Tales From The Usual Suspects And Danny Bloody Wellbeck

Posted on September 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 27 September 2025.

After four consecutive away games, the boys were back in town.

And after driving a total of 768 miles on Saturday and Tuesday, I was bloody happy about it. As PD mentioned, “this will seem like a five-minute flit up the M4.”

Indeed.

We were all pleased that we were back to our first “Saturday 3, o’clock” fixture of the season too.

It was an easy trip east. The 120 miles took me a few minutes shy of three hours and, at the suggestion of Tim from North Bristolshire, I parked at a new location, on Moylan Road, which seems to be as close as I can get to Stamford Bridge to enable me to still park for free on Saturdays.

After a breakfast on the North End Road, there was a rendezvous with the usual suspects at “The Eight Bells” for a couple of hours. Allongside me were Jimmy the Greek, Nick, Salisbury Steve, Ian, Bobby, PD and Parky. My two Brighton mates Mac and Barry called in to see us all and of course I enjoyed seeing them both again. Minnesota Josh called in for a couple of scoops, too. However, the guests of honour were Lorna and Rich, from Edinburgh, on a Chelsea and Oasis weekend. I decided to head off to Stamford Bridge relatively early. I left with Josh at around 1.45pm.

There was a stand-off at the security – “is that a camera? – but I was in at 2.15pm. My SLR, therefore, would thankfully be used at a game for the first time this season. I was determined to take some decent shots, having made do with the inferior Sony “pub camera” in the previous six games.

Elsewhere in the football world, it was the day of the third qualifying round of the FA Cup. Frome Town were to play at AFC Totton, now two levels above my home town team, at the same time that Chelsea were to start in SW6. That would be a very tough match and I never really expected too much.

However, our local neighbours Westbury United, for who my old Chelsea mate Mark is the club chairman, were kicking off at 12.30pm at home to Farnborough, who are from the same division as Totton. There was a great deal of “buzz” locally about this match, as Westbury had been picked by the BBC to show via the red button, and a massive crowd was expected.

I had texted Mark a “good luck” message in the morning.

That game began at 12.30pm, and a workmate was keeping me updated. Farnborough had a player sent off on the hour, and Westbury were holding on. Sadly, at 2.40pm, just as I was getting ready for our game at Stamford Bridge, I saw that Westbury conceded a late goal on ninety-eight minutes.

Ah, bugger.

As I was waiting for a few people to arrive in The Sleepy Hollow, I was able to glance at a friend’s match programme. In the obituary section, I spotted the face of Albert, who used to sit in front of me in the years since 1997, but who sadly passed away last May.

I include it below.

Bless you Albert. You are missed.

The troops rolled in. First was Ollie, a lad from Brighton, who is the son of my long-time mate Andy. We go back to the promotion season of 1988/89 when we used to drink in “The Black Bull” aka “The Pensioner” and now “The Chelsea Gate.” Clive arrived, fresh from a drink with Gary, and then PD.

None of us really knew what to expect from this match. We had walloped Brighton 4-2 at home back in October but had lost 1-2 and 0-3 in a horrible week of away games in February.

“Without Cole Palmer, we’re not much of a team, are we really?”

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Hato – Cucurella

Santos – Caicedo

Estevao– Enzo – Neto

Joao Pedro

This eleven featured no fewer than four Brighton players, with Buonanotte the most recent addition not involved on this day.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

At three o’clock, the game began, as did the one in Totton just outside Southampton.

We began brightly. This is a familiar phrase that I use. To be truthful, I am sick to death of it, especially since it implies that our play often fails to live up to a good start, and the sad fact is that this is true; that our play often then struggles to maintain its momentum.

There was a crisp free-kick from Enzo Fernandez, playing in the hole – or “the ten” in modern parlance – that drew a smart save from Bart Verbruggen, who sounds like the destination of a cross-channel ferry.

“Good save, son.”

Marc Cucurella then flashed a shot wide.

Next up, it was Reece’s turn from a free kick, from a greater angle, but his effort was parried by Verbruggen.

Brighton threatened a little, but nothing too sinister.

There was an impudent nutmeg performed with aplomb by Estevao on Lewis Dunk very close to the half-way line and the pacy wingman raced away down the right-hand side of the pitch. It seemed almost inhuman that the wiry and lithe Brazilian should attempt such a clever dink against Dunk, who has the turning circle of the QE2. Estevao, urged on by us all, neared the goal but was still at an angle and his low shot was blocked.

Soon after, in a very similar position, he tried again but it the outcome was almost the same, an easy parry.

I noted to myself that the stadium, despite some decent football being played before us all, was like a morgue. There had been virtually no singing, not stimulation from the crowd; it was all very dispiriting.

I hate modern football.

The two wingers, like at Lincoln on Tuesday, then swapped flanks.

Halfway through the first-half, I realised that nobody had updated me with score updates from Totton, so I did so myself. It wasn’t good news. Frome were losing 0-2.

Ugh.

A mere two or three seconds after, a brilliant ball from Moises Caicedo was played into the path of Reece James. He took a couple of paces and floated a great ball towards the goal. The cross took a slight deflection off the leg of a Brighton defender, but the ball sat up sweetly for Enzo to rise unhindered at the far post to knock in with the easiest header of his career.

We were 2-0 down one minute and we were 1-0 up the next.

An odd sensation.

And an even odder sentence.

Football, eh?

With us coasting, and on top, playing well, Clive changed direction.

“How old is Boris Becker?”

“How old is Lance Armstrong?”

“What’s this nonsense, Clive? Shall I have a go? What’s Franz Klammer’s shoe size?”

Clive responded with “how old was Larry Grayson when he died?”

It must be noted, here, that Clive visits nursing homes, and provides games, music and quizzes for the residents, hence his odd trio of questions.

Answers :

57
54
Not a clue.
71.

The game continued, and we enjoyed most of the ball. Brighton’s attacks were rare. Their fans were subdued and quiet too. On the balcony between their two tiers of supporters, I spotted a joint Hearts and Brighton flag – “Brothers In Arms” – and I wondered if Rich had spotted it. Hearts are his team in Edinburgh.

We were pretty content at the break at Stamford Bridge. Down in Totton, it was still 0-2.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, and the atmosphere was still deadly dull and quiet. I was tempted to think it was the worst-ever.

The.

Worst.

Ever.

Think about it.

Not long into the second half, there was a heavy touch from Andrey Santos, and this put us under pressure. Trevoh Chalobah raced back alongside Diego Gomez, and there was a coming together of players just outside the box.

It was a shame, because Santos had impressed me in the first-half, alert and well-balanced, doing the simple things effectively.

VAR was called into action. After an age, the referee spoke into his mic.

Off went Chalobah.

Maresca chose to replace Santos with Josh Acheampong.

From the resulting free-kick, Gomez blasted over.

What now?

With around half-an-hour to go, who could possibly say?

At least this sudden adversity stirred the Chelsea supporters into life and a loud “CAREFREE” boomed, momentarily at least, around Stamford Bridge.

On the hour, there was a spritely run from Kaoru Mituma and his shot ricocheted across the box. The ball could have gone anywhere. We were starting to lose control.

On sixty-three minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Estevao.

Shortly after, there was a change from the Brighton bench too, and one of the substitutes was Danny Bloody Welbeck, and thousands of Chelsea fans around the world uttered the immortal lines “he always scores against us.”

On seventy-two minutes, Welbeck screwed a shot just wide.

There was a roller from Enzo that did not threaten. This was a rare threat from us.

Sadly, on seventy-seven minutes, Yankuba Minteh raced past Gusto and pinged a swift cross into the six-yard and that man Welbeck headed home emphatically.

Well, bollocks.

On eighty minutes, Maresca had clearly decided that all of the meaningful action would be taking pace in our half and changed things again.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Hato.

Romeo Lavia replaced Neto.

Thinking to myself : “you know we’re in trouble when Badiashile” comes on as a substitute.”

Sometimes I wished that Todd Boehley’s Lamborghini had broken down near Lyon or somewhere.

Malo Gusto, urged on by everyone, was sent free and as I reached down to pull up my SLR to record a goal, he decided to pass.

The frustrated crowd groaned.

This whole match was drifting away from us.

I thought, as did many, that a very high challenge on Gusto on Minteh would lead to a penalty, but after another VAR delay – how boring – we were let off, somehow.

There was an argy-bargy down at The Shed End but I was too far away to see who was pushing who.

The referee signalled eleven extra minutes and Stamford Bridge collectively sighed.

After two minutes of injury time, Acheampong booted out a ball cheaply for a corner, and from a short corner, a deep cross was hooked in from their left and I was aghast to see two, or even three, Brighton players unmarked at the far post. Mats Weifer was on hand to head the ball back across the box…we all experienced a fear of impending doom…and Maxim De Cuyper was one of two players free who headed home.

The scorer raced over to celebrate in front of Barry, Mac and co, and I felt ill.

In the tenth minute of stoppage time, with us trying to navigate the ball out of the box with Brighton players swarming, the ball was stolen and – guess who? – Wellbeck was sent through and calmly slotted home past Sanchez.

Well, bollocks.

By now, a good three-quarters of the Stamford Bridge crowd had left, some spewing words of anger at the manager and players alike.

Ollie, and Big John, but not many others, remained to the very last whistle.

Down in Totton, Frome had lost 2-4.

It had not been a good day at all.

I felt like saying “would the real Chelsea step forward and make themselves known please?”

You know what, it might take us all season long to discover who the real Chelsea are, and there isn’t a punchline.

Next up, two more home games, Jose Mourinho’s Benfica and champions Liverpool.

Excited?

No, neither am I.

Albert RIP

Tales From A Night Of Firing Blanks

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 14 February 2025.

Last Saturday, it was a case of “out of the Dripping Pan and into the fire” as Chelsea meekly exited from the FA Cup at the hands of an efficient, but hardly domineering, Brighton team.

As luck – or not – would have it, we were to play them in a league game just seven days later.

A trip to Brighton with three thousand close friends on St. Valentine’s Day?

How romantic.

As Friday approached, a part of me hoped that the management team could re-groove our appetite for creative and effective football during the week, but a larger part of me was resigned to the fact that our malaise would be beyond any quick fix.

I feared a repeat.

At least it wasn’t all about Chelsea on this sporting weekend. After the game at Falmer, I was going to head on to Bexhill-On-Sea to stay the night at my Sleepy Hollow Comrade Clive’s house, in preparation for a flit up to south-west London for Frome Town’s away game at Walton & Hersham at 3pm on the Saturday.

As I left work at 3pm on Friday – a very busy day of work, I had been up since 5.15am – it did not take me too long to realise that of the two football games on the horizon, I was relishing the latter rather more than the former.

During the week, on the Tuesday, there had been another trip to a Frome Town away game. For the second ever time, I made my way to Taunton Town. On a cold night, the visitors started slowly but quickly grew into the game. By the time the half-time whistle blew, a few Frome stalwarts found themselves agreeing with my comment that we had edged the first half.

The domination continued into the second period, and we enjoyed a couple of purple patches where we absolutely dominated the game. Half-way through the second half, we were awarded a penalty, but Albie Hopkins sent a shot low to the goalkeeper’s left that he was able to parry. Unfortunately, Hopkins could not nod in the rebound.

It ended 0-0, but the Frome supporters present were warmed by a very fine performance. The team rose to third-from-bottom.

There is a second part to the away game at Taunton, an addendum. On the way home from work on Thursday, I stopped for some provisions at a petrol station. I was sure that I spotted Albie Hopkins waiting behind me in the queue. I was to find out later that the Frome squad did some gym work that evening. It surely was him, but at the time I wasn’t 100% sure. So, I didn’t say “hello”. As I returned to my car, I wondered how the conversation might have gone.

Me : “You’re Albie, aren’t you?”

Albie : “Yes, mate. Why?”

Me : “Oh, I follow Frome Town. I go to a fair few games.”

And then it dawned on me that my immediate point of reference, since my mind tends to work in straight lines, would have undoubtedly been the game at Taunton on Tuesday.

Oh God, the penalty miss. Good job I stayed schtum.

When I left Melksham at 3pm on Friday, my projected arrival time at Lewes Railway Station car park was 6.15pm. There would be, just, enough time to meet up with the Mac Lads at “The John Harvey” once again before getting a train down to Falmer. This was the plan.

Unlike Saturday, the Sat Nav suggested the southerly option to the M3 before cutting across county. I was happy with this since I don’t honestly think that I could have stomached another spell of motorway madness for over three hours. I drove past Stonehenge, then onto the A303. I was directed off the M3 and onto the Hogs Back, and then south-easterly through some occasionally narrow and slow-moving back-lanes. On the B2130, I waited a while for a high Luton Van to extricate itself from a lane marked by overhanging trees, potholes and oncoming traffic. We were going so slow that it almost felt like I was taking part in a Chelsea attack. In the earl-evening shadows, I almost expected Robert Sanchez to appear behind me, ghostlike, and tap the rear windscreen, asking for directions out of the penalty box.

Shudder.

All the while, my ETA at Lewes was being pushed back.

Eventually I slotted onto the A27 just north of Hickstead and I had the finish line in my sights. However, the ETA was now 6.45pm, and so I contacted Mac to regrettably let him know that I would be heading off to the game straight away. There would be no pre-match meet-up this time. I drove past the Amex, atop the slight hill at Falmer and dropped down into Lewes. I was lucky to nab one of the last few parking spaces and then caught the train into Falmer. My friends Frances and Steve caught the same one and we muttered our dissatisfaction with last Saturday’s game, while hardly showing much hope for the evening’s re-match.

Yes, it did feel odd to be back at the same stadium so soon since the last game. I can remember two consecutive away games against Stoke City in 2015 – a gap of eleven days – but there were two home matches between those.

I retraced my path up to the entrance to the away end and made my way in.

Soon inside, I bumped into Paul and Andy – both from Brighton – and friends of mine since the ‘eighties. We all gave each other old fashioned looks as if to say, “here we bloody go again.”

The eighties…

Just over forty years ago, on Wednesday 13 February 1985, Chelsea travelled north to face Sunderland in the first leg of the League Cup semi-final. Sunderland had dispatched Crystal Palace, Nottingham Forest, Tottenham Hotspur and finally Watford in previous rounds – no mean feat – but I was confident that we would prevail, especially over two games. However, attending the first semi-final at Roker Park was always going to be a mission impossible for me, a student in Stoke, and I never even contemplated making travel plans for this match.

Looking back on those times, there is a certain regret that I never attended any of the three Sheffield Wednesday ties nor this first Sunderland semi-final.

After a glut of games – six matches in twelve days remember – there had been a blank Saturday before this match because of our elimination from the FA Cup, and so the payers had enjoyed a week away from competitive football.

This was the very first semi-final of any description that I was actively witnessing as a Chelsea supporter. I was a Chelsea fan in 1971 when we beat Tottenham in the same competition, but I was only six, and I have no recollection of being aware of those two matches.

On that day in 1985, I had morning lectures, then caught a bus up to Hanley to see “Blood Simple” at a local cinema. In the evening, I listened to the game on the radio. Our team?

Eddie Niedzwiecki
Colin Lee.
Joey Jones.
Colin Pates.
Joe McLaughlin.
Paul Canoville.
Pat Nevin.
Nigel Spackman.
Kerry Dixon.
John Bumstead.
Mickey Thomas.

Chelsea had a very healthy following up at Sunderland. The gate was 32,440 and we must have had 7,000 in the away section, the open Roker End.

My diary noted that Colin Lee played throughout the game with a heavily bandaged thigh. Alas, Joe McLaughlin went off after just ten minutes and was replaced by Dale Jasper. Sadly, it was not a night to remember for our promising young midfielder. During the first half, the youngster – asked to work alongside Pates in defence – gave away a cheap handball inside our penalty area, and Colin West slammed home the spot kick. Then, in the second-half, Jasper pulled back West and the referee had no option but to award a second penalty. Eddie Niedzwiecki got a hand to it, but West bundled the ball home after it came back off the post.

I remember watching the highlights on TV. I remember how cold it looked. Niedzwiecki played in tracksuit bottoms. Players slipped on the icy surface. Those who went have told me how bitter it was, and there were grim reports concerning the violence outside before and after the game.

Despite the 0-2 reverse, I was wildly optimistic of us turning the tie around in the second game against Sunderland.

As for the second game in 2025 against Brighton, I was inside the away seats with about twenty minutes to go. On Saturday it was seat 73. Tonight, it was seat 93. This meant that, unfortunately, I would be forced to watch much of the action through the goal nets, never an ideal situation. I was alongside Gary, John and Alan, all wearing various bobble hats. It was, again, a cold night.

Our team?

Filip Jorgensen.
Malo Gusto.
Marc Cucurella.
Moises Caicedo.
Trevoh Chalobah.
Levi Colwill.
Pedro Netro.
Enzo Fernandez.
Christopher Nkunku.
Cole Palmer.
Noni Madueke.

On Saturday, we had 5,900. Tonight, it would be 3,000. Again, Chelsea in all black.

The same routine as Saturday; flames, smoke, “Sussex by the Sea.”

At 8pm, the match began. Malo Gusto broke quickly down the right wing in the first two minutes and set up Cole Palmer, square and in a good position. However, his shot was well over. I groaned and wondered if it was a taste of things to come.

Despite many moans throughout the week about our poor performance on the previous Saturday, I was pleased to hear a decent selection of songs coming out of the away end around me in the first ten minutes or so. The Chelsea fans, at least, had started the game well. We had begun the brighter but then the home team had a little spell, and we needed to be on our toes.

On twenty minutes, Noni Madueke raced down the right and played the ball inside to Palmer. Sadly, we witnessed another poor effort; the shot was sliced wide. However, Madueke stayed down having twisted or strained something of importance and after a few minutes of treatment was forced to leave the field of play. He was replaced by Jadon Sancho.

Pedro Neto swapped flanks to accommodate Sancho on the left.

On twenty-two minutes, a beautiful, curved ball from deep from Palmer found Christopher Nkunku but the chance passed by.

Five minutes later, Bart Verbruggen released a rapid punt up field, aimed at the effervescent Kaoru Mitoma, and I immediately sensed danger. I happened to have my SLR to hand and although I did not capture Mitoma’s incredible cushioned first touch, I did capture him just about to spring past Trevoh Chalobah, who was the poor victim of Mitoma’s precise control. We all watched as he spun inside and struck a firm and low shot past Filip Jorgensen into the bottom corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared. I looked over to where Mac was situated but couldn’t see him. He was, no doubt, smiling away.

On the TV replay, we wondered if our ‘keeper could have done better.

But there was one thing that was uppermost in our minds : “why can’t we occasionally hit a long ball like that?”

Ironically, straight after the Brighton goal, Jorgensen did hit a long one up to Neto, but he blasted over.

As the game continued, John reminded me that we had now played over two hours of football with not one single shot on target.

Fackinell.

Another shot from Neto but blocked.

I joked that it was nice of the Chelsea players to play a very high proportion of their passes right in front of us in the away end, venturing further up field on very rare occasions. However, I was bored rigid. This type of football might be statistically advantageous, but it gives nothing to the game as a spectacle.

Football is all about entertainment, right? Well, this rigid and dull conformity in our play does nothing for me.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

No change of pace, no individuality, football for robots.

If this is the future of football, God help each and every one of us.

On thirty-six minutes, a rare attack. There was a fine chip into the box from Nkunku out on the right and then a leap from the otherwise quiet Enzo Fernandez. His header dropped into the goal. This was met with a roar of relief in the away end, only for VAR to rule it out for a push by Fernandez as he jumped for the ball.

On thirty-eight minutes, Brighton advanced down their left flank through Georginio Rutter. His shot was deflected by Levi Colwill onto Jorgensen, who reacted well to save, only for the ball to find Danny Welbeck who then played in Yankuba Minteh. He found a yard of space and pushed the ball past Jorgensen, who was now on his knees.

Bollocks.

On forty minutes, Gusto had another off-target shot.

Our play was getting worse and there was no urgency. Our play wasn’t pass-and-move, it was pass-and-stay-still. I can’t see it catching on.

Just before the break, a load of spectators immediately behind me – about twenty-five perhaps – vacated their seats and I hoped that they would return for the second half.

At half-time, all was doom and gloom as the night got colder still.

However, Noel, who was a couple of rows in front with Gabby, proclaimed that he was still confident.

“That’ll be your toothpaste” I replied.

John, Gary and I were unconsolable.

“Worse than Saturday.”

“It’s worse than Saturday because there has been no fucking reaction to Saturday.”

“Nothing.”

“What has Maresca been telling them all week?”

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, the supporters re-filled the seats behind me at the start of the second half, but…God…the second period was worse still.

There was a little gallows humour from Gary to keep me sane – “Nkunku has got balloons that have gone past their sell-by date” – but the football on the pitch was truly dreadful.

On fifty-seven minutes, at last a little teaser of skill from the otherwise woeful Palmer. He dropped a ball out to Neto on the right but the resulting cross only found a defensive head.

The end was nigh.

On sixty-three minutes, Brighton recovered the ball and started a move. However, I focused on Levi Colwill who had given the ball away but was now sat on his arse appealing for a foul to be given. I was fuming. Can anyone imagine John Terry or Gary Cahill doing this? The ball was worked out to Minteh. There was a one-two with the always canny Danny Welbeck, and Minteh advanced. My eyes flipped back to Colwill, now slowly jogging back, and I began venting. Before I could blink, Minteh danced past a gathering of Chelsea defenders who were showing the same lackadaisical tendencies as Colwill, and smashed home. One final half-arsed attempt by Colwill involved him lunging at nothing and it made my blood boil.

We were 0-3 down.

Bollocks.

I fumed at Tombsy.

“Did you see Colwill there? Fucking disgrace.”

Way too late, Maresca made three substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

At least the youngster George added a little late vitality to the game, but by now the away end was decimated. People had left en masse at 0-3 and I warned the lads that I would be off at the eighty-minute mark.

My problem was this. When I am with PD and LP, who both walk with sticks, we are allowed to “fast-track” to the platform at Falmer. Tonight, I was by myself. If I left at the end of the game, I would probably face an hour-long wait. In an ideal world, it would be Chelsea leading 3-0 and I could set off at eighty minutes a happy man.

Alas not. In fact, I left earlier still, on seventy-eight minutes. For only the fifth or sixth time in almost 1,500 games I left early. I felt awful ascending those steps to the exits.

Outside, the night bit me. To keep myself warm, I raced down the slope, and it seemed that my exit strategy was working. There were few people ahead of me.

Thankfully, just as I approached the final ramp at the station, the 2146 train pulled in. By 2153 I was back at Falmer. By 2245 I was back at Clive’s house in Bexhill-On-Sea.

Clive would soon confirm that we had not managed a single shot on target the entire game.

Yes, dear reader, we had been firing blanks on St. Valentine’s Day.

Clive and I endured a typical post-mortem, and it was dominated by negatives.

The only positive was that I was off to see Frome Town the next day.

1985 : Chelsea

2025 : Frome Town

Tales From The Dripping Pan And The Amex

Posted on February 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 8 February 2025.

So, two games at Brighton in seven days.

On Saturday 8 February in the Cup.

On Friday 14 February in the League.

Both games at 8pm.

They are a funny side, Brighton, almost as funny as us. We had beaten them 4-2 earlier in the season, and they had lost 0-7 at Nottingham Forest in their last league outing. But on their day, they are capable of much greater things. The two games would be a test of our resolve, and maybe a test of our support too.

For the FA Cup encounter, our support passed with flying colours. I believe that we were originally given 4,000 tickets, but this eventually went up to around 6,000 when it transpired that the home team was having trouble in shifting tickets.

If nothing else, having such a solid away support would be a good experience, a right royal show of strength, and a nod to previous eras when our away support was rock solid.

The travel plans were sorted out, but with a late change. It suddenly dawned on me that I could get an extra game in, at Lewes, while PD and Parky would be getting some beers in at a local pub. For this reason, I set off a little earlier than planned. I called for PD at 11am and I called in for Parky at 11.30am. The plan was to be parked up at Lewes train station at 2.30pm to enable me to attend the Lewes vs. Potters Bar Town game in the Isthmian Premier at 3pm. This is the same level of football that my local team, Frome Town, compete.

At Step Three – level seven – there are four divisions and I include here the average gates too :

Northern Premier / 726

Southern League Premier – Central / 560

Southern League Premier – South / 593

Isthmian Premier / 714

While I would be watching at Lewes, Frome Town would be playing a home game against Sholing. I am far from a ground-hopper, but my interest in watching a game at Lewes was piqued when I purchased the “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” book a few years ago. Of all the stadia within these isles, The Dripping Pan at Lewes was voted top of the pile. It certainly looked a quaint and quirky stadium with plenty of idiosyncratic features, but was it really the very best of the lot? I was about to find out.

The drive down to Sussex was rather boring, with murky weather overhead, and greyness all around me. There was fog early on, but at least the rain was minimal. The route itself did not help; rather than the more picturesque road south to Salisbury and then passing by Southampton and Portsmouth, past Chichester, my Sat Nav took me north to the M4, then around the M25, then down the M23. For once, I didn’t enjoy the drive too much.

I was held up in a little traffic on the M25 and eventually deposited PD and Parky in the centre of Lewes at 2.40pm. I made my way to the train station, but it took more time than I had hoped to get my newly acquired parking app to register my car. While I was cursing modern technology, a ‘phone call from PD.

“What’s the pub called, again?”

They were already lost.

Due to my delay at the car park, and despite The Dripping Pan being only a five-minute walk away, I entered the stadium four minutes late with the home team already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I positioned myself on the large – for non-league standards – covered home terrace and got my bearings. It was indeed a quirky stadium, but the overcast weather did not help me to fully appreciate its charms. However, it certainly was different. There were beach huts as sponsor lounges, a viewing area atop a lovely grass bank, a substantial terraced away section, and a plush stand with seats along the side. There was a bar right behind the home end – it resembled a pub – and in the corner I spotted what can only be termed a rockery, with plants and palms. I hope the photos do it all justice.

But I had to think to myself; “the very best in Britain?”

I wasn’t so sure.

I watched from a few viewpoints to get the maximum effect. I spoke to a chap from Stoke, now living nearby, about how much I like the non-league scene these days. On the pitch, the home team equalised just before half-time but then conceded again before the break. However, my mind wasn’t really on this game. My mind was back in Somerset, and alas Frome Town were losing 0-1. The game at Lewes was a slow burner and only really came to life in the last fifteen minutes; the home team equalised with a fine goal, only to concede again in the fourth minute of injury time. Potters Bar Town, cheered on by around fifteen fans and one flag, won 3-2. The gate was 705.

In deepest Somerset, Frome’s fine revival came to a spluttering end, with a demoralising 0-3 home defeat. The gate there was a disappointing 452.

In truth, although my body was at The Dripping Pan, my head was at Badgers Hill throughout the entire afternoon, and it absolutely reminded me that I only tend to really enjoy football these days if I have a vested interest in one of the teams playing.

I met up with PD and LP after the game at “The John Harvey” and the two of them were squeezed in at a table with Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire. I made a point of saying that “the last time I was here, we lost 4-1”, that hideous game two seasons ago when Graham Potter visited his former club and was sent packing. We were well and truly stuffed that day.

“The John Harvey” is a cracking little pub in Lewes town centre, which itself is a cracking little town. We were soon joined by my Brighton mate Mac and his friend Nick. They are both occasional visitors to The Dripping Pan themselves.

I mentioned its place in “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” to the lads, and explained how Stamford Bridge is not featured at all. That’s right, dear reader, our beloved stadium is not even in the top one hundred. However, had the original pre-1993 edition still be in existence, I am sure that it would be in the top ten, such is the love these days of old-school stadia, original sweeping terraces, old stands, crush barriers, and the like.

Nick commented that Stamford Bridge could be a dangerous place to attend a few decades ago. However, the overall listings within the book were not really concerned with past spectator safety but were attributed to architectural significance, history, ambiance and atmosphere.

Mac remembered a game that he had attended at Stamford Bridge with Nick, as neutrals, back in 1985 against Sheffield Wednesday and I was rather pleased to tell them that I was going to be featuring that very game in my retrospective section of my report for the day’s match.

How’s that for synchronicity?

Let’s head back to February 1985.

Two days after the away game at Leicester City, Chelsea were at home to Millwall in the fourth round of the FA Cup on Monday 4 February. I listened to the match updates on Radio Two and was saddened to hear that we were 0-1 down. Later, the score went to 2-2 with our goals coming from Paul Canoville and Nigel Spackman, but then Millwall went ahead via Steve Lovell. In the eighty-seventh minute, our quite ridiculous penalty woes continued as David Speedie – despite netting from the spot at Filbert Street – blasted way over. We lost 2-3 and were out of the FA Cup. I had hoped for a gate of 24,000 so was probably pleased that 25,148 were at Stamford Bridge that night. The Millwall manager at the time was George Graham. I wonder what happened to him.

The second replay of our Milk Cup quarter final against Sheffield Wednesday at Stamford Bridge took place on Thursday 6 February. On that day, I travelled back to Somerset by train from Stoke after a couple of morning lectures and so I listened in to the game on the radio at home. For those keeping count, Chelsea played six games in just twelve days, as miraculous as that sounds today. The whole radio programme was devoted to our game, a rare occurrence in those days.

The second replay against Sheffield Wednesday was a classic. They went ahead via Gary Shelton on twelve minutes, but we were level when an incredible bit of skill from Pat Nevin allowed him to set up a David Speedie header on thirty minutes. His “scoop” over the wall to himself was magical. Then, in the final minute, a Paul Canoville corner was headed home by the mercurial Mickey Thomas.

At home, in Somerset, I went wild and was close to tears.

For the first time that I could remember, we had reached a semi-final.

After the 25,148 gate on the Monday, Stamford Bridge hosted a crowd of 36,395 on that Wednesday. And that number included Mac and Nick, who went with some Sheffield Wednesday friends, and watched among the Wednesday throng from the north terrace. Mac admitted to me how scared he was that evening. The away end at Stamford Bridge was no easy place to slope away from, especially since there were often Chelsea supporters in other pens in the same end, sharing the same limited exit routes. On many occasions, Chelsea would secretly infiltrate the away pens too.

I never once watched a game from that north terrace; I think it is safe to say that I had my reasons.

There is some TV footage of the baying Stamford Bridge crowd that night, several minutes after the end of the game, showing an ecstatic home crowd staying in the stadium, lording it over the away fans, in their pomp. There are extended shots of fans climbing all over the security fences, pointing and gesticulating at the Wednesday fans –

“WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY, WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY – YOU AIN’T, YOU AIN’T”

Unfortunately, I can only access it via a private Facebook group and so can’t share it here but the venom and vitriol – AND NOISE – generated by those Chelsea fans…I can’t lie, virtually all lads…that night got me all dewy-eyed when I first witnessed it a few years ago. Those noisy days of my youth were spellbinding. I miss them dearly.

In Lewes, in 2025, we had made our way outside and stood with our drinks. It was about 6pm, so Julie and Tim left to catch an early train to the stadium. The closing moments of the England vs. France rugby match was taking place inside the pub and I did my best to show no interest whatsoever.

At around 6.30pm, we said our goodbyes to Mac and Nick – “See you Friday, mate” – and walked back to the station to catch the train to Falmer.

It left at 6.58pm.

I was inside the away end at 7.30pm.

Perfect timing.

The three of us were split up in various areas of the Chelsea support which in this case featured all of one end and wrapped itself around into a couple of sections of the stand along the side. As luck would have it, I was right in front of my usual match-day mate John. As kick-off approached, the away crowd grew and grew, and I was able to spot so many familiar faces. I have never really noticed before, but the seats at the Amex are padded. Nobody sits at away games. I had no real reason to notice before.

As kick-off approached, “Sussex by the Sea” was lustily sung by the home support, which looked to be at around two-thirds capacity. Our tickets were just £25. I have no doubt that the price was the same in the home areas. That’s poor from the Brighton support. On the premise that our extra thousand tickets sold out in just eight minutes, I wondered how many we could have sold in total, despite the problems of a late kick-off on a Saturday evening. Maybe eight thousand? Who knows.

A predictable show of flames and fumes in front of the stand to our right, and then the teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this line up.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Caicedo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Nkunku

I suppose we had no choice but to wear the black kit, but it couldn’t have been easy picking out teammates in the evening murk.

I spotted that the match balls were a peach colour.

“Yeah, I know.”

The game – “Peachball” anyone? – began.

We attacked the far end and began well. Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall hit the side netting with the game’s first offering. Next, a nice move down the right. The ball was played out to Pedro Neto, who spun behind his marker and accelerated away. He passed to Jadon Sancho, who played the ball to Cole Palmer. Palmer tested Bart Verbruggen with a dipping shot that needed to be palmed over.

“C’mon Chels.”

From the corner that followed, which Palmer took, the ball was played back and square – to be honest I was distracted by something – and by the time I looked up, the ball had been played back into the box by Palmer and somehow ended up in the goal. I roared and fist-pumped, though I wasn’t exactly sure how or why Verbruggen had not dealt with the ball in.

We purred as we witnessed a lovely sliding tackle from Trevoh Chalobah as a Brighton attack found its way inside the box. However, not long after, Brighton attacked our other flank, our right, and Tariq Lamptey was able to cross. This time, Chalobah did not perform so well. His header went to a Brighton player, who set up to Joel Veltman. He curled a short cross into the danger area. Georginio Rutter rose unchallenged – between two defenders – and his well-aimed header dropped into the goal. I was right in line with the header and mumbled “goal” to myself before it had crossed the line.

Yeah, I bloody saw that one clearly enough.

Bollocks.

Twelve minutes had passed, and it was tied 1-1.

Within a few seconds, the stand to my left – I know where Mac sits, I spotted him – boomed “Albion, Albion.”

We noticed Christopher Nkunku coming back to receive a ball from a central defender, way deep, and this was not a one-off. He was playing in the midfield area and we were aghast. As the first half continued, and as we continued to struggle to put anything together, we noted how reluctant Nkunku was to occupy the space usually manned by Nicolas Jackson. I presumed that this was under the instruction of Maresca. With Palmer coming deep as well, we simply did not have much of an attacking threat. Neto, who had begun well, withered away, and Sancho was reluctant to advance. In truth, there was no movement upfront for the wingers to hit quite simply because there was nobody upfront.

It was all very lacklustre and poor. From both sides in fact, but of course we were more concerned about our lack of energy, creativity, drive and football intelligence.

The Chelsea choir, that had begun the game in relatively good form, began to fade.

An odd selection of songs honouring past players was aired.

“That’s why we love Solomon Kalou.”

Jimmy the Greek, who was a few yards ahead of me, turned to me and we both took turns to yell –

“It’s Salomon!”

This was a poor football match. Palmer, our creative force, was quiet and the rest seemed disinterested.

One passage of play summed it all up. A quick ball was played through to Sancho who was probably level with the Brighton penalty box. However, instead of him going on to the front foot and asking questions of his marker, within five seconds the ball was back with Chalobah in our own half.

Fucksake.

Our only notable chance came when Moises Caicedo spotted a rare run from Nkunku. His lofted ball dropped perfectly for a strike on goal, but instead the timid Nkunku hooked the ball over to Palmer whose headed effort lacked, well, everything and dropped lamely over the bar and onto the roof of the net.

Crap.

This was a grey and passionless performance.

Half-time arrived and the away end was numbed by our limp showing thus far. I said to a few mates “can we flip a coin and get it over and done with now?” The night was getting colder, and the football was not warming us up one iota. Sadly, the second period was bloody worse.

Soon into the half, a spirited chant from the away end tried its best to rally the troops.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”

How ‘eighties.

We dominated possession but had no idea how to break the home defence down. Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Brighton broke quickly via a searching ball from Rutter who found the dangerous Kaoru Mitoma. He played the ball in to Lamptey. His shot was blocked, and I saw players fall as the ball ricocheted around. The ball then ended up being aimed at Mitoma. From my angle, the ball appeared to hit his raised hand, but we all watched in agony as he took the ball down and placed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

Bollocks.

With that, Enzo Fernandez replaced the utterly forgettable Dewsbury-Hall.

Just after, chants for Roman Abramovich, but no chances.

A trio of songs from the Chelsea end.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

“Cam On Chowlsea.”

“Carefree.”

We struggled to create anything. I can only recollect a few shots on goal. An effort from Enzo whizzed past the post. Marc Cucarella – booed by the home crowd from the start – set up Palmer but he was always stretching, and the effort went hopelessly high and wide.

I said to John “we’ve got worse this half.”

On seventy-five minutes, the wingers were changed.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Tyrique George for Sancho.

The away end was like a morgue in the final portion of the game.

George tried his best, and on ninety-three minutes he turned inside and shot at goal, but the shot sailed over.

As the game drifted to its inevitable conclusion, there was the irony of a firm strike from Enzo being – wait for it – on target but it was saved by Verbruggen, only for the ball to have gone out for a corner in the build-up to the shot in any case. It was a shot on goal that wasn’t.

Oh boy.

The game ended and we were out.

Out of both domestic cups in early February.

There had been no reaction at half-time, and there had been no reaction to Brighton’s second goal.

Shocking.

It was, hand on heart, one of the worst Chelsea performances that I can ever remember seeing. One shot on target during the entire game? Good grief, Enzo Maresca.

As I exited past the padded seats, I wondered if I might need a padded cell in the coming weeks and months. I was aware that a few players were walking towards the away end, but I turned my back to them and left.

We hurriedly made our way back to Lewes, and I drove home. I reached my house just after 2am.

Fackinell.

And on Friday, we go back to the scene of the crime again.

See you there.

The Dripping Pan

The Amex

1985

Tales From The Maverick

Posted on October 1, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2024.

A three o’clock kick-off on a Saturday. It just seems right, doesn’t it?

This just seemed like a normal “back to life, back to reality” game of football. By 7.30am, I had picked up Paul and Parky and we were on our way up to London. Games against Brighton of late have been interesting affairs what with the number of players and personnel that have switched from one club to the other in recent seasons. This would be a tight game, not an easy one to predict, but the actual football was not dominating my mind as I drove East. On this day, there would be meet ups with two people from Nashville in Tennessee and two and a half people from the Czech Republic, and I was looking forward to that as much as the match that would follow.

This was a busy spell for us at Stamford Bridge; four home games in thirteen days, almost a thousand miles of driving for me, some early starts, some late finishes.

First, though, a trip back in time as I continue my retrospective of the events from the 1984/85 season. On Wednesday 26 September, I was newly-arrived in the city of Stoke-on-Trent, and was finding my feet at North Staffs Poly. On that particular day, there was administration stuff to be done, but I also showed up for trials for the college football team. I hadn’t played football of any type for a couple of years – I remember playing for the Lower Sixth at Frome College, but not the Upper Sixth, did 1982/83 totally drain my love of football? – and I remember being over-awed by the numbers that had shown up for the practice. From memory, I played OK, but soon decided that it would be a miracle to break into any of the teams, so I decided there and then to forget it. I was only nineteen, but hanging up my boots meant that I could concentrate on the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club.

That evening, way down in London, Chelsea played Millwall in the first leg of an early round of the League Cup. We won 3-1, with Kerry Dixon getting a brace and the former Chelsea defender Micky Nutton putting into his own net. The gate was only 19,912 but it wasn’t a bad figure for the time. I have no doubt that just as many would have been scared off with the threat of trouble as would have been enticed to the game for trouble. This match did not have the notoriety of the return leg. In fact, I am not sure if any off-the-pitch stuff took place at all on this night in deepest SW6.

I was parked up in deepest SW6 forty years later at around 10am. On the way to meet the lads, there was a points failure further south, so I had to walk the last mile from Parsons Green. At around 10.30am I walked into “The River Café” for the first time this season. A gaggle of Chelsea lads that I know were sat at one table. Behind, in the corner, was my Albion friend Mac, who partly resides in the Czech Republic and partly in Brighton. I first met Mac in a sports bar in Manhattan in 2013 and we have become good friends over the years. I loved hearing about Mac’s travels last season with Brighton in Europe, the club’s first-ever European campaign. I must admit that they had superb cities to visit; Marseille, Amsterdam, Athens in the group phase – two wins and a draw – and then Rome. You never forget your first time; in 1994/95, I had Jablonec via Prague, Vienna and Zaragoza. I devoured a Full English, and we then flitted around the corner to meet up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, and my friends David and Nate from Nashville in “The Eight Bells.”

I have met David before but this was the first time that I would see his son Nate. This was Nate’s second visit to Stamford Bridge; the first time coincided with Rafa Benitez’ first game in charge against Manchester City in 2012. Nate has suffered with a brain tumour for many years and the 2012 visit was arranged by the “Make A Wish Foundation” and he met Roman Abramovich and a few first-team players. There have been worrying relapses over the years, and so it was a real pleasure to finally meet him in person, and to welcome him to the pub. I remember seeing a video message that Levi Colwill sent Nate during the summer. The power of football to bring happiness should not be overlooked.

Our mate Dave – we would sit next to each other on The Benches as 1984/85 developed – showed up for a pint and a chat, and then Mac’s mate Barry arrived too. Barry had recently seen Billy Gilmour’s Napoli debut away to Cagliari. Mac told the lovely story about how he appeared as an extra, playing a footballer, in the 2001 film “Mean Machine” starring ex-Chelsea player Vinnie Jones. Both Brighton fans were a little unsure how their team would fare at Stamford Bridge. I think we all expected a tight one.

David and Nate got the call from someone at Chelsea to make their way to Stamford Bridge and I believe they were to meet the players as they arrived. I wished them well, and they bounced out with smiles on their faces.

Soon to arrive were brother and sister George and Anetta from Zlin in the Czech Republic. I first met George in Vienna for the Rapid friendly in 2016 and we have bumped into each other a few times over the years, the last time in Salzburg two years ago. Anetta is studying law at university in Bratislava, and this was her first visit to the UK, to England, to London, to a game at Chelsea.

We checked the team as it was announced at around 1.45pm.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Delayed by an extra round of drinks and crowds on a packed tube, I sadly arrived a minute or so after the game began.

Chelsea in blue, Albion in a rather nice “old school” all-yellow.

I quickly took off two layers of jackets. The weather was magnificent.

I sat alongside Clive and we found ourselves catching-up as the first few minutes of play took place down below us. All of a sudden, a turn of pace from Kaoru Mitoma caused concern. After a poor touch by Moises Caicedo put Levi Colwill under pressure to hack the ball away, the ball ballooned up into the air, and Robert Sanchez raced enthusiastically out to try to punch the ball away. However, a strong leap by Georginio Rutter ensured that it was his touch that counted. The ball was headed towards goal and in.

Marc Cucarella and the scorer lay prone in the box, and I suppose we hoped forlornly for a free-kick against our defender, but there was nothing. Only seven minutes had passed.

Chelsea 0 Brighton 1.

There was a song emanating out from the three-thousand away fans that sounded an awful lot like “There’s only one Morgan Stanley” but I think the heat had got to me. I know football is all about finance these days, but surely the away fans weren’t singing the praises of investment bankers.

There was a fine cross from Noni Madueke just after the Brighton goal but nobody was on hand to tuck the ball in. Then another run and cross from Jadon Sancho, on his home debut, that was easily gathered by the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen. At the other end, a cross from Danny Welbeck was deflected at goal and Sanchez did well to save.

When Colwill went for a header, I had a Thiago Silva flashback. I mentioned his number 6 shirt to Clive, and Clive said that he had experienced a Thiago Silva flashback too. The sun really was getting to us.

On twenty minutes, a fine flowing move; Colwill to Enzo to Cole Palmer. He dragged the ball ahead of himself and advanced. He was one on one with the ‘keeper. He shot low, we were already up to celebrate, but the ball agonisingly hit the base of the right-hand post. Just after, Palmer tucked the ball in past Verbruggen but the flag was raised for an off-side – and although it looked offside, we celebrated that one too.

Drat.

Thankfully, on twenty-one minutes, Adam Webster lost possession and the ball was played unselfishly across the box by Nicolas Jackson to Palmer. The finish was perfect, with Palmer hardly moving a muscle to stroke the ball home in a way that Jimmy Greaves would have admired.

Now I celebrated.

Get in.

Chelsea 1 Brighton 1.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Next, we plundered Brighton’s ridiculously high defensive line as the ball was pushed through by Enzo to Jackson to Madueke. He advanced and squared to Sancho, who finished with aplomb. Alas, a raised flag and VAR was called into action. We presumed Sancho, but it was Madueke who was offside by the smallest margin on the half-way line.

This was manic stuff.

And yet the noise around Stamford Bridge wasn’t boiling over.

On twenty-eight minutes, Palmer sent a high bomb over to Sancho, who drifted in from the left after a neat pass from Enzo and was bundled over in the box. It looked a clear penalty from one hundred yards away, cough, cough.

Cole Palmer, cool-hand Luke, the ball was knocked home.

Chelsea 2 Brighton 1.

Our noses were in front.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Mac and Barry were watching from the front row of the away seats in The Shed and I un-knowingly caught their faces on film as the scorer wheeled away.

In the very next move, another high line was breached as Madueke raced away. He was clipped by Pervis Estupinan and a free-kick was rewarded, some thirty yards out.

We waited. Palmer placed the ball on the turf. I pulled my camera up, and waited some more. Palmer advanced and swung his boot at the ball. I followed the trajectory of the curve. It looked perfect. It was perfect.

Chelsea 3 Brighton 1.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Usually in these circumstances I pump the air with my fist as a bare minimum, and occasionally jump up onto the plinth to my left, shouting wildly. This time I stayed completely still and completely silent. I was in awe. It was, undoubtedly, one of the finest free-kick strikes that I had ever seen live. The rest of Stamford Bridge celebrated wildly. I just smiled, blissful, contented. I had witnessed greatness.

Thankfully for Mac and Barry, Palmer chose to celebrate in Parkyville.

“You’re not singing anymore” bellowed the home support.

At the other end, Jack Hinshelwood went close.

On thirty-four minutes, while I was vigorously tapping some “in game” notes onto my ‘phone, I looked up to see Sanchez play a suicidal pass out to Caicedo, and Carlos Baleba intercepted and struck.

Chelsea 3 Brighton 2.

Bizarrely, the away fans sang “you’re not singing anymore”, even though they were losing. Oh well, it made a change from investment banks.

This was frantic and manic.

Although a different type of game completely, the first-half reminded me a little of the Everton game under Conte in the autumn of 2016, one of the greatest first-halves of all time.

There were chances for both teams. Sanchez saved well from Baleba, another high bomb from Palmer – intuitive, natural – set up Madueke who raced through but hit the side netting.

All of a sudden, the hype about this team seemed centered on fact and not fantasy. Maybe this would be the game that I would fall in love properly with Chelsea again after a few years of worry and concern as the club seemed to drift inexplicably away from me.

Clive and I spoke about Palmer being a real throwback, a ‘seventies maverick, in the guise of Stan Bowles, Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Rodney Marsh. The lad is so loose-limbed, so relaxed, on a different planet, a different pitch, a different level, a different time-zone. Just as we were talking about a couple of other ‘seventies players, Verbruggen copied Sanchez and loosely played a ball out of defence. Enzo capitalised, pushed the ball to Sancho, who rolled in Palmer. As easy as you like, with virtually no back-lift, the ball was dispatched into the net ‘twixt post and ‘keeper.

Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Late on in a ridiculously entertaining half, Sanchez got down well to save from Welbeck.

PD : “It could end up 6-6.”

At half-time, there was a ludicrous feeling of “I don’t believe it” in the seats around me. Admit it, we all wanted a few more goals, right?

The second-half continued with a similar theme. Palmer played a ball in to Jackson who shot at Verbruggen from an angle. Then, another crazy first-time bomb, so high, from Palmer was played perfectly into the path of Jackson, who brought the ball down faultlessly. He rounded Verbruggen but his shot on goal was too central and Adam Webster cleared off the line.

A volley from Palmer flew over.

Palmer set up Madueke, but his low cross was cleared.

More goalkeeping hari-kari, another Verbruggen faux-pas, and the ball fell for Palmer. He settled himself, I prepared to celebrate once again, but the shot rolled past the far post.

What?

Palmer set up Jackson once again – a slide-rule pass into acres of space – but a last minute challenge by Lewis Dunk robbed the striker of a shot on goal.

A headed goal by Cucarella – who had displayed no end of resolute defending all game – was ruled offside.

A substitution.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Neto found himself in acres of space in the right and set up Jackson, who again failed.

More substitutions.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Sadly, the game declined in quality as it continued. However, Brighton never really threatened too much in the second-half but some of our defensive decisions were poor, and there was this lingering doubt about us conceding a third.

At the final whistle, relief, but lots of joy too.

Anetta had loved her first game alongside George, watching in the Matthew Harding Lower. And we were to learn that Nate met up with Levi Colwill at the end of the game, and the defender presented him with his match-worn shirt.

As we drove home, the bright sun ahead, we were very content with the team’s progress. Sadly, Arsenal had dug out a late win, and Liverpool had triumphed too, but Manchester City dropped points.

Whisper it, but we are in the mix.

Next up, KAA Gent at home on Thursday.

See you there.

Chelsea and Brighton & Hove Albion.

Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.

RIP Lee Marskell

Dedicated to the memory of Lee, who lost his brave fight on the day of this game. Back in the days of the Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2006 to 2008, when I first penned ad hoc match reports as VINCI PER NOI, there were a few other English supporters who shared opinions too. Mark Coden, Jon Doyle – “Jon In Slough”- and “mad lee” always brought vivid tales to the party.

I last saw Lee at Tottenham last November. We stood together as our beloved team won 4-1. It is a memory I will always treasure.

Tales From One-Hundred-And-Nine Minutes

Posted on May 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 15 May 2024.

I swung into the car park of the “Horse & Groom” pub, on the A36 in Salisbury, at just after 3pm. Waiting for me was Salisbury Steve. Way back in August, I had popped into the very same pub before the two of us went off to watch his local non-league team, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, play a game against my local non-league team Frome Town. It was Frome’s first away league game of the 2023/24 season, and here we were, meeting up at the self-same pub ahead of Chelsea’s last away league game of 2023/24.

This was going to be yet another long day at work, on the road and in the stands. I was up at 4.15am and God knows what time I would return. PD and Parky had made their way to Melksham for 2pm and I quickly whisked them south-east to collect Steve. Unfortunately, road works between Southampton and Portsmouth and then road closures later meant that the three-hour trip to Brighton, or rather Lewes, ballooned to four hours. I pulled into one of the last remaining car park spaces at Lewes railway station at around 6.15pm. We usually drink in this lovely historic town before games at the Amex Stadium but we decided to head to the ground. On the five-minute journey in we spoke with some locals about the news that Premier League clubs were to vote on binning VAR.

I’ll say only this. From my experience, 99.9% of match-going fans in the UK want to see it gone.

I spent a little time outside the stadium, taking it all in, taking some photos, chatting to a few Chelsea friends. Brighton’s stadium is a decent arena, and a visit there is quite unlike any other in the top flight. This would be my seventh visit, and we are yet to experience a pre-match in Brighton itself. The Lewes pre-match is as good as any in the Premier League, and I do like the Brighton stadium. It is roomy and pleasant with enough quirky features to keep it away from the “soul-less modern bowl” epithet of modern football connoisseurs. The greenery of the South Downs was visible beyond the west stand and there was a cloudless blue sky above. I like it how seagulls fly and soar above the stadium, as if they are trained specifically for match days. Thankfully, there are no lions at Millwall, nor tigers at Hull City.

I spoke to Allie and Nick, two Chelsea stalwarts who never miss any games, and I soon stopped moaning about the four-hour journey in. Their car had broken down on the outskirts of Brighton and would be sitting overnight in a local garage. At least they had found a lift back to The Smoke.

This would be my third successive season of not missing a Chelsea away league game. God willing, should I manage Bournemouth on Sunday, it will be my first-ever season of not missing a single first team game.

I spotted the Brighton Memorial Garden for the first time – a nice feature – and the gentle rise of the sloped pathway allowed me to take a few more photos. I had to laugh that the home club chose to feature a photo of an old team group posing with comedian Norman Wisdom above the main entrance. A football club must have a lot of self-confidence in itself to be OK with an image like that. I can’t imagine Ken Dodd at Anfield nor Bernard Manning at City.

It was odd to see a player profile of Bruno Saltor on a large poster opposite the main stand. How many Chelsea fans had completely forgotten him? Yes, me too.

I was soon inside the roomy away concourse. What a nice change not to be pressed together like sardines, unlike at other new builds like Arsenal and Tottenham. The boys had bought me a lager; my first pint on a “driving match day” of the season. I guess I needed to celebrate another complete away record somehow. It was lovely to bump into Whitey, who I had not seen at Chelsea for years and years. We reminisced about Juventus away in 2009; fifteen bloody years ago. Shudder.

I made my way into the roomy away end. Waiting to chat as I reached row D was Ross. I had remembered that he had posted on “Facebook” in the morning that he was on his way down to the game with Richard West, aka “Mr. C.” from The Shamen, a band from the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties. I had a brief thought of meeting him for the first time even though we are friends on “Facebook”. Lo and behold, it worked out that they would be in the adjacent two seats. Excellent. We said our hellos and readied ourselves for the evening’s entertainment.

Unfortunately, yet again at The Amex, my seat was right behind the goal nets. I knew that my camera would struggle to get many good photos on this particular night. I made sure I took some of the setting; the stands, the angles, the setting sun.

Kick-off approached.

So, here we were. We had experienced a demanding season with a new manager, new players, an odd ownership group, a new transfer strategy. For the most part it has been a struggle. Supporters have openly expressed how distanced they feel from the players. Yet over the past two months there has been a marked improvement – minus that painful blip at Arsenal – and we were now in touching distance of European football next season. Until very recently I was convinced that we would finish tenth and would be without European football – those beautiful away trips – for a second successive season.

We faced two games against the beach towns of Brighton and Bournemouth. The south coast of England had played a big part in my travels thus far this season; I had watched Frome at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate and Chelsea at Bournemouth. It felt just right to be ending my away trips in Sussex by the sea.

Our team?

There was one change from the tight win at Forest; Malo Gusto replaced Trevoh Chalobah at right-back, thus meaning that he was shunted inside at the expense of Thiago Silva.

Petrovic – Gusto, Chalobah, Badiashile, Cucarella – Gallagher, Caicedo – Madueke, Palmer, Mydruk – Jackson

In the Brighton team were former blues Billy Gilmour and Tariq Lamptey.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked-off. We were in that very dark navy. I just hoped the players could pick each other out. I was struggling.

Being so low down, I struggled as we attacked the far goal and it took me a while to get into the game. Thankfully, Chelsea were involved from the kick-off and the speed of Noni Madueke on the right caused a flutter in the Brighton ranks. However, young Lamptey on the Brighton right started the game equally well and the home team threatened us too.

The former Brighton duo of Marc Cucarella and Moises Caicedo – now blonde – were boo’d relentlessly from the off and I found it all a bit boring and boorish.

Cucarella went sprawling in the box and the referee pointed at the spot. My first reaction was that it looked a little soft. After a lengthy VAR review, involving the referee checking the pitch side monitor, the decision was reversed. The home crowd roared and it was the noisiest they had been all evening.

There was a leap and a header from a Brighton player right in front of us, but then the excellent Malo Gusto sent a dipping shot in on goal but the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen was able to finger-tip it over.

On thirty-four minutes, we had stretched Brighton a little and the ball was played out to Cucarella. He did well to spot a runner and dig out a cross. There was contact, a stooping header, and the ball flew up and over Verbruggen into the goal.

GET IN.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 1.

The players raced off to celebrate and I snapped away, to the left of the nets. I had not spotted who the scorer was, but I knew soon enough.

“Palmer again, Palmer again, Palmer again ole, ole.”

Beautiful stuff.

The Chelsea end were in a sudden celebratory mood.

“We’re all going on a European tour, a European tour, a European tour.”

We pushed forward and a shot from Palmer was cleared. Then, a nod-in from Jackson but he was flagged offside.

I didn’t see the incident that left Mykhailo Mudryk sprawled on the floor for several worrying minutes. For a while he was motionless. Eventually, he was substituted by Christopher Nkunku.

With nine minutes of added time signalled, we traded chances. There was another cross from the left, but Nicolas Jackson shinned it over. Then, a cross from Lamptey and Joao Pedro leapt but struck a header against the bar.

It was 1-0 to the visitors at the break.

It had been a first-half in which both sides had enjoyed spells of domination but Chelsea shaded it. In the second-half, I hoped for more of the same, but also more photos. I had hardly taken any in the first period.

So, the game re-started with “us attacking us” and my camera was primed.

It was an open game and chances continued to be traded. Nkunku looked fresh and nimble, and soon flashed a shot wide from an angle. We looked dangerous on the counter-attack, and our supporters shouted words of encouragement as we attacked the open spaces. Brighton were causing more of a problem to us in the second-half and there were several near misses. The home crowd had been surprisingly quiet in the first-half but were coming to life.

On sixty-five minutes, we broke again with pace. Gusto pushed deep into the Brighton box and spotted Nkunku inside. In a flash, the ball was swept in to the goal with the minimum of fuss.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 2.

I was so low down that I struggled to get any goal celebrations of note.

For a while, the Chelsea supporters took the piss out of one of the home supporters in the stand to our right. I didn’t know the reasons for ridicule, but the poor bloke was getting pummelled with insults. He was slightly overweight (like many of us) and so was an easy target. After minutes of abuse, the Chelsea choir turned the knife deeper.

“You fat bastard, you’re texting your Mum.”

With that he left.

Reece James replaced Gusto and Raheem Sterling replaced Madueke.

The game seemed to be petering out with Chelsea well in charge. Jackson was upended just outside the box by the Brighton ‘keeper but Raheem Sterling wasted the resultant free-kick.

I was proud to see our support clapping both Lamptey and Gilmour when they were substituted. But I had to laugh when Brighton replaced the dangerous Julio Enciso with Ansu Fati.

The Chelsea support to my right sang “we’ve got our Fati back.”

Late on, there was a rough tackle out by the touchline on Reece James and our captain reacted by lashing out with his leg. I spotted it immediately. My mind raced back to David Beckham in France in 1998. A VAR review was signalled and, no surprises, Reece was red carded. What a silly boy.

Fackinell.

Thiago Silva replaced Jackson.

A mammoth ten minutes of added time was signalled and everyone thought the same; “here we go.”

An effort from Simon Adingra smacked against the base of Petrovic’ right-hand post and then in the eighth minute of extra-time, a cross towards the near post by Joao Pedro was touched in by their substitute Danny Welbeck.

Brighton 1 Chelsea 2.

Welbeck’s goal did not surprise me at all. The veteran striker has a good record against us.

More substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Gallagher.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

The last three minutes of the game were tense and nervy.

At last, the referee blew up.

Phew.

With the late, presumably unplanned, appearance of Thiago Silva, I was at least able to get some decent close-up photographs of our much-loved Brazilian legend in his final away game for Chelsea Football Club. He looked emotional as he clapped the away support for the last time.

“Oh Thiago Silva.”

We were back at my car in Lewes at 10.30pm, but those road closures again meant that our journey home was another long one. After I had dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am, I suddenly felt peckish. I stopped at a nearby all-night-garage and bought myself a Chelsea Bun.

There is no punchline.

Tales From A Ball Of Confusion

Posted on December 6, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 3 December 2023.

There was a black and white photograph of Terry Venables on the front of the match programme. The news of his sad passing, at the age of eighty, came through while we were sat at a café in Gateshead on the day after the match at Newcastle. He had actually died on the day of the game. Although he had played for three other London teams, and managed them all, he was always fondly remembered at Chelsea, a club that he never really wanted to leave. Later that Sunday, in the pub that had become our local for the weekend, we raised our glasses in memory of one of the brightest lights of that ‘sixties Chelsea team, and one of the most innovative coaches of the past few decades.

I never saw Terry Venables play. In fact, he was the manager of the opposing team in games that I saw a surprisingly few times. But he always seemed to me to be a genuine football man. The tales of him taking on Tommy Docherty with ideas of football tactics are legendary, and undoubtedly the reason why he was eventually moved on from Chelsea. There was only ever going to be one winner there. He joined the hated Tottenham, then QPR, then Crystal Palace. He was cherry-picked by Barcelona and won La Liga in his first season at Camp Nou. Alongside him as his number two was Alan Harris, brother of Ron. I always remember that I did a tour of the towering Barcelona stadium with two college mates in September 1987 on the very day that “El Tel” got the elbow, sacked after just over three seasons at one of the World’s largest clubs. As we left the stadium, I remember a gaggle of folk assembling outside the main stand and, at the time, I did not know why. The next day, we found out.

Later, there was Tottenham and a few famous battles with Chelsea. With England there were the highs – I was at the Holland and Spain games of Euro ’96 – and lows of being national team manager.

Terry Venables was an English football legend who lived life to the full – a singer and novelist too – and touched the lives of many. I often wonder how Chelsea’s story would have panned out if he had stayed in 1966.

Rest In Peace.

I was inside at about 1.30pm ahead of the 2pm kick-off, and I found myself chatting to my mate Daryl. Neither of us were too optimistic about the outcome of the upcoming match with Brighton.

“I’ll be happy with a draw mate.”

After the second-half capitulation at Newcastle, it felt that the twin games against Tottenham and City were a blip and that our state of health was again being questioned.

It had been a decent pre-match and the tight confines of “The Eight Bells” had been livened by the appearance of our friends Linda and Deano, calling in before their three-month adventure in Thailand, and also my Brighton mate Mac and his four pals, plus Chad, Danny and Josh from Minnesota.

Unlike the coldness of the day before, the weather was mild. The Chelsea team was announced and I took a look at it.

In goal, Robert Sanchez. A back four – without the suspended Reece James and Marc Cucarella – of Axel Disasi, Thiago Silva, Benoit Badiashile and Levi Colwill. In midfield, Moises Caicedo, Enzo Fernandez and Conor Gallagher. Out wide were Raheem Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk. In the middle, Nicolas Jackson.

No Cole Palmer.

Three former Brighton players; Sanchez, Colwill, Caicedo.

I immediately turned to Alan and admitted that I – probably for no logical reason – disliked tall full-backs.

“Only Ivanovic was any good…”

Why is that? I do prefer full-backs to be more compact, nippier, think Ashley Cole, Graeme Le Saux, Cesar Azpilicueta.

Our back four was made up of centre-backs and with Brighton likely to be quick and agile, I feared the worst. At least there was no Kaoru Mitoma in the starting line-up.

There were a few moments of applause in memory of Terry Venables before the game began.

After showing up in a vivid orange away kit for the League Cup game at the end of September, this time the Brighton kit man chose green and black striped shirts. It didn’t look right. If you were playing for your school and an opposing school showed up in green and black stripes, you would fancy your chances.

“Looks like a rugby-playing school this, lads. Who wears green and black? Into them!”

Well, despite all this, Brighton began brighter and I wondered if even a draw might be a tad optimistic. But we dug in, became a little more aggressive and won some battles. Conor Gallagher carried out his usual corner routine of holding the ball up above his head for a moment, before placing it in the quadrant.

“That’s code for another shit corner…”

One or two of these missed their intended targets.

A ball was played through to Nicolas Jackson who ran on but soon ran out of steam. I would soon lament that he had neither the pace, strength nor nous to be effective.

Lo and behold, on seventeen minutes, another Gallagher corner from out on our right beat the first man and Benoit Badiashile did ever so well to keep the ball alive and hook it back into the six-yard box. Enzo Fernandez rose to head home, and then celebrated wildly down in Parkyville.

GET IN.

Jackson then surprised everyone with an excellent dribble into the box and to the by-line before prodding it goal wards but the Brighton ‘keeper Jason Steele saved. The rebound was headed well wide by Enzo.

This was a good little spell for us and a cross from Sterling was hit into the danger area but went off for a corner. Gallagher’s delivery again caused Brighton problems. Jackson headed back for Levi Colwill to head towards goal. In the follow up, a shot from Axel Disasi was thumped against the side netting. We groaned. But within a heartbeat the initial header from Colwill was signalled as having crossed the line. There was only four minutes between the two goals.

2-0, oh my bloody goodness.

The game then meandered for a while. Despite us being 2-0 up, the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was truly dreadful. The away fans – any away fans – can usually be relied to stir things up a little, but the Brighton fans were as quiet as us.

Pah.

There was defensive hari-kari in our six-yard box, and – really Mister Pochettino – we need words, I already had a few heart attacks back in 2020. Please stop all that buggering about please.

Simon Adingra seemed to be giving Axel Disasi a bit of a runaround.

Mykhailo Mudryk spun on a sixpence and accelerated away but his shot just missed the target. His effort was warmly applauded. Bit of an enigma, that kid, eh? We all wish him well though.

It wasn’t great, despite the 2-0 score line.

PD blurted out “poor” just as I was thinking it.

It was deathly quiet.

Sadly, just before half-time, Facundo Buonanotte was on the end of an uncontested move and sent a fine curling shot between defenders and past Robert Sanchez to narrow the margin.

Bollocks.

Raheem Sterling danced into the Brighton box but then fell over himself.

Another rapid break from Mydruk down the left showed him at his best; electric pace, a dangerous cross. Sadly, this resulted in a quite brilliant reflex save from Steele as a Brighton defender deflected the cross goal wards.

The away fans had found their voices.

“Albion, Albion…Albion, Albion.”

Then, a very clumsy – and silly – challenge by the previously-booked Gallagher on our former player Billy Gilmour resulted in a second yellow and marching orders.

The Brighton lot were happy.

“Cheerio, Palace scum.”

This was the second red for a captain in consecutive games.

Fackinell.

It had been a Curate’s Egg of a first-half. There had been periods of good play but areas of concern too. I spoke with Oxford Frank about our failings during the first period. Despite the two goals, much of it was pedestrian. I recounted the game I attended on Saturday, a come-from-behind win by Frome Town at home to lowly Exmouth Town, and soon realised that I was far more excited as I found myself describing that game than dwelling on the match taking place below us. A special mention for my mate Josh – one of the Minnesota triplets – who travelled down to Somerset specially to see Frome play. The win, in front of a decent 376, left Frome in third place but with plenty of games in hand.

As I returned to my seat, Clive and Alan were in discussion about our second teams; Clive with Hereford, Alan with Bromley, me with Frome Town.

“If your two teams played each other, who would you want to win?”

And it is a great question.

I was asked this same question years ago, maybe before my love for Frome Town reached its full blossoming, and I replied “Chelsea, of course…”

Now, it’s a little more blurred.

But it’s still Chelsea.

Say, though, Frome Town defeat Torquay United in the FA Trophy next Saturday and are then drawn away to Oldham Athletic on the same day that Chelsea at home to Fulham on Saturday 13 January. What to do? What to do? Thinking about that could ruin my Christmas.

The second-half began.

After five minutes of play, the Stamford Bridge crowd eventually took the bull by the horns and got involved with the usual strains of “Amazing Grace” being used :

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

You know how it goes.

I joined in. But I then – gulp – realised that this was my first vocal involvement of the entire bloody game. Oh Christ. Is this what I have become? My 1993 self would have been distraught to see this. Bloody good time travel is not yet with us.

We were down to ten men, of course, but it didn’t really show.

Roberto De Zerbi made four substitutions on the hour, including James Milner, a player I have loathed for ages now.

Alan had just been talking to Clive about playing Mudryk down the middle – not always, just on occasion, to mix things a little – when we broke at pace.

A Brighton corner was claimed by Sanchez. A roll out to Sterling. To Jackson. To Mudryk. In on goal. Milner racing back.

I took a photograph.

Mudryk’s legs crumpled.

Did I immediately think it was a penalty? I hoped so.

Play continued. The crowd was roaring. I studied the image I had taken. I had my own little review. It looked like he had been caught.

VAR was called into action.

The nerds at Stockley Park were not sure.

Back it went to the referee Craif Pawson.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

Enzo.

Goal.

A roar from me.

A roar from everyone.

A slide into the corner down below us.

Snap.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Objectively speaking, my thoughts are that if the team of VAR “experts” can’t decide, then it doesn’t go back to the referee on the side of the pitch. The initial decision stands. I know that it would have meant that we would not have won that penalty, but VAR is killing our game.

The chants in support of the team grew louder.

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

We played well in the remainder. Pochettino made further substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

An extra man at the back now? I thought so,

Armando Broja for Mudryk.

We were treated to a punt up field from Sanchez for Broja and I approved. A little variation in our attacking play always makes the opponents uneasy.

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

That man Mitoma looked lively. Sanchez stretched low to turn away a long shot from Pascal Gross.

Ten minutes of extra time were signalled.

A corner from their left, in front of their fans, was whipped in and Joao Pedro lept well to glance the ball in; near post to far post.

Oh God.

The rain was lashing down now.

The minutes ticked by.

I kept glancing at Alan’s ‘phone; he always puts the timer on at ninety minutes.

6 minutes.

8 minutes.

Another save down low from Sanchez.

10 minutes.

A cross from Adingra was slashed in.

I saw nothing, nothing odd, nothing untoward. Imagine my shock when it became apparent that a penalty had been awarded.

What? Why? Who? Where? How?

Those of us in the ground were baffled, but obviously crestfallen. There was a big old kerfuffle in the penalty box. Confusion reigned.

VAR.

Another delay.

The referee went back to the TV screen.

Another delay.

I was fearing the worst.

The referee drew a rectangle with his hands like some stupid game of charades.

I thought it was a penalty that he had signalled.

So did the Brighton fans who roared.

My heart sank.

But then a roar from the home fans.

What?

No penalty.

What the fuck has happened to our game?

Tales From A Goal And A Win

Posted on October 1, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2023.

After defeating AFC Wimbledon in the Second Round of the League Cup, we could have been drawn away to Salford City, Exeter City, Ipswich Town, Mansfield Town, Peterborough United, Bradford City, Port Vale, Sutton United or Lincoln City in the next round. I have not seen Chelsea play at any of these clubs’ stadia. However, the draw for the Third Round gave us a home tie with Brighton & Hove Albion. This was met with the usual grumbling from me. I don’t have a feverish desire to tick off all ninety-two grounds before I exit stage left, but a new ground is always a pleasant experience.

As I typed out the teams in that list above, I felt a little sadness that I have not seen us play at either Valley Parade nor Portman Road. These two stadia belong to two teams that we have played a fair few times over the years. However, the twin perils of geography and economics have not always been aligned for me to travel as much as I do now. I guess that I should mention that I have seen a game at Port Vale, lured in by a chance to see Micky Droy play for Brentford at Vale Park only for him to be injured, when I was at college in The Potteries. Quite a few fellow Chelsea supporters that I know have reached “92” on many occasions and are constantly topping up their totals as new teams arrive in the fourth tier.

Me? I am up to fifty-eight of the current ninety-two English and Welsh stadia, plus a few “doubles” too. Other than that, there are around forty clubs in the non-league arena that I have visited. So, a total of around one hundred clubs in the UK visited for actual games. I’ll make an exhaustive list one day. It’s a pretty low figure compared to many. I know of one Chelsea fanatic who is up to six-hundred individual stadia worldwide, and another who has seen games at over two and a half thousand stadia worldwide. Across the globe, I think that I might be up to around one hundred and seventy-five individual stadia.

Stadium number one in that list was Frome Town in 1970 and I returned there on Tuesday, the night before the Brighton game. The home team won 3-2 against Evesham United with goals from Warren Maidment, Reece Rusher and James Ollis. This was Frome’s first league game in four weeks.

On the Wednesday, I set off for London with the usual three other passengers at around 2.15pm. I dropped Parky and Paul near “The Rylston” pub on Lillee Road at 4.30pm. I was able to drive down a relatively deserted North End Road, then up the Fulham Road, to drop Ron off at the main gates. It felt a little odd to be able to do this. I haven’t often driven up to the actual gates at Stamford Bridge, though I did park in the underground carpark on one or two occasions almost thirty years ago. After getting fined for arriving at a car parking space before the Luton Town game, I was wary not to park up too soon. I killed time by driving around a few blocks and hit my spot bang on 5pm just as a traffic warden had glided past.

I had driven past a father and daughter that I often see in “Norbros Pizzeria” on the North End Road. The father reminds me of Perry Benson who was in “This Is England.”

I joined the chaps in “The Rylston” for a drink. It sits at the northern edge of the Clem Atlee, and is a very decent boozer, though now attracting a very different clientele than the decades since its inception. I bet nobody from the Clem Atlee drinks there now. As such, it’s a perfect metaphor for that part of Fulham, that part of London.

I shot off to gobble down a diavolo pizza on the North End Road – Perry Benson and his daughter were in there, of course – and I then dipped into “Simmons” where I had a nice chat with Salisbury Steve. Neither of us were particularly relishing the game. Why would we be?

Brighton had over four thousand supporters in The Shed and so Parky was shunted into the MHU. I swapped with him so he could sit next to PD, while I took his seat in the more central Block 11. It suited us both. Before the game, I was able to spot three friends who normally sit in The Shed – Long Tall Pete, John and Dave – and I also spotted Terry Wine Gums too. Lo and behold, just before the kick-off, Perry Benson and his daughter took their seats right behind me and I spoke to them for the first time.

“Good food in there, innit?”

I enjoyed being able to watch the game from a different angle. It mirrors the “new ground” feeling. I would be pointing my camera at the usual objects but there would be different outcomes.

Our team?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Ugochukwu – Caicedo

Maatesen – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that. Palmer, his first start, was definitely ahead of Uguchukwu and Caicedo.

I nestled myself in. I seemed to have a lot less room than in my usual seat. The pre-match music began in earnest and I thought that the House Of Pain, from thirty years ago, was an apt choice of band to start off the proceedings. Would we be jumping around later? I wasn’t sure.

There was the flash, then darkness and the pulsing beat of the pre-match light-show, and I worried for the future of mankind. On the pitch, men with forks were tapping the pitch with complete disinterest. As a spectacle, it needed a little more work, a little more choreography.

Fackinell.

I looked around. It was almost a full house. The bubble isn’t for bursting just yet. The tickets for the previous round were £26. These were £32. I hope the price rise stops there. It was a mild night in SW6. Secretly, I was sweating like bastard. That extra Hugo Boss hoodie was not a wise move.

The game kicked-off.

Brighton were in a very vivid red. Tariq Lamptey, one substitute appearance for us in 2019, was starting while Billy Gilmour was a substitute.

We began nicely, with some positive play going forward. Mudryk cut in but shot straight at the Brighton ’keeper.

It was a bit of a head-scratcher to see the maligned Marc Cucarella starting at right back, and the effervescent Brighton winger Kaoru Mitoma gave him a merry dance as a he advanced. Thankfully, a cross was smothered away for a goal-kick.

After a Chelsea attack, the ball was played back.

“Cucarella as the last man. That’s not a scary thought is it?”

Robert Sanchez had already fluffed a few lines; kicking for touch like a rugby player and failing to clear with ease. He had already passed the ball to one Brighton player in error. Then, his biggest error yet. With all of our hearts in our mouths, we watched as he kicked the ball straight to Joao Pedro. Mercifully, his lob evaded the goal and the ball nestled on top of the net.

Fackinell.

A run from Nicolas Jackson, but he crumpled too easily inside the box.

“Needs to be stronger.”

Palmer advanced but his shot was weak.

In front of us, another horrific piece of football from Sanchez, with him passing the ball to Caicedo with an attacker right behind him. The ball was lost and Ansu Fati, on loan from Barcelona, shot at goal. Thankfully Sanchez redeemed himself with a fine save.

Some nice interplay between Mudryk and Jackson set up the Ukrainian, whose advance was halted by two sliding tackles.

After a free-kick was cleared, the ball fell to Lesley Ugochukwu but his lofted chip sailed over via a deflection off a defender.

A long ball into space from Chilwell, captain on the night, found Mudryk in acres of space. His cross was flicked past the near post by Palmer.

It had been a first-half of few real chances with the abysmal performance of the ‘keeper Sanchez the main talking point in MHU Block 11. Only Palmer, Mudryk and Jackson stood out really.

The Brighton fans had been quiet. We had been quiet too. It was one of those nights.

Soon into the second-half, on fifty minutes, a slick move involving Caicedo, Ian Maatsen and Palmer – with exquisite footwork – set up Jackson who cleanly swept the ball in.

Get in.

The crowd roared. What a relief. We had joked for a while about wondering where our next goal would come yet here it was.

Phew.

I tried to capture the slide but there were too many arms being thrust into the air.

Mudryk set up Jackson but he dawdled a little too long and the angles worked against him; his shot was blocked by the outstretched leg of Verbruggen.

A fine ball from Cucarella into Caicedo set up Palmer. His slight touch was enough to see the ball reach Jackson, who tucked home. Sadly, I immediately saw the chequered flag for offside. It must have been close. It stayed as a 1-0 game.

Billy Gilmour came on as a Brighton substitute and a fair few clapped him on. I stood up and did so. He was part of our squad in Porto, that will do for me.

Raheem Sterling replaced Mudryk.

Then two more changes.

Conor Gallagher for Maatsen.

Enzo for Palmer.

Both had played well on the night; positive signs.

A quick break down the Brighton left set up Solly March but his header was right at Sanchez. Estupinan then drilled a cross right through the danger zone and it eventually went off for a Chelsea throw in. Brighton had been poor. This surprised me.

Armando Broja replaced Jackson.

Another promising show from him.

Alas, while chasing a long ball, Chilwell fell and it was clear that he was hurt. He was escorted off.

A volley from Joao Pedro was blasted over.

The minutes ticked by and we hoped that there would be no last minute twist, no last minute drama.

There was relief, much relief, at the final whistle.

The quality wasn’t brilliant, but a win is a win is a win. The big surprise on the night was Cucarella, who really grew into the game and impressed many with his tough tackling, decent distribution and high energy levels. Well done to him. We assembled back at the car and I made very good time on the drive home. I was back home at around 12.45am, definitely an early finish.

But so much for a new ground.

We were paired with Blackburn Rovers at home.

Next up, a trip for me to Kent on Saturday in the FA Cup before we assemble again on Monday night at Craven Cottage.

See you in The Eight Bells.

The Rylston

New Angles

The First Half

The Second Half

Tales From Another Tough Watch

Posted on April 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 15 April 2023.

Just as I was driving away from my usual parking space at Chelsea after the game with Brighton, I summed things up to PD in the seat alongside me :

“Out-played, out-shot, out-fought, out-thought.”

In a season of sub-par performances, this perhaps had been the worst of the lot. No positives at all? It certainly bloody felt like it. I will come back to the game later but as there is a lot to get through in this ramble I had best begin.

Shall we do things chronologically again?

The next game to feature in my retrospective look at our worst-ever season, 1982/83, is our away match at Boundary Park, the home of perennial Second Division battlers Oldham Athletic. This encounter was played on Saturday 9 April 1983 and came on the back of a four-game winless streak for John Neal’s troops. My diary noted that the game kicked-off at 2pm. Perhaps this was a result of that afternoon’s televised Grand National which, from memory, used to start around 4pm. Clubs were so desperate for spectators in those days that I suspect that this was the reason. Regardless, the match was really poorly attended; just 4,923 showed up. I often hear talk of us taking thousands to away games in those days. I suspect that it wasn’t the case on this occasion.

At the time, Oldham Athletic were stacked full of former Manchester City players and were managed by the former City striker Joe Royle. Playing for the Latics on this occasion were Kenny Clements, Tony Henry and Roger Palmer. Not involved on this day were Paul Futcher and Ged Keegan. All of these players had previously turned out for Manchester City.

At half-time, the score was 1-1, at full-time it ended up 2-2. Mercurial midfielder Mike Fillery scored both, with one from the penalty spot. The Chelsea team included debutant Paul Williams, a young central defender, who only ever played this one game in our colours. After the match, we dropped two places to fifteenth in the twenty-two team division. We had six games left to play with four being at home, yet were just two points off a relegation place.

I, and many thousands of others, were worried. We were barely limping along as the end of the season approached.

My diary the day after the Oldham game mentions my thoughts :

“All of a sudden, things are looking really desperate. Only now does relegation seem a possibility. I hadn’t really considered it to any depth until today.”

Despite all of this, I was definitely excited to be attending our next fixture, a home match with Newcastle United, only my fourth “live” game of the season. I was still at school and I had only worked a couple of Saturdays in my father’s shop that season so every spare bit of pocket money, Christmas money and ad hoc gifts from relatives were saved up with such frugality that I rarely spent any extra money on anything else. An occasional illegal beer on a night out, quaffed slowly, was really my only other expenditure. These were definitely simpler times but Chelsea was everything to me. The game against the Geordies, on Saturday 16 April, could not come quick enough.

As a quick aside, on the preceding Thursday I had met up with a couple of Canadian relatives who were touring England at the time. My father’s cousin Mary was chaperoning her daughter Marina on a school band trip. I met Marina for the first time one evening in nearby Bath. I, sadly, already knew that Marina was a Manchester United supporter. She kindly presented me with a Chelsea scarf, but also a few of Vancouver Whitecap items. Marina and both her parents were Whitecaps season ticket holders. No doubt I tut-tutted when I saw Marina wearing an actual United shirt. Anyway, for reasons beast known to Marina, she had been wearing the Chelsea scarf on her travels around England but the coach driver had warned her to take it off as she would get beaten up. This, I thought, was a bit excessive, but no doubt fed into the narrative of Chelsea Football Club being famous, only, for hooliganism in 1983.

Fast-forwarding to 2023, I have three games to mention.

On Bank holiday Monday, I watched Frome Town defeat local rivals Melksham Town 2-1, winning the game with a last-minute goal from Jon Davies in front of 491.

On the Wednesday, I watched at home on my computer as Chelsea lost 0-2 against Real Madrid at the Bernabeu. Such is my level of expectancy at the moment that I was relatively happy that we didn’t get beaten more heavily.

Then, on Thursday evening I returned to see Frome Town defeat strugglers Cinderford Town 5-1. This game attracted 425, a gate helped by a fine sponsorship deal involving local businesses allowing fans to enter for free. The football against Melksham and Cinderford was the best all season and, as daft as it now seemed, Frome now have an outside chance of sneaking into the last two play-off positions, currently held by Wimborne Town and Tavistock.

On the morning of the Brighton game at Stamford Bridge, a sizeable part of me wished that I was staying in Somerset to see a third Frome game in six days, another derby against Paulton Rovers.

But Chelsea was calling.

As often is the case, the pre-match was far more enjoyable than the main event. I met up with Ollie from Normandy once again and also my Brighton mate Mac and two of his friends Barry and Guy. We enjoyed a fine time in “The Eight Bells.” I arrived at about midday. PD and Parky were already there. Salisbury Steve would join us too. We just about fitted around a table.

Ollie told me that he much prefers the older stadia in England as opposed to the new ones. He is yet to visit The Emirates and has no desire to do so. He much prefers the likes of Goodison Park, Fratton Park and Selhurst Park. We promised each other to meet up at Turf Moor next season.

Mac and I are soon celebrating ten years of friendship; we started chatting about football in a Manhattan bar in late May 2013 and have kept in touch ever since. Our two teams play, ironically, in the US in July. I, for one, won’t be there. Barry asked me for advice about travelling to Wembley as they are playing Manchester United in an FA Cup semi-final next weekend. This ties in nicely with my 1982/83 retrospective as in that season’s FA Cup Final, Brighton took eventual winners Manchester United to a replay.

It honestly didn’t seem six months ago that we were all drinking in Lewes before that shocking 1-4 defeat at the Amex. And who would have thought that both of our teams would now be hosting Argentinian World Cup winners?

Alexis Mac Allister – no relation – I would realise, was playing for Boca Juniors at the time that I saw them play Atletico Tucamen in January 2020, although he did not take part in that particular game. On the previous night, however, I did see his brother Francis play for Argentinos Juniors against Lanus.

Like me, Mac gets no thrills from watching England play these days. And also like me, he hardly watches football on TV if it doesn’t involve his team. His wife can’t understand it.

“But you are a football fan. Why don’t you watch?”

“I’m a Brighton fan.”

I had a knowing chuckle.

And I summed up my reluctance to get emotionally involved with England these days.

“Why bother watching millionaires who play for teams I hate?”

My bluntness shocked me, God knows what the others thought.

We made our way to Putney Bridge tube, Ollie’s Army, an updated version of Oliver’s Army.

“The boys from Somerset, Wiltshire, Sussex and Normandy…”

The rain had held off; the sun was out. I was in at around 2.30pm, perfect.

Frank’s starting eleven?

Kepa

Chalobah – Fofana – Badiashile – Chilwell

Enzo – Zakaria – Gallagher

Pulisic – Sterling – Mudryk

A few question marks there. The forward line certainly didn’t thrill me. And a return to a flat-back four? Righty-oh.

The new pre-match of Blur, Harry J. All-Stars and – er – the Foo Fighters.

A sign was unfurled in The Shed.

“WELCOME HOME SUPER FRANK.”

But this was as low key as it gets.

Not many people that I spoke to expected a win. I have been saying all season long that our position does not lie and that Brentford, Fulham and Brighton are better than us. I still could not see where a goal was coming from. It was four games in a row now. I mentioned our horrific end to 1980/81 to a few souls; “nine games with not one single goal.”

Gulp.

There was no emotional backdrop of noise welcoming Frank Lampard back at Stamford Bridge. I’ll admit that it seemed odd, super-odd, to be seeing him in navy blue in front of the East Stand once more, our first sighting since the Everton game slightly more than three years ago. What a crazy time it has been since.

COVID, football behind closed doors, Lampard sacked, Tuchel in, European Cup glory, a war in Ukraine, sanctions, Roman Abramovich ousted, reduced-capacities, Lampard to Everton, Clearlake in, Billy Gimour to Brighton, Levi Colwell to Brighton, Marc Cucarella to Chelsea, Tuchel sacked, Potter to Chelsea, De Zerbi to Brighton, Chelsea walloped at Brighton 4-1, Lampard sacked at Everton, Potter sacked at Chelsea, Lampard returning to Chelsea, Tottenham still shite.

Football, eh? Fackinell.

The game began with Brighton looking the most-threatening in the opening spell. After just two minutes, I thought they had scored via Kaoru Mitoma but cross was touched wide at the near post by Mac Allister.

In a very open start to the game, a Mykhailo Mudryk run from deep promised much before he was felled unceremoniously by Joel Veltman. There then followed a cross from Mudryk that was deflected away for a corner by Lewis Dunk. The Ukranian then followed this up with a shot from thirty yards that went wide.

Next, breathless stuff this, a chance for Brighton with the goal gaping but wide. They then hit the bar a minute later, Evan Ferguson digging one out from outside the box. Trevoh Chalobah and Benoit Badiashile were looking nervous in their first starts for a while.

On ten minutes, the first “Super Frank” chant but it was hardly deafening.

On fourteen minutes, probably against the run of play, Mudryk broke in from the left, advanced, and played the ball back to Conor Gallagher. His strike was on target but hit Lewis Dunk – the own goal king a few years ago – and spun high and over Robert Sanchez in the Brighton goal.

Bloody hell, a goal, I hardly knew how to react.

Phew.

We had spoken about getting a little luck to break our recent drought and this was just right. Conor reeled away, a former Palace player, and celebrated in front of the Albion fans.

Sadly, we didn’t push on and Kepa soon had to be called into action to thwart the away team’s advances. Twice in a minute he saved us. First, he claimed a high ball into the six-yard box and then ran out to block.

On twenty-five minutes, the elusive Mitoma slalomed into the box but Kepa did ever so well to save low.

The atmosphere was quiet. I was yet to join in with anything.

On the half-hour, three more Brighton chances. A really fine break at pace carved through our lines but the end result flew wide. Another shot was blocked. Then Kepa saved well from point blank range, a Ferguson header palmed over.

This was turning into a very ropey Chelsea performance indeed. On thirty-seven minutes, a rare attack saw Wesley Fofana cross from the right, but it was slightly too high for Raheem Sterling to either head goal wards or properly steer the ball back to Mudryk.

Just before the break, Brighton moved the ball well and a hanging cross came in from the right. I was hoping that Chalobah would be able to head away, but the ball fell between him and Fofana, and new substitute Danny Welbeck pounced.

1-1.

My sadness temporarily evaporated when a friend messaged me to say that Frome had gone 2-0 up against Paulton. As I shouted over to PD with this information, no doubt with a smile, I was filled with absolute guilt.

The away support boomed loudly.

“ALBION! ALBION!”

Just before the whistle, a fine move from us but a save from Sanchez at the near stick.

At least there were no boos at half-time.

At the break, Gary Cahill, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink and Eidur Gudjohnsen appeared on the pitch, promoting the good work carried out by the Samaritans.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Eidur and Jimmy were a fine partnership up front for us. My God, how I wished one of them, or even both, could lose twenty years and parachute into the current squad.

I took a photo as they exited the pitch down below me.

The second-half began. There were no substitutions.

Early on, Kepa needed to be called into action again, saving well on two occasions. There was a fine diagonal out to Ben Chilwell down below us but although he advanced well, his shot was weak.

Chalobah raked the shin of a Brighton player and was booked. This elicited the humorous response from Brighton : “You dirty northern bastards.”

Our play just wasn’t joined up.

On fifty-seven minutes, a quadruple change.

Reece James for Fofana.

Hakim Ziyech for Pulisic.

Mateo Kovacic for Enzo.

Joao Felix for Sterling.

I was only disappointed with the Enzo substitution, but I suspected that the Argentinian was being saved for Tuesday against Real Madrid. Still four at the back.

This new injection of players seemed to wake the crowd up from our collective slumber.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

At last I joined in.

My poor performance had mirrored that of virtually all of the players.

Just after, there was a mix-up between James and Chalobah on our right and we were pickpocketed. Julio Enciso’s shot slammed against a post but Welbeck could not touch home the rebound.

It was all Brighton. All the tackles. All the movement. All the passing. We were being given a horrible lesson in team work.

PD chirped : “I’ve got Samaritans on speed dial.”

With sixty-five minutes gone, at last we perked up a little. A shot from Kovacic was blocked by that man Dunk. At long last, the noise boomed around a sunny Stamford Bridge and it was a joy to hear.

However, all this was to be deadened. On sixty-nine minutes, a wonder strike from Enciso gave the visitors an absolutely deserved lead. We had given the ball away cheaply and the resultant rising shot was magnificent.

Brighton had never won at Stamford Bridge before. The scorer celebrated in front of their supporters. I strongly suspected that this would be their first victory.

A few minutes later, Mason Mount replaced Zakaria.

I turned to Clive : “you wouldn’t even know he was playing would you?”

On seventy-eight minutes, an enlivened Mudryk broke away and reached the bye-line but appeared to play the ball too far behind our attackers. The low ball found Mount but he leaned back and the ball flew high over the bar.

Neat interplay allowed Gallagher – out best outfield player – to wriggle in to the box but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Reece drilled in a beautiful cross into the six-yard box but sadly Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was nowhere to be seen.

In the last minute, Mudryk cut in and sent a riser just over. To be fair, he had shown very occasional glimpses throughout the game. I haven’t given up on him just yet.

The away fans were the only ones singing now.

“We are Brighton, super Brighton. We are Brighton from the south.”

At the final whistle, boos.

This was yet another tough watch and it seemed that virtually all of our games this season – Tuchel, Potter, Lampard – have been a tough watch.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about the club’s choice to play “Three Little Birds” as we trudged out. Better than the fucking Foo Fighters, I suppose.

So, were there any pluses from the day? Kepa had played well, saving us on many occasions. But this was a rare positive. If he was a 7, maybe Gallagher was a 6, maybe Mudryk a 5, with everyone else 4 or less. It was grim. And by the time I had reached home – early, at 8.30pm – the internet was full of supporters getting off on ripping into Lampard – some were actually enjoying it as far as I could see – while some were talking about boycotting the remaining games. I honestly didn’t know what to make of it.

In the midst of this gloom, I saw that Tottenham lost at home to Bournemouth, so that raised a smile..

Frome won 2-0 in front of another gate of 491. It had meant that the club had enticed 1,407 into three home games over just six days; a fine achievement. While Chelsea play Real Madrid on Tuesday, Frome will visit already promoted Totton.

Don’t worry, I will be at Stamford Bridge.

Bring a hard hat. See you there.

1982/83 & 2022/23

Tales From One Over The Eight

Posted on November 5, 2022 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2022.

So this was it then. The ninth and final game of the month; a trip down to Sussex-by-the-Sea and a match against Graham Potter’s previous team Brighton & Hove Albion. Of the nine fixtures, six would be away from Stamford Bridge but despite this, as far as gathering results, this had been a fine month with six wins and two draws thus far.

Brighton is a fair old stretch from Somerset.

Or rather, Lewes and Falmer. We wouldn’t be touching the actual city of Brighton.

I set off from my house at 7.45am, and I predicted that I’d be pulling into the car park at Lewes train station at around 11.30am. With me were P-Diddy, Lord Parky and Sir Les. Between the four of us, we have well over two hundred years of Chelsea support.

The weather forecast was decent. I packed a jacket but wasn’t sure that I’d honestly need it. Last season’s trip to the Amex was not a good memory for me. We drew 1-1, no problems with that, but as the game progressed I felt worse and worse. I just wanted to leave. It would transpire that I had caught a stomach bug and would be off work for a week. Grim memories.

1982/83 produced some grim memories too. My fortieth anniversary wallow in our worst ever season continues with a couple of games from that season.

On Saturday 23 October 1982, Chelsea played Charlton Athletic at Stamford Bridge in a Division Two fixture. All the talk leading up to this game focussed on the visitors’ imminent signing of the former European footballer of the year Allan Simonsen. The Danish international was out of favour at Barcelona after the signing of Diego Maradona from Boca Juniors. Spanish clubs at the time were only allowed to field two foreigners and he found himself down the pecking order behind Maradona and the German Bernd Schuster. In a move that I still find bizarre forty years later, he was due to sign for Charlton but the registration was delayed and his debut came a short while after. Looking back, it is hard to believe that the English Second Division in 1982/83 played host to two former European footballers of the year; Allan Simonsen from 1977, Kevin Keegan from 1978 and 1979. Before a crowd of 14,492, Chelsea won 3-1 with goals from John Bumstead, Pop Robson and a screamer from Colin Pates. That evening in Frome, my former love interest Julie made an appearance at a school disco on a brief return to the town and I probably uttered and stuttered less than ten words to her all night. That particular romance was over and I am still hurting now.

During the following midweek, Chelsea won 2-1 at Tranmere Rovers in the League Cup in front of 4,579 with a brace from the veteran Robson giving the club an easy aggregate win and a place in the next round.

Les had been over in Salzburg too, and as I ate up the miles we shared a few tales from Austria. My route took me up the M3, around the M25 and then south on the M23. One sight thrilled me; the road undulating over a series of hills as the South Downs lay ahead. It was just one of those moments that fill me with a sudden and odd burst of pleasure.

Football, travel, the combination of the two and the realisation that this lark is still a joy.

Parky shared a couple of songs from The Jam on his ‘phone as I drove into Lewes from the A27.

“News Of The World.”

“That’s Entertainment.”

As I promised myself, I reached Lewes train station car park bang on 11.30am. Just after, the four of us were drinking in “The Lansdown” pub which had just that minute opened. There were a few Chelsea already there. The first song on the pub’s juke box?

“That’s Entertainment.”

Talk about continuity.

There was a little chat with Cath, Dog and Mark, then another Mark, then Walt. Walt spoke how he wasn’t exactly overcome with enthusiasm for this game and I knew what he meant. Sometimes, you just don’t feel it. Since going away to Austria, I had been getting by on less than sleep than normal. When my alarm sounded at 6.30am – an hour earlier than on workdays, damn it – I just felt tired, so tired. The thought of driving seven hours to-and-from Brighton didn’t exactly have me brimming with excitement.

“But then you see the lads, share some laughs, take the piss out of each other, touch on the game, make plans for the day, reminisce, you’re soon back at it again…”

While the other three stayed inside, I was on my travels. It was glorious outside. From our fleeting glimpses of Lewes on the last few visits, it looked a lovely and historic town. I made my way over the river to a pub called “The John Harvey” where I was meeting up with my Brighton mate Mac and a few of his pals. A chap from Houston in Texas, Alex – a “Facebook” acquaintance – was on his way too, although he was clearly suffering from the same logistical trauma that we experienced between Munich and Nuremburg because he was originally waiting for me in the Lewes Road Inn in Brighton rather than Lewes, the town.

At around 1pm we all met up and we stood outside in the warm sunshine exchanging stories and laughs.

Alex is from Moscow but has worked in other countries for many years. He told a nice story of when he was working in Ireland in around 1992 and a moment that sparked an interest in Chelsea. He was in a bar, Chelsea were on TV, a live game I think, and he recognised someone he knew. It was Dmitri Kharin, our Russian goalkeeper, who he played football with as a teenager. He still had his ‘phone number and they spoke but I don’t think that the two of them ever met, certainly not at a Chelsea game.

We spoke about our first experiences of live football.

My mother and I with a bag of cherries at my first ever match, a Frome Town game in 1970.

Mac with his father at the old Goldstone Ground in 1966 when he was just five, and him being in awe of the whole event. But also a few years later in 1973, when he happened to be at the Brighton ground when newly arrived manager Brian Clough gathered together around thirty young boys outside the entrance and gave them a talk about how he wanted the team to play and, basically, his vision for the future.

Those memories, those feelings for football, these shared stories. Those emotions that get stirred. The friendships. Being among fellow supporters of the game, those that travel to support their team whenever they can. That shared bond.

Ah, football, you beautiful thing.

You beautiful game.

There was a brief mention of the local stadium, the home of Lewes Football Club, which was recently voted the greatest football ground in Britain. Its name is The Dripping Pan, which warrants a medal by itself. Maybe Frome Town will play there in an FA Trophy game one of these days. It looks a cracking venue.

Rush, rush, rush, I know needed to get my arse down to the Amex where I was meeting up with my mates Paul – Benches 1984 – and Andy – Black Bull 1989 – and Andy’s son before the game to sort out tickets. The weather was still warm, so I was able to drop a pullover and a light jacket in my car. A simple T-shirt would suffice.

Alex and I caught the 2.22pm train to Falmer and were soon waking up to the Amex.

I met up with my pals and there was just enough time for a quick photo outside. I had no time to go through the nonsense of yet another tiresome bag search, so I blindsided my way in past two stewards whose gaze was elsewhere.

It was the textbook move of a devious and cunning “false nine.”

Anyway, I was in.

I soon made my way to my seat, tucked to the right-hand side of the goal this year. I half-expected the surroundings of the Amex to rekindle those sickly feelings of last winter, but I was just glad to be healthy, and rejuvenated after a few “diet Cokes” in the two pubs.

Mac – soon spotted by me in the lower tier of the surprisingly large three-tiered stand to my left – had hoped that there would be no booing of Potter by sections of the home fans. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t. In fact, it’s pretty hard to imagine the Brighton fans booing anyone, Crystal Palace apart. They are a gentle bunch.

The team line-ups were shown on the TV screens at either end of the stadium.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Cucarella

Pulisic – Kovacic – Loftus- Cheek – Sterling

Mount – Gallagher

Havertz

Or something like that.

An Italian flag floated over the heads of those in the home end opposite, marking the arrival of their new manager Roberto de Zerbi.

“Sussex By The Sea” on the PA. Some rainbow-coloured flags were waved on another “Rainbow Laces” day.

“Hey Jude” was aired and we hijacked it once again.

We were dressed in the “muted beige” third kit for the first time and you have to wonder why. Brighton were wearing a jersey with very broad stripes, and it just didn’t look right, with an odd yellow trim. Last year they played in blue shorts. This year they were in white shorts. That lack of an adherence to an established kit would annoy me.

The game began.

And how.

Brighton were breezy. They came at us as if their lives depended on it, and perhaps they did. Thiago Silva miraculously headed away two goal-bound efforts from Leandro Trossard and then the wonderfully named Pervis Estupinan right underneath the cross-bar just a few yards away from us.

A couple of minutes later, they came at us again with Silva being pick-pocketed by Trossard. A neat pass inside by Kaoru Mitoma set up Trossard to round Kepa with some footwork that Fred Astaire would have been pleased with and slot the ball home. This was a real hammer blow. The home fans bellowed as I saw the scorer gurn undeniable pleasure.

Fackinell.

It was all Brighton in that torrid first third of the first-half, and they enjoyed a fair few corners to augment their dominance. From one that was whipped in towards the near post, a Brighton player flicked it the ball on. Ruben Loftus-Cheek’s unfortunate knee-jerk reaction meant that the ball flew past a stranded Kepa.

The home stands were roaring again.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

We had nowhere to hide.

I said to Gary “this could be a rout, this.”

At last, we enjoyed a spell of steadying the ship, with a little more possession. One fine move developed through the middle with Raheem Sterling setting up Conor Gallagher who shot directly at Robert Sanchez. His reaction save allowed the ball to fall for Christian Pulisic. However, he was unable to adjust and his volleyed effort flew past the near post.

The Chelsea support got it together in an effort to rally behind the team.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

But all was not well on the pitch. Marc Cucarella was having a torrid time, and the raids down the Brighton right were leaving him exposed time and time again. I wondered if he was the modern equivalent of Robert Fleck, playing well against us but not so great for us. But where was the cover? He was continually caught ought, but so too was Trevoh Chalobah by Estupinan down the Brighton left. I hadn’t seen our defence run ragged like this for ages.

But the shape seemed to be shapeless. From my far-from-ideal position in row two, it looked like the two appointed wing backs Sterling and Pulisic were never part of our defensive plan. Where were they?

They were so far forward in that opening spell that they might well have been promenading up and down on the Brighton seafront, and just about to dip into the Royal Pavilion. Or maybe having a flutter at the Brighton racecourse. Or re-enacting a few scenes from “Brighton Rock” or “Quadrophenia.” I can just see Pulisic as a bell-boy.

Had they been told to play so forward or were they too lazy to track back? It was a mystery. Answers on the back of a Donald McGill postcard.

Gallagher then glanced a header goal wards but Sanchez saved Brighton again. Then a Kai Havertz effort was tipped around the post.

Brighton hit a post.

Our play wasn’t worthy of the name at times.

“Is Mount playing” I asked Gary.

Just before half-time, we groaned as we witnessed a trademark break down our right with tons of space for Brighton to exploit. I leant forward to get a better view but wished I hadn’t. A low cross from Estupinan was drilled into the box where Chalobah slide to block but could only divert the ball past the hapless Kepa.

Fackinell.

Absolute gloom at the break.

Gary : “I’ll take 3-0 now.”

Indeed, the real worry was of more goals to follow, a cricket-score. Back in the West Country, Frome Town were losing too, 1-3 down at half-time in a derby at Paulton Rovers.

I had spotted that when Kepa sprinted out for a long ball in the first period, he appeared to pull up as if he had sprained something. He did not appear for the second-half, with Edouard Mendy appearing between the sticks at the other end. We moved to a back four with Loftus-Cheek slotting in at right-back. I was reminded of a line from Eric Morecambe.

“We’ve got all the right players. But not necessarily in the right positions.”

Skippy from Brisbane – last seen on these shores at Middlesbrough, but recently in Salzburg – suddenly appeared behind me and I shook his hand.

Not long after I whispered to Gary “get a goal now and we’re back in this”, Gallagher – possibly the best of a poor lot in the first-half – sent over a teasing cross for Havertz to head home powerfully at the far post.

Bosh.

I turned to Skippy : “You’re not going anywhere. You’re a good luck charm.”

Our form definitely improved, with Mount a lot more involved, pushing the team one. A half-chance for Havertz.

Just after the hour, two changes.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for the utterly woeful Sterling.

The newly-introduced striker ran at the Brighton defence and shot low from the outside of the box but the ‘keeper was equal to it. Shots from Chilwell and Mount were easily dealt with. We kept pushing forward, but I was never convinced of any “Cardiff 1984” style comeback. Brighton were happy to defend and catch us on the break.

A Havertz shot was skied in front of us.

In the last ten minutes, two more changes.

Armando Broja for Pulisic.

Hakim Ziyech for Gallagher.

I looked over to my left and spotted my old pal Chopper from Greenwich Village in New York, veteran of many a trip to these shores to see us play. I hadn’t seen him for years.

The minutes clicked past and by now our away end resembled the arse-end of a wedding reception, with seats left empty and guests already on their way home, the best man speech long-forgotten, debris everywhere, people shuffling away with blank stares on their faces.

Up the other end, Mendy made a fine save to thwart Julio Encisco but Pascal Gross was on hand to tuck in the rebound.

Brighton 4 Chelsea 1.

Our ninth game in October had resulted in our first loss, and our first loss under Potter.

One over the eight had been too much for us; one game too many, too many beers at that wedding reception.

We slumped off home.

To complete a miserable afternoon of football, I checked my phone.

Paulton Rovers 3 Frome Town 2.

It was a long old trip home, but a short stop outside Shoreham for some food – “saveloy, chips and curry sauce please” – helped alleviate some of the doom and gloom.

I reached home at about 9.30pm.

Next up, a dead rubber game in the Champions league against Dinamo Zagreb, our position at the top of our group table already determined.

Into November we go.

LEWES

FALMER

Tales From An Unclear Night

Posted on January 25, 2022 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 18 January 2022.

Virtually at the end of the uploading process for the Manchester City blog, I reached an impasse. I had, all of a sudden, and with no hint nor warning, simply run out of storage space. Well, this was no bloody good. This was no bloody good at all. Was that it then? A run of over six-hundred and forty match reports to come to an abrupt end? No, not a chance of it. I quickly stumped up for the next bundle of space available, uploaded the last six photographs and kept on blogging.

This new plan will cost me £15 per month, plus there is an annual registration cost too. But it keeps me occupied, it keeps me focussed. I clearly get a deal of pleasure out of it all. With more photographs being published these days, the number of views has increased exponentially. Yet the number of visitors per year has stayed remarkably similar; at around the 11,000 mark, all of the way through from 2014 to the 2021 apart from the natural dip in numbers in 2020. I like it that even during the long fallow days of summer, there has always been at least one visit per day.

Bugger it, that has tempted fate, eh?

Manchester City on the Saturday was followed by Brighton on the Tuesday evening; another away game, another game to test our players’ resolve and us fans’ sanity.

This was going to be yet another long, long day. I was up at 4.45am in order to work an early 6am to 2pm shift. I drove back to Frome for just after 2.30pm where PD was waiting with Parky and Si for lift-off. It was already a bitterly cold day and I expected the temperature to drop further. For once, I had brought along a bobble hat and gloves. I usually avoid both, even on the coldest of days.

Gloves make the operating of my camera a ridiculous task.

And a bobble hat makes me look like a twat.

I posted on Facebook :

“Brr-brr-brr-Brighton, here we come.”

PD set off and the predicted travel time was around three hours to the little town of Lewes where we would then catch a train to Falmer. As we drove east in our little bubble of warmth, there was chat from Simon about Abu Dhabi. Simon has visited there a few times. He likes it. Both PD and I were to hear that maybe not all of our preconceptions of a frugal way of life on our visit might be correct. Some notions were to be in for a few re-evaluations. This was undoubtedly very reassuring to hear.

PD made as good a time as possible but there was the inevitable traffic as we hit a few blackspots. On the last few miles, a full moon appeared on the horizon, as if rolling along the ridge of the downs to the north of Brighton. At just past 5.30pm, we drove past the stadium. We were parked up at Lewes at around 5.45pm. Outside, the temperature had dropped several degrees. The Lansdowne Arms on the corner appeared to be overflowing with clientele, so we headed back to a boozer – “Fuego Bar” – that we had seen on the slow drive through the town’s narrow streets.

This was a rare treat for me, an away drink. I ordered pints of “Estrella” and we relaxed for an hour.

I soon made my mind up on the walk back to the car to don extra garments; twat or not, I needed that Boca Juniors bobble-cap. The gloves could wait. Just as we entered the train station, Clive – “Sleepy Hollow” – arrived just behind us.

Despite the first train not stopping due to having reached capacity, we dutifully waited an extra ten minutes or so for the next one. We pulled in to Falmer at around 7.30pm. There was an almighty scramble at the away gate and there was no time for stewards to bother with anything as frivolous as proof of COVID19 vaccination.

As with the last visit, on New Year’s Day 2020, I was tucked into one of the front rows behind the goal. In that game, our early goal was undone by an outrageous overhead kick which came from a late corner. For all of their nibbles against us, we are yet to lose to Brighton & Hove Albion in the league.

Before I knew it, the teams appeared to our left. Chelsea in yellow / black / yellow once again.

Our team, as follows :

Kepa

Dave – Thiago – Rudi – Marcos

Mase – Jorgi – Kova – Hakim

Romelu – Callum

I was to later learn that this was a 4-2-2-2 but I was oblivious at the time.

As is always the case, we attacked the other end in the first-half.

There was a rather slow start to the game, with only their diminutive winger Tariq Lamptey really catching the eye. On several occasions, he danced away from his marker and I wondered how we could cope with his pace. Brighton would not let us settle. Out players, seemingly still suffering from the City game, and the build-up of other games too, appeared lethargic, and altogether unable to free themselves of the home team’s attentions.

A delicate touch from Danny Welbeck set up Jakub Moder and I thought “goal” but the Polish player screwed it wide.

Phew.

At last there was the hint of richer pastures when Lukaku set up a shot for Azpilicueta that Sanchez was able to save.

Brighton’s front three just seemed a lot more agile and energised than our counterparts.

The Chelsea crowd were relatively subdued after the opening salvos were fired.

“You can stuff your fuckin’ seagulls up yer arse.”

I spotted one little passage of play that got me purring in remembrance of another coastal city whose home team play in blue and white stripes. The ball was in our half, ten yards inside the touchline with space suddenly opening up ahead. Yet unlike in Porto in May, there was no Mason Mount to spot the run of Timo Werner, and of course there was no Timo Werner. In fact there was nobody at all. And there was simply nobody ready to exploit all of that lovely space.

I muttered an oath to myself.

The home terraces bellowed :

“Champions of Europe. You’re ‘avin a laugh.”

Just before the half-hour mark, in the far corner, Kante set up Ziyech.

I yelled out :

“Hit the fucking thing.”

With hardly any backswing, he let fly and the ball, to all of our surprise, flew into the goal at the near post.

Fackinell.

Watching through the netting of the near goal, the celebrations certainly looked rather muted.

“What’s up hon?”

Anyway, bollocks to that, we were celebrating wildly.

GET IN.

Another assist for me.

This goal didn’t fool anyone though. This had been rather poor fare. The one exception, as always, was the indomitable Kante. However, after being left stranded on the ball on more than one occasion, with no players showing, Alan was moved to comment “Robinson Crusoe’s got more mates.”

At the break, time for a little wander and some photos. Nice to see Andy, a Chelsea fan from Brighton, who I used to hang around with in The Black Bull in 1988/89. I think the last time I saw him was the Villa Park semi-final in 1996.

Soon, very soon, into the second-half Welbeck really should have done a lot better after being slotted in at an angle, but his shot was forever sliced wide. Towards the hour, we were playing some soporific stuff and the home team grew stronger still. A flowing move down their left then set up Mac Allister but his shot was deflected. However, Kepa readjusted ever so well to parry past the post.

“Albion, Albion.”

From the corner, Mac Allister struck a firm cross in and Adam Webster – “after you Claude” – headed the ball powerfully past what seemed like the entire Chelsea defence.”

Fackinell.

Dear reader, I will be honest. My feet were freezing. My face was freezing. I knew that I was in for a long wait to get back onto a train, any train, for Lewes, and I knew that I would not be home until late, very late. I was so disenchanted with our lacklustre performance that even after realising that only sixty-five minutes had elapsed, I just wanted the game to end. And I can honestly say that I have never ever felt that at a game, with such a long time still to go, ever before. I am not proud to admit that. Of course I am not.

The night grew colder.

“Ice cold in Amex.”

I just wanted to go home.

The sky was clear but this was a very unclear night in West Sussex. Nothing really made sense. Most of our players had been woeful; maybe apart for King Kante, Kepa the ‘keeper and the high-spirited Dave, who at least looked like he cared.

Why were the three substitutions so late? Not a clue.

Havertz for Lukaku.

Kovacic for Jorginho.

Werner for Hudson-Odoi.

There were boos as Lukaku was replaced. He had done nothing, his body language poor, but his service had been worse.

We did have a little sting in our tail with Werner looking half-decent, but by then I just wanted out. A horrific finish by Kovacoc, blazed way over, summed it all up.

Not good enough, Chelsea.

We hung around a little in the concourse to let the crowds subside a little. In the toilets, Chelsea were mouthing off at Chelsea. It was all rather churlish and childish.

“It’s the tactics” grunted one chap.

“I like the green ones” replied Parky and a tense moment was rendered obsolete as folk laughed.

We waited. One last drink for a few. At Falmer station, thankfully some stewards quickly spotted Parky’s stick and PD’s limp; we were escorted quickly to the platform ahead of the others, thus probably saving us an extra forty-five-minute wait.

We returned to Lewes at 10.45pm, but were then soon hit with extra delays on the A27. We were forced back north through rural West Sussex and as I tried to sleep with my head against the car window, PD eventually drove home via the M23, the M25, the M3 and the A303. I eventually got to sleep on my sofa at 2.45am; I couldn’t even be arsed to go upstairs.

04.45am to 02.45am.

I had had my fill.

Sadly, I must have picked up a bug somewhere on that night out in Brighton. For a few days, I was unable to do anything much. And It meant that I was just unable to attend the Tottenham home game.

The Game.