Tales From A West London Affair

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 16 October 2021.

I needed that recent international break. After seven Chelsea games in just twenty-one days, involving almost twenty-one thousand words here, for once I was most relieved that there would be a fallow period of a fortnight with no match.

(Things I never thought I’d write #127.)

Last weekend was still spent watching football though. I drove into Oxfordshire to see Frome Town recover from conceding an early goal to wallop Didcot Town 5-1 in the FA Trophy. This almost made up for the 5-0 defeat suffered at the hands of Bath City in the FA Cup, a game that took place at the same time that we played Southampton. By the way, an infinitesimally small amount of time was spent weighing up the chances of me attending a local derby at Bath as opposed to the Saints in a run-of-the-mill league game at Stamford Bridge. It was a no contest to be honest.

Frome Town has been good to me of late, but Chelsea is still number one in my affections.

The away league match at Brentford had been a long time coming. Seventy-four years in fact. Yes, dear reader, the last time that the two West London clubs met in a league encounter was in March 1947. Our meetings with the red and white striped Bees from along the A4 have been ridiculously rare. Aside from friendlies, the two clubs had only met on fourteen previous occasions. There was a flurry of games before the outbreak of the Second World War and in the first of these seasons – 1935/36 – Brentford ended up as the top team in London.

Since those halcyon days, Brentford have toiled away in the lower reaches of the Football League. If I am honest, apart from Ray and Graham Wilkins’ father George and our own Ron Harris, I would be hard pressed to name any of their players apart from those in the current team.

Do Bradley Walsh and Rod Stewart count?

In the grand scheme of things, our relatively recent meetings with Brentford in the FA Cup campaigns of 2012/13 and 2016/17 represent a real flurry of activity.

On the same day that we became European Champions in Porto, Brentford swept past Swansea City in the play-off final to gain promotion to the top tier, and I for one – when I heard the news in the stadium before our game – was very happy. I love the football pyramid, I love the rise of smaller teams (Wigan, Blackpool, Bournemouth in recent years) and I love visiting new stadia. Driving in to London on the elevated section of the M4 over the past five years, we have watched how the new Brentford Community Stadium has risen, not so far from Griffin Park, and the arrival of Brentford in the Premiership was just perfect.

With the game moving to a 5.30pm kick-off, we salivated at the prospect of a Hammersmith to Chiswick River Thames pub-crawl before the game. Yet for weeks and weeks, only Parky and I were guaranteed match tickets. Then, what luck, two tickets became available from a couple of friends who could not attend, thus allowing PD and Glenn to join us. Glenn quickly volunteered to drive. Plans were drawn up, pubs were checked out, a parking slot opposite the new stadium was sorted.

This was going to be a cracker.

But then (I have warned that these days there is often a “but then”) one of my mates caught COVID19 – nothing too horrible, it soon passed – but it meant that I needed to take a PCR test in Bath the day before the game. My very real fear was that I would be informed of a positive test result en route to London and would then be forced to self-isolate in Glenn’s van while the others made merry. It didn’t bear thinking about. My contingency plans for the day now included freeing up my ticket, if needed, to enable my good friend Daryl to attend in my absence should the need arise.

Heading into London at around 10.30am, up on the M3 before it drops down into Twickenham, Glenn was playing a few songs from The Jam in his van.

One song struck a chord.

“That’s Entertainment” is much loved. It charted in 1983 after the band split, and I have always loved its lyrics, an homage to melancholy days in humdrum England, a nod to working class life and culture. The mundane is celebrated, almost embraced. Paul Weller’s words drifted over the semi-detached houses of the outer reaches of south-west London.

“A police car and a screaming siren.”

The skies had darkened a little since we had left our homes and for the past twenty minutes there had been rain. We hoped the wet weather would not last.

“The screech of brakes and the lamplight blinking.”

Glenn drove on and I wondered if the day’s events would turn out to be mundane – surely not – or magnificent and memorable. Again I thought of the millions of Chelsea fans who would be wishing that they were the lucky ones with a match ticket on this day in West London.

“That’s entertainment.”

There had been no PCR test result thus far in. I pondered my day ahead. I would be controlled by outside forces.

“Lights going out and a kick in the balls.”

No, let’s be positive here. I had experienced no symptoms. No symptoms at all. My mood cheered with each of Weller’s squeezed together lines.

“Opening the windows and breathing in petrol.”

The Jam coexisted alongside Chelsea Football Club for me in those exciting and yet horrible adolescent years and here they were again.

“Football, music and clobber” was it Mr. Weller?

“That’s entertainment.”

Glenn drove on into Richmond, up to Chiswick and we were parked up, more or less on time, at around 11am.

There had been a few messages to and from Daryl. We had decided that he would be best placed to look for other entertainment; he was off to see Guernsey’s match down in South London against Chipstead, his non-league team’s first away game since January 2020.

From around 11.30am to around 4.30pm, we visited five pubs on the northern bank of the River Thames, replicating a pub-crawl that Parky and I first enjoyed before an Arsenal away game in 2015. With each pub, we bumped into more and more friends and acquaintances. At “The Blue Anchor” we were joined by the two Robs, then Luke, Aroha and Doreen – the last time that I have seen all three since Porto, smiley face – and we then sauntered next door to “The Rutland Arms”. We joined forces with Rob Three, Feisal, Brian, Pete and a few more at “The Dove”, and I chatted to Nick and James – Dublin, 2019 – out on the small terrace overlooking the river. By the time we had reached “The Old Ship”, the party was almost twenty strong. It seemed that we were not the only ones who had come up with the idea of this most wonderful of pub crawls. Around the corner at “The Black Lion” were five or six familiar faces from our local area who had honed in on this idyllic spot in West London.

That’s entertainment.

We had sat alongside a few QPR fans at the “Blue Anchor”, no doubt heading off to see their team, and eventually lose, at Craven Cottage. We all thought how odd it was for the Met Police to sanction all of West London’s four teams to play – against each other – on the same day.

On several occasions, I spoke in hushed tones about how fearful I was of the game at Brentford. It had all the hallmarks of a Chelsea banana skin. I likened it to our game in the autumn of 2011 – one week away from being ten years ago exactly – when we went to newly-promoted neighbours QPR and lost 1-0. I am sure I was not the only one in our ever-growing party, or worldwide, who had this fear of defeat. Brentford had certainly settled with ease this season. They would be no pushover. Their fans would be, er, buzzing.

The lager was hitting the spot. But time was moving on. Just as we were thinking about mustering the troops together to head west to our pre-paid parking spot on the A4, I received a text message. I nervously looked.

“Negative.”

Phew.

“You shall go to the ball.”

We said our goodbyes as others worked out their best ways to travel the two miles or so to the game. We shoehorned nine of us into Glenn’s Chuckle Bus and off we went. I wasn’t sure about getting a cab nor travelling on buses, and there were no slashed seat affairs.

This was a West London affair and we were on our way.

We were soon parked up. Luckily, the stadium was just a ten-minute walk away. I was just so relieved that we had the sense, after surely a gallon of lager, to leave the Thames side pubs in good time, and that we could now relax and enjoy our walk all of the way around the grey cladding of the stadium and reach the away turnstiles in good time. It was around 5pm.

Good job I work in logistics.

Once inside the away concourse, virtually the first person that I bumped into was Daryl.

“Wow. You got a ticket then mate!”

Fantastic.

“Yeah, it would appear that rocking horses do occasionally go to the toilet.”

We had evidently not been the only little group of Chelsea fans enticed into West London hostelries for a few bevvies. The singing in the concourse was loud, and it continued into the stadium itself.

I knew what to expect of the Brentford Community Stadium. A few years back, as a certified stadium buff, I subscribed to updates from Brentford Football Club as their new stadium took shape. This mirrored my fascination with its steady growth with each trip in to see a game at Chelsea. Imagine my shock when, presumably because of my free subscription to these stadium updates, I started to receive offers to become a Brentford season ticket holder at the new place.

Easy now.

It’s a decent stadium. Every inch of available space has been used, and the stands abut roads and railway lines. Sound familiar? The stadium holds 17,250. The main stand dominates everything, but its upper reaches are an ugly mix of dull grey roof trusses and unsightly executive areas. I like the way that the tower of the Kew Pumping Station can be glimpsed between the main stand and the western home terrace, a much slighter structure. The roof drops down drastically at two of the corners. The seats are multi-coloured – no doubt to give the impression of them being filled even when they aren’t – but as kick-off time approached it was clear that this would be another full house.

Our away take was around 1,600.

Thankfully many faces that I recognised were in. Behind me was Rob Three, who was joined at various times by H, and then Des, who seemed intent on popping up in every section in the entire away end at various intervals of the entire match. A special mention for Clinton and his son Bailey who were stood a few rows behind me. Hailing from Stirling in central Scotland, Bailey played football during the morning before they flew down to Gatwick in the afternoon and then took a cab to Brentford. There was Luke in the front row of the top section, joining in with the chanting, arms spread. I spotted Daryl in the front row behind the goal. Faces everywhere in fact.

We knew there would be changes due to injuries and as the kick-off approached, the team was flashed on the TV screen which was perched rather precariously atop the main stand roof.

Mendy

Sarr – Christensen – Chalobah

Chilwell – Kovacic – Loftus-Cheek – Kante – Azpilicueta

Werner – Lukaku

I was alongside Alan, Gal and Parky in a jam-packed quartet in row five.

“They shall not pass.”

My first thoughts as the game began were two-fold.

Firstly, after games where we had been rather reticent at the start, I was just so pleased that we were able to take the game to Brentford in the first five, ten, fifteen minutes.

Secondly, bloody hell, we were making a racket. From a good few minutes before kick-off, and into those first twenty minutes, the noise from the 1,600 Chelsea fans in the north-eastern corner was non-stop.

“That’s more like it.”

And I couldn’t believe how quiet the home fans were. It shocked me.

As the two managers, Thomas Frank and Thomas Tuchel, cajoled their troops from the side-lines, the Chelsea choir let it rip.

“Super Chelsea FC.”

“We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

“Timo Werner.”

But the loudest and – ahem – proudest (?) chant was directed at the referee, Anthony Taylor.

Look away now if you are easily offended.

“You’re a James Hunt, you’re a James Blunt, and you’ll always be a Stephen Hunt, you’ll always be a Berkshire Hunt, Taylor, Taylor.”

It seemed to go on forever.

It might sound stupid, even childish, but this chant reinforced the notion that despite modern football’s desire to cleanse and sanitise the current football experience, the faces in the away section, cheering loudly and at times with profanity, have been the heartbeat of the club for decades. In short, unlike at some home games, it felt that the right fans were at this game.

The every-gamers, the loyalists, the ones with one thousand, two thousand Chelsea games to their names, the faces you know, the names you might not know, the drinkers, the thinkers, the old school, the Shed, the North Stand, Gate Thirteen, The Benches, the Matthew Harding, The Shed Lower.

Chelsea on tour.

We dominated the play and Ruben Loftus-Cheek looked like he wanted to take the game by the scruff of the neck. One strong run through the middle was enjoyed by us all. The new boy Sarr looked decent, and didn’t look out of place. The hustle and bustle of Kovacic and Kante, the Kryptonite Kids, ensured that loose balls were charged down and Brentford could not develop many passing routines.

However, after a series of Brentford corners and free-kicks, the home team obtained a foothold. A high ball in from their right was kept alive by their attackers, and the ball fell to Mbeumo whose volley ricocheted back off the near post. From here, the ball was shielded by Ruben before Kovacic took it away from the defensive third with the Brentford team having left many up field. The ball was played wide to Werner. His low cross was turned in by Lukaku, but he had strayed – diabolically – offside.

Bollocks.

We regained control and a Kovacic free-kick threatened Raya in the home goal. A shot from Timo just swept past the post. It was all Chelsea, but there was frustration in the away end as our domination often petered out. Right on the stroke of half-time, a breakthrough came. A sustained spell of pressure, pegging the home defence back, resulted in a cross from Dave. Lukaku got something on it, and the ball dropped invitingly for Ben Chilwell. His volley was well controlled – not unlike the goal against Southampton in that respect – and the ball flew into the net.

Brentford 0 Chelsea 1.

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

Phew.

The night had fallen by the time the players returned onto the pitch for the start of the second-half. Whereas the first-half belonged to us, if only in terms of possession despite the goal, the second-half absolutely belonged to Brentford, and I wondered how or why they were allowed to dominate us for such long periods. This was the Brentford that I had been expecting to see all along, and at last the home fans were involved too.

Tuchel replaced Kovacic with Mason Mount half-way through the half. Lukaku wasted a golden opportunity after a Werner shot was blocked. Lukaku’s blast over the bar was met with groans and wails.

Brentford, by then, were warming to the task of getting back into the game. The previously quiet Toney looked lively, and Mbeumo saw his weak shot hit the left-hand post. Mendy was being called into action to safeguard our slender win, and he rose to the challenge magnificently.

Our ‘keeper was able to smother a shot as Ghoddos attacked from an angle and, oh Ghodd, we watched in pain as the ball was kept alive by a few desperate Brentford tackles. Thankfully, Chalobah was suitably switched-on to be able to hack a resultant shot off the line.

Brentford were making a racket now.

“About time.”

Next up a point blank save from Jansonn; the man Mendy was having an immense game.

Fackinell.

By now, our nerves were being strained and pulled and stretched in all different directions. Kai Havertz had replaced Lukaku and I felt that our attacking options had effectively been turned off.

Hang in there, boys.

Reece James for Dave.

At the death, an overhead kick from Norgaard drew an incredible reflex save from our goalkeeper. Mendy reacted so quickly, his fingers touching the ball over the bar.

This drew immediate and loud applause from us.

Just who is the five o’clock hero? Dunno, but Edouard Mendy was the seven o’clock one.

At last the final whistle.

This was hardly a classic, we knew that. Our play promised great things in the first quarter of the game, no doubt. But we just couldn’t switch through the gears when we needed to. Credit goes to Brentford for a great second-half performance, and – let’s be honest – they deserved a point.

I checked the scores again. A Manchester United loss at Leicester City. Liverpool had won at Watford. A Manchester City home win against Burnley.

But, it was true, we were top of the league. Gulp. At present we are surely a team whose total value is less than the sum of its constituent parts.

I posted, almost hard to believe in the circumstances, on Facebook :

“Catch Us If You Can.”

The way this season is going, it might take me until May to work out if this current Chelsea team are any good. And by then, who knows, we might even be League Champions.

See you on Wednesday.


Tales From A Home Banker

Chelsea vs. Everton : 8 March 2020.

It seems that for every single Chelsea vs. Everton match report, I trot out the same key statistic of them not beating us in a league game at Stamford Bridge since that Paul Rideout goal gave them a 1-0 win during 1994/95. That match turned out to be as equally an inauspicious start to the unveiling of the first new stand – the North – since the previous time in 1974/75 when Carlisle United defeated us 2-0 as the East Stand made it’s bow.

But this year. This year felt a little different. Although the entire club was buoyed by the excellent FA Cup win against Liverpool, Everton were undergoing a relatively bright spell under the control of our former manager Carlo Ancelotti. And it felt, to me at least, that a tough game was on the cards. But could the accumulative effect of twenty-four seasons of hurt for Everton in SW6 – I have seen them all, won thirteen, drew eleven – impinge itself once again on Everton’s collective psyche?

I bloody hoped so.

“Funny team Everton.”

And so while they have really suffered at Chelsea over the years, they have had the upper hand over us at Goodison Park for quite a while now.

Which Everton would show up?

I suppose, deep down, I knew all along.

My preparations for the Sunday afternoon match began the previous evening in a local vllage called Kilmersdon, where a fellow Chelsea season ticket holder – Sue – was celebrating a “surprise” birthday party. Her daughter Chelsea and husband Stuart sit in the same section of The Shed Lower as Parky, and although I do not know the family that well at all, I thought it would be the height of bad manners for me not to make an appearance. Our two villages are, after all, just four miles apart.

I strolled into the village pub, spotted the three of them, but also my old Chelsea mate Terry, from Radstock, a few miles further away. I have known Terry since the 1984/85 season when I used to very occasionally catch the Yeovil Supporters Coach to games. In truth, I think this only happened twice (vs. QPR in 1984/85 and vs. Arsenal in 1985/86) but I also remember the Yeovil coach calling in at Stoke so I could piggy-back a ride up to Old Trafford in 1985/86 too. I can remember taking him up to a few games c. 2003/4 when I worked in Chippenham. He used to have a ST in the Matthew Harding Lower. I had not seen Terry at Chelsea for years, but saw him at a “Buzzcocks” gig in Bath a couple of years ago in addition to one or two at “The Cheese And Grain” in Frome. We share the same tastes in a lot of music.

Very soon into our conversation, Terry enquired “did you hear about Swan?” and I immediately felt that I was in for some sad news. Swan was also from Radstock, and used to sit with us on the famous Benches from 1985 to maybe 1987. He was a bit of a lad, a Jack the lad even, and with his curly perm, moustache and heavy frame he used to resemble Ian Botham. He was a good lad, and was certainly on those three coach trips that I have mentioned. In 1986/87, his attendance tailed off, and none of us had seen him for ages. He used to work in an office in Bath, near the bus station, and I have a feeling that the last time I saw him was while he was on a lunch break in the city centre in around 1987.  We had heard he had gone to live up north; Leeds or Sheffield or somewhere.

Sadly, Terry was to tell me that Swan had recently passed away. This came as a real shock. He was surely no older than fifty-two or fifty-three. I texted Alan and Glenn, and a couple of other of the lads who sat with Swan in those halcyon days.

These photos show the unfurling of a Union Jack before our game with Tottenham in April 1985. Swan is at the back, sporting a grey, red and black Pringle if memory serves. Glenn is all smiles with the bubble perm, Alan is central with a ski-hat, as is Walnuts and Dave, while Rich is wearing an England one. In 1984/85 and 1985/86, ski hats were all the rage. And when I say benches, I mean concrete slabs. The Tottenham game was the first game that we had to endure those. But more of that another day.

In “The Jolliffe Arms” on Saturday, Terry and I raised a glass in memory of Swan.

Rest In Peace.

With the game against Everton kicking-off at 2pm, we had to be on our toes early on so that we could squeeze as much out of the day as possible. Glenn picked me up at 7.30am, and we were inside “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham at about 10.15am.

For the best part of three hours we had a blast. Tom was visiting from New York – sorry, New Jersey – and arrived in good time. He settled in seamlessly alongside PD amid tales of his planned trip to Cologne and Berlin after this little visit to London Town. On Saturday, he had seen Brentford dismantle Sheffield Wednesday 5-0. It would be bloody lovely if Brentford’s first season in their new digs could be in the Premier League.

Glenn joined us after parking his van.

Then the Jacksonville Four – Jennifer, Brian, Jimmy and Eugene – joined us. It is always a pleasure to see their smiling faces, even if Eugene was wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, and they were excited about being back in “The Eight Bells” once more.

From Jacksonville to Axonville.

Jimmy and Eugene had chosen Leyton Orient’s game against Cambridge United. I love it that Chelsea fans take a look at lower level football while in London. Top marks.Two lads from the days of Swan on The Benches arrived – Richard and Simon – and I noticed that our former player from the glory days of the early ‘seventies Alan Hudson was in the pub too. He very kindly stopped by for a photo call.

These photos show how much fun we had.

[inside my head : “fackinell, these Americans love their Chelsea scarves, eh?”]

Inside Stamford Bridge, Everton had their usual three thousand. We had learned that, perhaps unsurprisingly due to our large injury list, Frank Lampard had chosen the same starting eleven as against Liverpool, apart from young Mason Mount taking over from Mateo Kovacic.

Flags, flames.

The Evertonians took off their dull tracksuit tops to reveal their bright pink shirts.

Blimey.

I was surprised to see King Carlo on the touchline; I had presumed that he would have been banished to the stands after his recent indiscretion. Ten years on from the double season, Carlo stood ten yards from Frank. They had embraced on seeing each other and I remembered hearing Frank Lampard speak so sweetly about his former manager when he talked to a packed bar in Manhattan in 2015.

“Jose Mourinho is the greatest manager that I have played for, but Carlo Ancelotti is the nicest man that I have ever met in football.”

We began the game well, with Willian teeing up Mason Mount to volley from just outside the six-yard box. There was a fine reaction save from Jason Pickford.

Unlike most away fans who visit SW6, Everton were hardly a riot of noise.

In the first ten minutes, a first. The ball was hoofed clear and it made its way up to the very front row of The Sleepy Hollow. There were a few cheers, a few jeers, and I found myself getting far too excited about it.

“That’s the first ever time, right?”

There had been shots that had ended up in the more central portion of the Matthew Harding Upper, but no ball had reached the corner section.

Fuck, I need to get out more.

Not long after, a move developed down our left. Alan had just been out to turn his bike around, and I looked up and moved to let him sidle past. With that, in the corner of my eye, I saw that Mason Mount had smashed a goal home, the lower corner.

Boom.

Oh well, I don’t miss too many.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

The goal was replayed on the TV screen. It was, undoubtedly, a fantastic strike.

There had been a rare, weak, shot from Richarlison, but Barkley played Willian into space down the right but his shot, from an angle, was palmed away down low by Pickford.

On twenty minutes, a neat interchange of passes between Gilmour, Giroud and Barkley – with a slide-rule pass which pleased us all – sent Pedro racing free. He had both sides of the goal to aim for, and it always looked like he would score. He chose the right side and score he did.

GET IN.

Thankfully there was no VAR annulment.

After a shaky moment from King Kurt, Richarlison broke and Dominic Calvert-Lewin wasted a good chance as his effort bounced wide, past Kepa in his all-black Lev Yashin kit.

We were purring in that first-half.

Great stuff.

Five minutes into the second period, I watched as a long passing move developed. It seemed to me that there was not one wasteful pass, every movement of the ball was purposeful. Eventually, Barkley played it to Willian, still some twenty-five yards out. He, like Pedro for the second-goal, had time to choose which side of the goal to aim for. Both sides were unprotected. His low strike flew in to the right of Pickford.

“Great goal.”

Willian slid into the corner.

Knees down Mother Brown.

Just three minutes later, Willian took a short corner, then slung the ball into the box. Olivier Giroud, showing a cunning willingness to get tough and get dirty, threw a leg at the ball as it curled down and past the Everton defenders.

Chelsea 4 Everton 0.

Beautiful.

Everton might have been playing in pink, but they certainly weren’t pretty. Off the pitch, there was disappointment too. There hadn’t been a peep out of the travelling Evertonians all game, and now some began to leave the away quadrant.

But did we make tons of noise? Not really.

The game safe, Frank fluttered a few cards from the pack.

Reece James for Mason Mount.

Tino Anjorin for Willian.

Armando Broja – a first-team debut – for Olivier Giroud.

Once or twice, the Matthew Harding sang “Carlo! Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!” but it was a rather underwhelming show of support for our former manager to be honest.

There were a few late flurries from us, and Kepa got down well to smother a cross from Theo Walcott, but no more goals were added to the tally. However, there was much to admire from our team on this Sunday afternoon. Billy Gilmour was just so pleasing on the eye. I love the look of him. He has a great mix of balance, vision, fluidity and tenaciousness.

He also has a wonderful footballer’s name.

Great work, Chelsea. Great work.

The Everton horror show at Stamford Bridge continued for one more season at least.

Chelsea were, as ever, dominant.

Played : 25

Won : 14

Drew 11

Lost : 0

For : 48

Against : 17

Bloody hell. I guess this was always going to be a home banker after all. A great performance, a reassuring one, and a much needed fillip after a few doubts among our supporters of late. More of the same please.

Right then. Aston Villa away on Saturday. See you there.

Tales From A Very Local Affair

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 28 January 2017.

We honestly do not have too much to moan about as Chelsea fans, do we?

In the words of the new chant – of which I am not too sure if I am a huge fan – “we’ve won it all.” And indeed we have. Additionally, we currently have a top drawer manager providing wonderful weekly results, a plush new stadium just around the corner and a solid financial base.

But it never ceases to amaze me how many repetitive and downright dull our FA Cup pairings seem to be. I guess we should be used to this. In Europe, it is well documented how often have we been drawn against Barcelona, Liverpool, Paris St. Germain, Porto, Schalke and Valencia in recent seasons.

I hear Tottenham fans shouting abuse from afar : “”We’d love that problem you miserable bastards.”

Quite.

But we love fresh fields at Chelsea.

And along with many fellow fans of a certain vintage, I have reached the stage where I crave new grounds in our quest for further FA Cup glories. Yet, over the past decade, I can only remember a few instances where I was thrilled at the prospect of us visiting a new stadium; Preston North End in 2010, Brentford in 2013 and Milton Keynes Dons in 2016.

Conversely, there have been a dull procession of home FA Cup games. We have played matches against Birmingham City, Everton, Huddersfield Town, Ipswich Town, Scunthorpe United, Stoke City and Watford on two occasions since 2005.

I’m not sure about hot balls, or cold balls, but it would appear that some FA Cup balls are stuck together. Sorry – horrible image.

It was time for a change.

Yet our third round home game against Peterborough United – yep, we played them at home in 2001, what a shocker – was followed by a home tie against Brentford, who we only met four years ago. Sigh.

So. You get the message. Not a new away stadium. Not even a new team at home.

In truth, my head was full of the trip to Anfield on Tuesday night. That trip can’t come quick enough. The Chuckle Brothers are staying a night in Liverpool. It will hopefully be a legendary night.

For our pre-match drinks for the Brentford game, we were drinking in another new pub, “The Famous Three Kings” at West Kensington, a full thirty-minute walk away from Stamford Bridge. I can feel my US friends recoiling at the very thought of that.

Fidget. Fidget : “Thirty minutes? Can we take an uber?”

It’s a big old pub, on several levels, with a couple of snugs and a fine selection of ales, ciders and lagers. Parky told us that it was the venue which used to hold many punk gigs in the ‘seventies when it was called The Nashville Rooms. The Sex Pistols, The Stranglers, The Buzzcocks and Siouxsie and The Banshees all played there. With the new “Trainspotting” film in the news, I was reminded that in the 1996 original, a scene takes place in a flat opposite the pub when the main character Renton tries his hand at being an estate agent. It seems like a pub with a definite Chelsea past, a Chelsea feel. After leaving The Goose recently, I think we may have found a new permanent home, or at least the starting point for a few North End Road pub crawls.

A few Brentford fans were spotted walking down the Talgarth Road and past the boozer. With Griffin Park just a few miles to the west, this had the feel of a very local affair.

On a big screen, the Liverpool vs. Wolves game was being shown. The visitors scored within a minute.

I turned to The Chuckle Brothers and said “I think it’s going to be a good day, lads.”

Just as I was getting a round in, Wolves scored a second and the pub roared in appreciation. What a poor succession of home results for Liverpool. A humiliating loss to Swansea City in the league was followed by a League Cup loss to Southampton. A subsequent loss to Wolves would surely mean that the atmosphere at Anfield on Tuesday would be a little more subdued and a little easier to tame.

We set off in good time for the ground, popping in to The Elm – a first-time visit for me – on the way through. On the walk, we heard that Liverpool had lost 2-1.

Beautiful.

There were six thousand Brentford fans in The Shed, but just two small flags draped over the balcony wall. No streamers. No balloons. No tin-foiled cardboard FA Cups. But it was yet another full house for an FA Cup game. Chelsea fans in respect for FA Cup shock.

The programme cover was another of our retro-styled editions. It was based on an old Edwardian Chelsea Chronicle, and the old pensioner was shown high-fiving Antonio Conte. It was a nice idea, but the line drawing of Conte was really poorly executed. A twelve year-old could have done better. But I love these old-style editions. They’re fantastic.

The manager had changed things around a little, not surprisingly.

Begovic.

Azpilicueta, Terry, Zouma.

Pedro, Fabregas, Chalobah, Ake.

Loftus-Cheek, Batshuayi, Willian.

It was especially pleasing to see Nathan Ake playing for us again. It has been a while. I wasn’t sure about Loftus-Cheek playing in a wide position upfront, but maybe the idea was for him to drift in and support Michy.

The game began. We attacked the away fans in The Shed. A shot from Pedro had them all ducking for cover. The same player, playing wing-back remember, rather than in the forward three, was then blocked as he attempted to twist past his marker. This felt like a great position, possibly for Willian or Cesc. Indeed, it was Willian who curled the ball over the wall and past the Bees’ ‘keeper Bentley at his unguarded near post. It was a lovely goal, and reminded me of the same player’s trademark efforts of last autumn. After the celebrations, I turned to Alan.

We smiled.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Only thirteen minutes were on the clock.

Not long after, we quickly countered with Michy Batshuayi planting a perfectly placed ball at the feet of Pedro – with Reuben Loftus-Cheek running alongside – and it seemed almost implausible for him to miss. Pedro tucked it away.

Chelsea 2 Brentford 0.

We were dominating possession. Brentford were hardly involved. Loftus-Cheek shot wide, Batshuayi went close. Loftus-Cheek rattled a fierce shot at goal, but the ‘keeper arched back to tip over. It was a fine shot and a fine save.

Former prospect Josh McEachran was warmly applauded when he came over to take a couple of corners down below us.

This was another relatively quiet game. There were no lasting bellows of support. Often – to my annoyance – the away fans would chant something, and the Chelsea fans would use it as a catalyst for our own version of the same song. Reactive and not proactive. Using the away fans as our own cheerleaders. Micky Greenaway would not be happy.

Our chances continued to pile up, and Brentford at last tested Begovic.

At the break, Ron Harris and Tommy Baldwin were on the pitch with Neil Barnett. I had forgotten that Baldwin had ended-up at Brentford. During the week, I had spotted an old team photograph of Brentford from when Chopper was a coach. The team included the likes of Chris Kamara, Stan Bowles and Terry Hurlock.

Just like in the previous round against Peterborough United, we were 2-0 up. And memories of our game against Bradford City in 2015 would not go away.

These concerns continued as Brentford began brightly. But Loftus-Cheek, put through by the excellent Willian, thrashed a shot which skimmed the Brentford bar.

At the other end, there was a rare Brentford chance, but the alert Begovic was able to drop to his knees and palm away a loose ball before an attacker could pounce.

There was still very little noise. The loudest chants of the day seemed to be for the now idolised manager Conte. Loftus-Cheek had another shot, which was again deflected wide of the target. It was proving to be a frustrating day for him, but he never gave up.

A rainbow appeared fleetingly above the London skies.

Conte replaced Willian with Branislav Ivanovic. Within just a few minutes, a pass from Pedro set up the substitute. The ball was perfectly played for Brana to swipe home. What a sweet strike. As he reeled away, I wondered if this would be his parting shot, since he has been strongly linked to a move away in this transfer window. His celebrations seemed quite muted. He was playing the cards close to his chest. I wondered if there would be any tell-tale waves at the final whistle.

Batshuayi had been toiling away all afternoon and I wondered if he was at all frustrated that Ivanovic had scored within just four minutes since his appearance in the game.

Kenedy replaced Azpilicueta. Dave – playing to the left of John Terry on this occasion – had been as steady as a rock. To Terry’s right, Kurt Zouma had enjoyed a game in which he was not really tested, but still seems rather stiff and ungainly at times. I am not totally convinced that he might be a suitable fit in a defensive three.

Kenedy, who was full of running on his appearances last season, is now the illustrated man, with his arms blue with ink.

A huge swirl of cloud – turning delicate pink, billowed behind the East Stand. It was an afternoon of easy distraction.

Diego Costa replaced Pedro, probably our finest player of the day. My friend Rick in Iowa has a lovely nickname for Pedro : El Colibri. The hummingbird. It perfectly illustrates his constant fluttering and delicate movement.

More chants aimed at our manager.

“Antonio. Antonio. Antonio. Antonio.”

He did a 360 degree salute to all of the stands.

Man of the moment Ivanovic was fouled inside the Brentford box and Michy Batshuayi grabbed the ball. He comfortably slammed the ball home. His smiling leap in front of me was lovely to see.

Chelsea 4 Brentford 0.

Another home win in the FA Cup.

At the end, my eyes were focussed on Branislav Ivanovic. There were no waves, no claps, no sign that this was indeed his last game for us. He simply strode off the pitch, the day’s job completed. The mark of a true professional.

At various stages in the afternoon, Tottenham were 2-0 and 3-2 down to Wycombe Wanderers, but our day was spoiled when we learned that they had won 4-3 in the last minute.

I hate a sad ending.

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