCKER.”
Alonso picked up the ball and raced back to the centre spot.
Bournemouth 2 Chelsea 2.
Altogether now : “phew.”
A header from Alonso – rising well – dropped wide from just outside the six yard box. It would have been the unlikeliest of winners, the unlikeliest of hat-tricks. He has had quite a week.
A few youths behind me gloated –
“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”
“Bloody hell lads. This is Bournemouth.”
Embarrassing. Highly so.
No more goals.
The game petered out.
In the end, I think most of us were just grateful that we had salvaged a point against one of our recent bogey teams.
On a day of parks and piers and beaches, thank heavens that the football part, heaven knows how, did not let us down.
Our home game with AFC Bournemouth, to give them their full name, would be my twenty-fifth match of the current season. I was in London, in Fulham, early and I had a little time to kill. I had dropped the lads off at West Brompton tube station at around 10am, and had then parked the car outside the mews on Bramber Road where James Hunt, the former Formula One champion, had lived for a while. I needed to be in The Goose to collect a ticket for a mate at 11am, and had about an hour to kill. I decided to head down to Stamford Bridge and pop in to the Copthorne Hotel for a coffee and to see who else was around and about.
Everything was pretty quiet. It was a bitterly cold morning. It felt like it was yet to become a match day in these familiar streets. As I neared the site of the old red-bricked Fulham Broadway tube station, I was surprised how still and silent it all was. The long expanse of pavement outside the Broadway Bar & Grill, which then lead on past the former entrance hall of the station, was totally devoid of people. I was touched by the serenity of the scene. I decided to take a photograph with my ‘phone as a scene-setter for my day at Chelsea. I had decided to mention that I loved the fact that my grandfather had probably exited that very same station in the early part of the twentieth century as he made his way to Stamford Bridge, the only stadium he would ever visit apart from a midweek trip with my parents and I to see Chelsea at Bristol Rovers in 1976. I love that on every trip to our home stadium, I walk in his steps.
I steadied myself and was just about to “shoot” when I noticed the figure of a man, cigarette in hand, white silk scarf around his neck, like a figure from the inter-war years. I then realised that it was no ghost from the distant past. It was none other than Tommy Baldwin who I had seen play just once, my second-ever game against Tottenham in 1974, but who was a huge part of our famous team of the ‘seventies.
He was the leader of the team, after all.
I approached him, shook his hand, and he seemed surprised that anyone would recognise him.
It was a lovely little moment.
I continued my advance to Stamford Bridge. It was so early that the fellows on the “CFCUK” stall were only just setting up shop. I walked on, into the forecourt, underneath the old Shed Wall. Past images of our former stars; Bobby Tambling, Kerry Dixon, Peter Osgood, Frank Lampard, Ron Harris and all. And one of Gianluca Vialli – the first one if the walk begins outside the hotel – who is still battling cancer. I took some photographs.
So many memories.
I have said before that I can often walk around the centre of my local town for thirty minutes and recognise nobody, but already on this morning in SW6 I had spoken to Mick and Pauline, Tom, Raymondo and the leader of the team.
At Chelsea, I feel like I am at home and I love that feeling.
In the hotel, I chatted to some others, then picked up the ticket at The Goose.
I was then on my way to Putney Bridge, to The Eight Bells, to my “local” some one hundred miles away from my house.
The Chelsea Social.
I arrived at about midday and my travelling companions – Simon, PD and Parks – were already on their fourth pint. Guests of honour were Gillian and Kev from Edinburgh – their second home game in a fortnight – but we were also joined by Gary and John from Edinburgh too. I chatted to Gary and how his local team, Hearts, have instigated – along with many other league teams north of the border – a “keep fit” campaign based at their Tynecastle stadium. I love the fact that Gary is able to use the stadium as a backdrop to his efforts to lose weight; up and down the terraces, stretches against the seats, press-ups in the tunnel. It is inspired. As an adjunct to this, Gary took part in a half-time shootout at Hampden Park during the Scottish League Cup tie with Rangers. He played in goal – in front of 52,000 – and saved three out of five shots on goal. What a great story.
Later, Mike and Courtney from Chicago joined us, and I spent an unusually long time talking to them both about baseball. I admitted to them that part of my fading love of that sport is the simple fact that my team – and Mike’s, definitely not Courtney’s – the Yankees moved out of their historic home in 2008 – dramatic, fearsome, cramped – and into an anaemic and watered down version in 2009. I am always aware of the role that stadia play in our appreciation of sport. Too many resemble shopping malls these days. Balls to shopping malls. Give me stands that drip history, ooze memories and reverberate to the sound of honest fans and not consumers and wannabees. At old Yankee Stadium in 2008, I struggled to squeeze past fans in the claustrophobic concourses which reeked of sweet popcorn, salted pretzels and beer. In 2009, at the new pad, I was able to watch as a butcher took great delight as he went to work on rare cuts of beef behind a glass screen, as some sort of entertainment, and – fuck me sideways – I know what version I preferred.
And it is getting worse.
My good friend Steve in South Philly – while we were talking about the new riverside stand at the wonderful Craven Cottage – sent me notice that in his part of that great city, there are plans for a $50M e-Sports venue where – let me get this right – people go to watch people gaming.
I am glad I’ll be dead in thirty years.
The Game.
We made our way to the stadium. Mike and Courtney were in the Shed Upper – using the same season ticket seats belonging to a friend that Mike met while living in Richmond upon Thames for a year in around 2008 – and I promised that I’d try to spot them with my zoom lens. I did. The four from Edinburgh were dotted around the Matthew Harding. I took my place alongside PD and Simon in The Sleepy Hollow.
The team? Mason Mount in for Mateo Kovacic.
Arrizabalaga
Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Zouma – Emerson
Jorginho
Mount – Kante
Willian – Abraham – Pulisic
As a contrast to our league of nations, Bournemouth fielded a team consisting of solid, and relatively unknown, Anglo-Saxons
Ramsdale, Stacey, Francis, Mepham, Billing, Cooke, Gosling, Fraser and King. It all sounded like a school register from my childhood.
“Yes miss.”
Bournemouth only average 10,000 home fans so it was perhaps no surprise that there was a section of their three-thousand unfilled.
We attacked The Shed End as the game began.
Fraser on the Bournemouth left immediately made an impression and looked the liveliest of the away team. But we were soon on the attack, and a sublime ball from deep from Jorginho found the advanced run of Mount. From an angle, it was always going to be a tough ask, and his shot drew a save from Ramsdale in the Bournemouth goal.
Little did we know that this effort inside the first ten minutes or so would be our main effort on goal during the entirety of the first half.
The atmosphere was morgue like, and the away fans made more noise.
“Red Army.”
A lone voice in the Matthew Harding Upper was heard to mutter :
“Fuck off back to your care homes.”
Guilty.
Chelsea were faced with a packed final third as players took it in turns to pass their way around the danger zones as if there was a force field centered on the penalty spot. There were shades of last season – pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass – and the home fans sat in sombre silence. On too many occasions players failed to take ownership to make a killing ball. Yet there was poor movement off the ball too. A shot from Tammy midway through the contest narrowly missed the target.
It was all very humdrum.
And, to reiterate, the away team were unwilling to attack and open the game up, more’s the pity.
We were forced to trudge slowly over quicksand.
It was dull stuff.
I willed the boys on, but chances of any real quality were rare. Eddie Howe’s team, on a very poor run of form, seemed to grow more resolute as the tedious half progressed. On their rare forays up field though, such is our fragility these days, it always seemed that they might score.
Sadly, I have to report that there was not one single “stadium wide” song of support and encouragement throughout the first forty-five minutes.
We’re all getting older, we’re all getting quieter, we’re all fighting a losing battle.
The most repeated ball of the half was a long diagonal from Rudiger to Emerson or Pulisic on the left, but I wished that there was the occasional quick ball over the top for Tammy to eat up. On one occasion, nearing the end of the half, a gap was yawning to Tammy’s left, but the ball was played elsewhere and our young striker flung his arms up in frustration. He had a point. In the last dying embers of the first period, a corner from the boot of Willian found the leap of Tammy but the striker could not get over it and it flew over the crossbar.
It had been, definitely, a tough watch.
At least there were no boos at half-time.
Inside my head : “we tend to play better in the second-half, Frank will sort them out, we often make amends for a lacklustre first period with a more determined second-half show. Come on Chels.”
To a pal : “the last time we went in 0-0 at half-time against this lot, we let in four in the second-half.”
The second-half began and, alas, there was no noticeable improvement. If anything, we had deteriorated further, and the away team were more involved in attacking play.
Inside my head : “that will help us, draw them in then counter-attack them with pace.”
But this never really happened.
Rejoice – on fifty-one minutes, at last a Chelsea song joined us all together. It was hardly deafening, but it was a start. Willian struck the red and black wall from a far-too-central free-kick and then Pulisic broke through with a trademark burst but seemed to lose his footing as a shot skidded wide.
But the mood in the Stamford Bridge stands was not good at all.
I kept silent – lips pursed, hands in pockets, the occasional scowl, the look of a worried man – but elsewhere others were happy to howl and swear and yell obscenities. That upset me a bit. I hate that a misdirected pass – of which there were an increasing number – drew five times as much noise as a fine touch.
To hear someone close by call our players “fucking wankers” was one of the low points of my year.
Aren’t supporters meant to rally behind our team when players need encouragement? I get the frustration, but at times it was too much, too audible, and I am adamant that it affected the players’ collective confidence. It reminded me of the “you don’t know what you’re doing” phases of the Scolari, Villas-Boas and Sarri eras when it was possible to see players undergo some sort of meltdown with misplaced passes and poor control as they fell apart.
But that’s my standard view. It hasn’t fucking changed in years.
It took a fantastic last-gasp tackle from Kurt Zouma to get the crowd in a positive mood. But elsewhere, everything seemed to be falling apart. We over-passed, and at times the passing was so poor. Misplaced balls from Rudiger and Zouma from deep, misplaced passes from Jorginho, and even from Kante who was – a tell-tale sign – being dragged down to the level of others after a strong start to the game. Rudiger, actually – everyone’s favourite when he was side-lined – had a ‘mare and to see his form deteriorate over the second forty-five minutes was equally surprising and shocking in equal measure. In fact, nobody played well.
On sixty-five minutes, a double substitution.
Mateo Kovacic for Pulisic.
Callum Hudson-Odoi for Willian.
After a ridiculous bout of pinball in the penalty area below me, Emerson headed straight at Ramsdale. From the angle where I was watching, it looked like it hit the bar. The crowd groaned.
Fackinell.
Abraham stretched but saw a header go wide. But we barely created anything of note.
Frank went for two upfront as Michy Batshuayi replaced Jorginho.
With ten minutes to go, a Bournemouth attack and the ball was lofted up into the box.
An offside flag.
But the ball was lobbed goal wards.
Dave seemed to clear it.
The Bournemouth fans celebrated.
I did not react.
“Offside, you wankers.”
Oh no.
A delay.
Oh bollocks.
VAR.
A wait.
A bad sign.
Goal.
And nobody that I was sat with really knew what was going on. We presumed the bloke wasn’t offside, but there was no real clear explanation.
Great.
CFC 0 AFCB 1.
Only in the fading moments of this dire game did we seem to want to go at their defence. A couple of thrusting runs from Hudson-Odoi hinted at the kind of football that we should have been producing all afternoon but it was too little and too late.
At the final whistle there were boos.
Really?
I know – I am not stupid – this was a bloody poor performance, but are people so mean spirited that the “give our kids a chance, we’ll be happy with tenth this season, Frank knows the club” mantra has been so easily jettisoned?
For many, it would appear so, eh?
But there again, the league table doesn’t lie, and we are fourth from bottom and out of the Champions League. And we have spent £200M on new players since the end of last season.
Frankly.
As I drove home, I was relieved – so relieved – that my ‘phone was off and I was not able to see the reaction – over reaction? – of so many on social media. Again, I get the passion, and I get a lot of constructive analysis, but some comments I would later discover were just excruciating.
I trust Frank. He knows football. He knows more about football than you and I. I’ve never wanted a Chelsea manager to succeed more than Frank.
In his post-game interviews, he was clearly rattled, as he should be, and – again – I loved his honesty and intelligence, and how we need to improve all over the pitch for the game at Tottenham. Despite his annoyance, his desire to get it right shone through. And unlike last season under Sarri, at least Frank understands what it means when we play at Tottenham.
CHELSEA/esque 