Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.
This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.
Thus far, four games and four wins.
Players.
The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.
There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.
But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.
There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.
We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.
But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.
Managers.
The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.
At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.
Modern Football – Part One.
My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.
The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.
Modern Football – Part Two.
I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.
Modern Football – Part Three.
Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.
If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.
Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.
At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.
“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.
There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.
It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.
I was in at 7.45pm.
Teams.
Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella
Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez
Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho
Tyique George
Kick-Off.
Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.
“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.
Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.
Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.
The First-Half.
From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.
I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.
The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.
There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.
After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.
On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.
Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.
I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.
GET IN.
And then my night got worse.
“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.
My heart sank.
I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.
Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.
I hate modern football.
The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?
It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.
On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.
Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.
Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.
The Second-Half.
The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.
Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.
On the hour, two more substitutions.
Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.
Joao Pedro for George.
This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.
He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.
“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”
“OI OI OI.”
It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.
I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.
If only, eh?
If fucking only.
After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.
We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.
On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.
Reece James for Gusto.
Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.
Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.
We howled.
It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.
Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.
In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.
For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.
At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.
It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,
Let’s Go Home.
It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.
We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.
Our third match of this new season was to see us play Fulham at home. Our nearest neighbours – I can hardly give them the honour of labelling them as rivals – had beaten us 2-1 on Boxing Day at Stamford Bridge last season and so we all hoped for no repeat. That defeat started a run of poor form from us, but ironically the win by the same score at Craven Cottage in April initiated a fine revival.
With the kick-off for this game taking place at 12.30pm, there was no time to lose. I collected PD at 7am and Parky at 7.30am. We called in at the “McDonalds” at Melksham and we breakfasted “on the hoof” to waste as little time as possible. There were grey skies on the way up to London, but the clouds cleared over the last part of the familiar journey. After driving down onto the Fulham Palace Road, I dropped the lads off at 9.45am at the very southern edge of the King’s Road, and I was parked up on Charleville Road to the north ten minutes later.
For twenty minutes I had driven right through the heart of Fulham, and I mused that the neatly-appointed terraced houses that have undergone a metamorphosis from pre-WW2 working class homes to the dwellings of the “well-to-do” formed an ironic backdrop to the lunchtime game, in a sport that has undergone its own gentrification over the past three decades.
Of course, Fulham is part of the larger borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, and within its boundaries there is another professional football club; Queens Park Rangers. We last played them in the league over ten years ago. What happened to them? Actually, who cares? I never liked them, and I dislike them much more than jolly old Fulham.
On the drive up to London, I was able to update the two lads about the fine form of my local team Frome Town.
On Bank Holiday Monday, I assembled with a few good friends, and the might of Frome’s travelling away army, as we travelled the eight miles over the county boundary into Wiltshire for the away game at Westbury United. In a scenario that strangely mirrors the situation in West London, there is a rather placid rivalry between Frome Town and Westbury United, whereas Frome’s most heated local rivalry is with Melksham Town, further away to the north.
Frome and Westbury have not met too often in recent league seasons, whereas Frome and Melksham have enjoyed many tussles over the years. The Melksham fixture has become a real “grudge match” of late, whereas with Westbury it seems a lot friendlier. To illustrate this point, when Westbury United were met with huge financial problems last season, it was Frome who allowed them to play a few home games at Badgers Hill.
A crowd of 842 assembled at Meadow Lane – now Platinum Hyundai Park – for the game on the Monday. It’s a pleasant little ground at Westbury, the green paintwork of the stands mirrors the all-green of their kit, and the pitch is surrounded on three sides by trees, leaving enough space for the white horse carved into the steep slope of Salisbury Plain to be seen in one corner. Like many non-league grounds, there is a perfect ambience.
Before the game, my Chelsea mate Mark who lives near the ground was able to pose for a photo in the main stand – two rows of seats – alongside Glenn and Ron, who were at their third Frome Town matches of the season. Mark and I go back a long way. He was with Glenn, PD and I on the drive to Stamford Bridge for the monumental game with Leeds United in April 1984.
On a bumpy pitch, and with a troublesome wind blowing, the first half began poorly. However, on thirty minutes a fine cross into the box was met with a leap from Archie Ferris who nodded down for new striker David Duru to slam home. It became an increasingly feisty affair, and the quality only improved slightly, but the away team held on to an important 1-0 win.
Thus far, Frome Town have won all their games this season; three in the league, one in the FA Cup, one in the FA Trophy.
After the Chelsea vs. Fulham game, whatever the score, my attention would be centered on a tough away game at Plymouth Parkway in the next round of the FA Cup that would be kicking off at 3pm.
I caught the train at West Ken, changed at Earl’s Court – bumping into three mates who were headed the opposite direction, “The Clarence” on the North End Road – and reached Putney Bridge at 10.30am. Our cosy corner of the pub just had enough space for one more. I squeezed in alongside the usual crew.
A big shout out here to my mate Ian, who I have only really got to know these past two years, but who was celebrating the fiftieth anniversary, to the actual day, if not the actual time, of his first-ever Chelsea match. His “first time” was an away fixture at Kenilworth Road in the old Second Division on Saturday 30 August 1975. The match unfortunately ended up 3-0 to Luton Town. The team that day was a real mixture of old and new, with 1970 stalwarts John Dempsey, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke alongside Ray Wilkins, Ian Britton, Teddy Maybank, John Sparrow and Brian Bason. The gate was a decent 18,565.
Ian’s non-league team Brackley Town, who were in the same division as Frome Town in 2011/12, would be featured on TV later in the day with their National League home game against Scunthorpe United being shown live.
It was super to meet up with Deano once again. Since we last spoke, he had visited Chile and Argentina with his dear wife Linda, and he regaled me with some lovely stories, although the time that a puma jumped up on top of his camper van during a night in Patagonia scared me to death.
I spotted an old photo of “The Eight Bells” and I include it for interest.
Our favourite Fulham pub dates from 1629. From 1886 to 1888, Fulham Football Club used it as their changing rooms when they played at nearby Raneleigh Gardens. Unlike Chelsea, Fulham have had many previous grounds, just like QPR, and flitted around this area, on both sides of the Thames for many years before finding a permanent home at Craven Cottage. It would have been all so different if Gus Mears had successfully tempted Fulham Football Club to play at Stamford Bridge at the turn of the twentieth century, eh?
Still wary of malfunctioning digital season tickets, I left the pub before the others at 11.30am. There was a gaggle of Fulham lads on the northbound platform and no doubt a lot of their match-going fans would have been drinking in the pubs in the immediate area of “The Eight Bells.”
There was no queue at the turnstiles, and no issues with my ‘phone, and I was in.
It was 11.50am.
On Thursday we had heard about the teams that we would be playing in the Champions League first phase, that long and laborious process that will stretch out from 17 September to 28 January. I have a few things to say about all this.
Firstly, I don’t like the fact that UEFA have tagged two extra games into this phase. An away game in Europe is no laughing matter for the many supporters that try to attend as many games as possible. Isn’t that the point of being a supporter? As a result of this, I am absolutely toying with the option of missing one of the four home games as a single game protest that won’t mean a jot to anyone else but will mean a lot to me.
Secondly, I am fearful of how much the home games will cost. Will the prime Barcelona game be priced at a different level to the other three, most noticeably Pafos? Or will all of these come in at the same mark? If so, how much? I am guessing £60 for my seat. Ouch. That’s £240 for those four games. Double ouch.
Thirdly, due to my attendance at four games in the US in June and July, I only have six days leave left until the end of March. Ouch again. With of this this in mind, I will try to get to one European away match, but surely no more. Domestically, I have a fruity little trip to Lincoln City – can’t wait – to plan out, plus there is the problem of the away game at Elland Road on a Wednesday in December, which will surely need paying attention to.
Munich is out. It’s too early. Plus, there is a part of me that wants to keep that 2012 memory pure, and unaltered. I might never visit Munich again for this reason. Atalanta is an option as it is the only stadium, and city – Bergamo – that I have not visited. Napoli is an exhilarating place, its team now managed by Antonio Conte, and during any other year, I would be tempted even though I visited it in 2012. And then there is dear old Baku. I have visited it three times already; in 2017 and 2019 with Chelsea, and last December on my return hop from Almaty. I would dearly love to return, but there is the huge problem of the time it takes to get to and from Azerbaijan.
All I can say is that is a lovely problem to have and watch this space.
Incidentally, isn’t it odd that we have been paired with four teams from the 2011/12 campaign?
Napoli, Benfica, Barcelona, Bayern.
Inside Stamford Bridge, all was quiet. Not much was happening. Everything was quiet. My focus, again, because of the proximity, was on the ridiculous line of “Dugout Club” spectators who were watching the players go through their pre-match shuttles pitch side.
At 12.20pm, a trio of pre-match songs that are meant to get us in the mood.
“Our House.”
“Parklife.”
“Liquidator.”
Enzo Maresca had chosen the same eleven that started at Stratford.
Willian and Pedro on the wings? Well, it worked in 2016/17.
“Blue Is The Colour” boomed out and now we joined in.
Beautiful.
As the teams appeared, fireworks were set off from the top of The Shed roof once again, and I wasn’t sure if I really, deep-down, liked this or not. It seems to have taken over from flames in front of the East Stand anyway.
Modern football.
Flash, bang, wallop.
Fulham have gone for an all-white kit this season and I wonder what their traditionalists think about it. On this occasion, they wore black socks.
With Clive and PD alongside me, the game began.
We were treated to an early flurry of chances; a Joao Pedro roller, a Liam Delap shot that was blocked, a well-worked Fulham move that ended with a shot just wide.
Fulham : “is this a library?”
Chelsea : “there’s only one team in Fulham.”
Alas, Delap went down with what looked like a strain as he chased a long ball, and after some treatment was substituted by the youngster Tyrique George, he of the equaliser at Craven Cottage in April. Without the physical presence of the robust Delap, we looked a lot weaker up front. I have never been convinced with George leading the line.
There were two shots on goal from Fulham, who were looking the livelier now.
On twenty minutes, a spin away from trouble by Rodrigo Muniz, and the ball was played forward to Joshua King. I immediately presumed that King was offside, as did one or two others. However, play continued. King turned Tosin easily and fired the visitors from down the road ahead.
Ah, bollocks.
I hoped and prayed that VAR would chalk out the goal for offside. Firstly, there was nothing, but after a considerable wait, VAR was called into action, but for a foul and not for offside. Colour me confused.
Then another wait. Eventually, the referee Rob Jones walked over to the pitch side monitor and gazed at it for yet more minutes. The decision was no goal because of a foul.
What foul? We never saw a foul.
Anyway, I didn’t cheer the decision and on with the game.
This “get out of jail” moment resulted in the loudest moment thus far as a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.
However, PD was unimpressed.
“We are awful.”
We toiled away but didn’t create much at all. There was a lovely, cushioned flick from Estevao that set up the overlapping Malo Gusto but his cross was easily claimed by Bernd Leno.
Fulham then retaliated, and Robert Sanchez blocked, but offside anyway.
“Neto is quiet, eh?”
On thirty-seven minutes, a passage of play summed it all up. Enzo Fernandez tried his best to plod away from his marker, but took an extra touch and lost possession, and then Moises Caicedo invited a booking with a silly and lazy challenge.
Oh dear.
When Tosin ventured forward for set pieces, the Fulham fans sang a very derogatory song about him.
“He’s a wanker you know, Tosin Adarabioyo.”
I was at least impressed that they knew how to pronounce his surname; a feat that is still too difficult for us Chelsea fans.
On forty-two minutes, at last a jinking run from Neto out on the left that forced a corner. From that, a header over.
Just after, I moaned about Estevao coming inside when he had so much space behind the last defender. With that – he must have heard me – he set off on a jinking run down the right and into all that beautiful space, but it came to nothing.
This was all so disjointed.
With the VAR delay, there were eight minutes of extra time signalled.
Deep into this stoppage time, there was a run of corners. Shots were blocked, pinball in the six-yard area. Then, one final corner from the boot of Enzo in front of the baying Cottagers. A perfect delivery, and a perfect leap from Joao Pedro. His header was clean, and unchallenged.
We were up 1-0.
Phew.
At the break, we reflected on a poor game of football thus far.
Thankfully, there was a tad more energy and vigour in the way we began the second period. On fifty-four minutes, with me trying to get a worthwhile shot using my pub camera, I spotted a Trevoh Chalobah shot / cross hitting the arm of a Fulham defender, and I immediately thought “handball”, before snapping the resulting shot from Caicedo on film. There was an appeal from Enzo, nearest to the referee, but I saw the man in black gesture that the ball had hit his shoulder. I wasn’t so bloody sure.
After what seemed an age, VAR was called into action, and then more staring at the pitch-side monitor from Rob Jones. After – what? – three minutes maybe, the mic’d up referee began babbling to the crowd but it wasn’t too clear. I then I heard him utter the phrase “unnatural position” and I knew our luck was in.
Penalty.
I whispered to Clive.
“Unnatural position? Is that the same as Parky going to the bar?”
Enzo made up for his wavering display by striking the ball right down the middle, right down Broadway, right down Fulham Broadway, right down Walham Green.
We were now 2-0 up.
Another phew.
There were glimpses from Estevao of potential greatness. There was a fantastic wiggle, but his effort went just wide.
“Champions of the World” sang the Chelsea faithful, and I toyed with notion of us being top, but I soon decided against a “Catch Us If You Can” update on “Facebook.”
I looked over at the Fulham fans.
They derided us with a “WWYWYWS” chant, and Clive and I just laughed.
“Villa Park.”
“Exactly.”
No more needs to be said. They couldn’t even send 20,000 to Birmingham in their biggest game for decades and decades.
I looked above The Shed, saw the “World Champions” banner and mused that they aren’t even champions of their own postcode.
On the hour, Joao Pedro came close with three efforts. He was sent through, one on one with Leno, but missed out. Then came a shot that was blocked. Then a fantastic cross from Neto down below us that picked him out, but the ball as just out of reach, which I just about caught on film.
On sixty-eight minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao.
“I’ve seen enough. He’s going to be good.”
Gittens looked neat in his cameo down below me.
On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution.
Andrey Santos for George, who had been quiet.
Reece James for Pedro Neto, who had improved in the second half.
With that, PD and Clive substituted themselves and left too.
On eighty-five minutes, a Joao Pedro volley but a fine Leno save. Our striker was everywhere inside the box in that second period; my man of the match, I think.
I am sad to report that the atmosphere was so mild, though.
Sigh.
There was a great cross from the Fulham substitute Adama Triore from the right that went unpunished, a free header missing the target.
A shot from distance from Reece James.
Another eight minutes of injury time was met with groans.
“Groans from even the Fulham fans I think.”
I just wanted to get on my way home.
There was a little late drama. Another cross from Traore was just a touch too deep, and then the resultant corner allowed a header that was hacked off the line by none other than Joao Pedro.
Definitely man of the match.
At the end of the game, at around 2.30pm, yet more bloody fireworks flew into the air from the top of The Shed.
Good grief.
The chap in front commented “that’s a bit much, innit?”
“Yeah, it’s only Fulham.”
Postscript :
On the drive home, I was elated to hear that Frome Town had beaten Plymouth Parkway 4-0 in the First Qualifying Round of the FA Cup. This was a fine away win against a team one step above in the football pyramid.
Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.
We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.
We were in Wroclaw.
I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.
Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?
“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”
Parky immediately chimed in.
“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”
Howls of laughter followed.
Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?
Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.
Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?
It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.
Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.
We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.
Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.
We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.
On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.
On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.
I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.
We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.
With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.
We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.
After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.
In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.
We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.
The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.
Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.
Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.
You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.
Enough of these history lessons.
On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.
Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.
For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.
I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.
RIP Stephen Rouse.
The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.
Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.
The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.
Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.
Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.
We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.
Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.
When in Rome.
Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.
At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.
At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.
At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.
Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.
PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.
Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.
My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.
I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.
I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.
The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.
We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.
It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.
Fackinell.
Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.
I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.
The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.
“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”
To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.
We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.
At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.
At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.
That made me laugh. What a small world.
We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.
Michelle led the way, and we followed on.
It was her finest hour.
We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.
I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.
If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?
At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.
At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.
Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?
Everyone wins. Everyone wins!
I hate modern football.
But here we all were.
Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.
Why were we here?
To see us win it all. Again.
Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.
Result.
I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.
The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.
Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.
Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.
The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.
Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.
Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.
I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.
I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.
The minutes ticked by.
There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.
The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.
Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.
I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.
“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.
Fantastic.
The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.
It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.
It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.
It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.
The desire was seemingly with them, not us.
Sigh.
Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.
The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.
“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”
“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”
On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.
At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.
Time to check the team again.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.
Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?
Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?
Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.
I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.
At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.
I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.
On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.
Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.
They were together at West Ham United.
The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.
Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.
The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.
Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.
Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.
We looked poor.
There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.
Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.
But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.
Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.
Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.
On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.
The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.
Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?
Oh boy.
At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.
It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.
On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.
Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.
On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.
From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.
We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.
On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
No complaints from me.
We pushed on.
On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.
We were level.
GET IN.
Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.
Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.
On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –
“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”
He didn’t let me down.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.
We erupted again.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.
We were ahead.
Fackinell.
Our end boomed now.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The World has ever seen.”
Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.
Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.
“Get up, you fool.”
On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.
Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.
In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.
And we were 3-1 up.
More beautiful noise.
The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :
“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”
Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.
With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.
Lovely.
There was still more to come.
With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.
Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.
What a feeling.
Phew.
We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.
At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.
“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”
The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.
At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.
I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.
Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.
I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.
And what a night.
We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.
If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.
Europe really is our playground.
And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.
We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.
PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.
In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.
And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.
Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…
I will see some of you in Philadelphia.
Phackinell.
REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL
Our final league game of this typically odd Chelsea league campaign was to take place beside the River Trent against Nottingham Forest. This game represented a couple of milestones for me. This would be another 38/38 league season, my third-in-a-row (I haven’t completed too many, I always seem to miss one or two games), but also Chelsea game number one thousand five hundred. It honestly doesn’t seem that long ago that we travelled up to Burnley for the first game of 2014/15 for my one-thousandth.
I suspect that my mindset for this game was quite different to most. Yes, we were in with a very decent chance to secure a UEFA Champions League spot for 2025/26, but if I am perfectly honest, I do not think that my mind was as besieged with a “do or die” mentality like many of our supporters.
At the start of the season, before a ball was kicked in anger, my prediction for us under a relatively untested new manager was to finish between sixth and eighth. That view did not really waver too much as games were played. We all know how the quality of this year’s Premier League – God, how I dislike the term “Prem” – has not been great, and so as our rocky league campaign stalled in the New Year – God, those back-to-back Brighton games – at least I thought that we might be able to sneak into a European place, as a result of other’s failings as well as our own.
We then hit some form, reached the UEFA Conference League Final, and a Europa League place next season seemed attainable via whatever means.
Going into our last game against Manchester United, I remember thinking that the Europa League is maybe our level for next season; maybe we are not quite ready for a full Champions League campaign,
We are, we must be reminded, a young team, finding its feet,
So, of course I wanted us to win at the City Ground in the way that I want us to always win as many games as we can, but I was not about to fling myself off Trent Bridge should we be pipped by Forest, or Newcastle, or Villa, to a Champions League place.
In the words of the song, whatever will be will be.
At this stage of my life and my Chelsea life, European campaigns are increasingly more about new cities, new teams, new grounds, new experiences, rather than total global domination.
It’s all about the journey, right?
That’s what I keep telling myself in quiet reflective moments, but then Chelsea Football Club comes along and buggers things up by habitually reaching finals and we then become trophy-hunting savages.
Wink.
I left work on Friday, and a lovely football-fuelled break was ahead of me, a tantalising notion. The game in Nottingham would be immediately followed by a trip to Wroclaw.
This is the, Chelsea, life.
However, the game would not be taking place in Nottingham at all.
My friend Craig – Stoke, 1984/85 and all that – who is an ardent supporter of Notts County always likes to mention that Notts County are the true team of the city since they play in Nottingham, yet Nottingham Forest, who ironically play at the City Ground, only play in West Bridgford, but in the county of Nottingham.
Confused, me owd duck?
I had collected PD at 9am. However, he managed to quickly get himself in a pickle when he ordered me to quickly return to his house as he had forgotten his Polish currency.
“Poland is tomorrow mate.”
I collected Parky at 9.30am and I drove due north, via the beautiful and scenic Fosse Way, bypassing Coventry and Leicester, then north for a few more miles. Ironically, this was the first time that I had driven on the A46 – still the Fosse Way – this far north since game number seven hundred against Hull City in October 2008.
The plan was to avoid Nottingham city centre and the noisy pubs around the ground and have a few drinks in a country pub somewhere.
Thankfully, at about 1pm, we pulled up outside “The Plough” in the quaintly named Normanton-On-The-Wolds. I am never sure of the origin of the term “wolds” but for a few minutes shy of two hours we were on one of them, and it was a very pleasant experience.
Four pints of “Cruzcampo” for the drinkers, three “Diet Cokes” for the driver.
I was parked up on Radcliffe Road at 3.10pm, and by 3.30pm I had smuggled my SLR into the away enclosure and had made by way to the fifth row alongside my usual awayday companions Gary, John and Alan. Annoyingly I had left my sunglasses in the car, a similar story to last year. I hope the sun overhead would soon disappear behind some clouds.
The team were going through their drills in front of us.
One wag behind me yelled out “smile, you should be enjoying this, you’re on a hundred grand a week.”
I had a look around. There were two new structures in the opposing corners; a Craven Cottage style rack of executive boxes to the right of the Trent End, and what looked like a TV studio perched high to the left.
Dotted around the ground was the “Forest” logo with the two European Cup stars. I think I have mentioned before about how the “FOReST” logo looks a little odd, and it garnered a little discussion on the internet recently. Somebody suggested that the lower case “e” flowed better with the curve of the “R”, but there was a further commend that had me chuckling.
“It’s the san serif of Nottingham.”
Kick-off approached and the sun played hide-and-seek. I was low down, and I prepared to be frustrated that I would not be able to take too many decent photos apart from the area on the pitch close by.
“Mull Of Kintyre” boomed out with the words changed to echo the spirit of 1977/78.
Then, the Trent End lit up with a full mosaic.
“TAKE US ON A TRIP”.
A crowd-surfing minibus began its movement “To Europe” just before the game kicked-off but then ran out of steam and collapsed on peoples’ heads as the game began.
A metaphor for the game? I hoped so.
It was a lively, physical and energetic start to the match The home team were not afraid to venture forward, and they were roared on by their red-clad supporters. Chelsea enjoyed a few counterattacks. There was a fine advance by Enzo Fernandez down the right using the dummy run of Noni Madueke to exploit space, but his cross way out to the right flank was not only an odd pass but was hopelessly overhit. If it had hit its intended target, I would have realised that Jadon Sancho was playing. It took me a quarter of an hour to realise it.
Our team?
Sanchez
James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Neto
Pedro Neto, the winger turned false-nine-figurehead kept finding himself out wide but wasted a couple of decent chances to ping over a decent cross.
After eighteen minutes, Marc Cucurella had already headed three dangerous crosses away. He covers space so well. There was a constant aerial threat from Forest, and Tosin Adarabioyo began heading away crosses, and blocking, and tackling.
Elsewhere, goals were not forthcoming.
Aston Villa 0 Manchester United 0
Newcastle United 0 Everton 0.
Our songs had quietened down and so a loud “Carefree” was met with derision and disdain from the noisy locals to our right.
We attacked when we could, and we seemed to own possession for much of the second half of the first period. We moved the ball rather slowly, and Cole Palmer often dropped very deep.
“I just can’t see us scoring, Gary.”
On the half-hour, a decent move found Noni Madueke, who passed to Palmer. His cross found Neto, close-in, but his effort flew over the bar.
I sensed that the home crowd – red hot last year – were not quite so intense and loud this year. I think the nerves were getting to them.
On forty-two minutes, a great cross from them and Chris Wood really should have hit the target. His effort flew over, in much the same way that had happened with the Neto effort. Both efforts came off shins.
The locals yelled “Come on you reds” and the place heated up again.
I noted how Tosin was in the right place to clear so many times. His battle with Wood was an attraction all by itself.
At the break, the home team were cheered off the pitch.
I just wondered where on Earth a goal would come from.
There was a second huddle of the day from Chelsea, and another rendition of “Mull Of Kintyre”. I was if both teams wanted to reset and go again.
The Chelsea team attacked us in the Bridgford Stand. On fifty minutes, a Chelsea move resulted in the ball being headed around the box. Neco Williams meekly headed the ball to Neto who, simply playing percentage football, pushed the ball across the six-yard box, the ‘keeper stranded. I did not see whose leg prodded the ball in, but I saw the net bulge, and I saw everyone explode.
Limbs.
I punched the air continually. I knew I would not be able to take any shots of the scorer celebrating. Instead, I looked ahead and saw the wide grin from Palmer as he trotted towards us. A photo of him would have been a nice and cool comparison to the noise and madness happening all around me.
But the limbs were still getting in the way.
Drat.
As against Manchester United, Palmer’s celebration was to flip up a spare ball and welly it into the sky.
Bosh.
“Who scored?”
“Colwill.”
In a moment of quiet :
Alan, two seats away : “THTCAUN.”
Charles, in Texas : “THTCAUN.”
Ben, in Massachusetts : “THTCAUN.”
Garret, in Tennessee : “THTCAUN.”
Rick, in Iowa : “THTCAUN.”
Me, in Nottinghamshire : “COMLD.”
This single goal pushed Chelsea above Newcastle United into fourth place.
Fackinell.
All around me was noise and happiness.
But could we hang on?
On fifty-seven minutes, Wood was close-in on Sanchez again, but his effort was blasted over. The offside flag had been raised anyway.
A loud guttural roar from us.
“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.
SUPER CHELSEA FC.
WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM.
THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”
Some substitutions.
Romeo Lavia for Sancho, a poor game from him.
An update :
Newcastle United 0 Everton 1.
We were now three points up on the Geordies, the team we lost against just a fortnight ago.
It was happening.
The play continued.
I said to Gary :
“Forest are currently seventh. It’s going to be a scramble to get back to my car tonight.”
Thankfully those days are over.
An update :
Manchester United 1 Aston Villa 0.
It was happening, Villa were out of the equation now surely.
Malo Gusto replaced Neto, who had put in a fine shift.
Forest attacked sporadically, but the defence – and that man Tosin – was exceptional.
There was a shout of “Celery” in the crowd in the corner section, and I wondered what was happening? In days of old, this was usually prompted by the sighting of an attractive girl or woman, please don’t judge us.
Well, lo and behold, Bonnie Blue (who? her?) was indeed sighted and it just about summed up the craziness of the day. From what I could remember, this woman had been banned from the City Ground. How she managed to get a ticket in our away end, God – or maybe Todd – only knows.
She was wearing the new Chelsea shirt too.
Perhaps, she should have gone with the current shirt; the design is more appropriate, cough, cough.
The ball was booted clear and ended up behind me. Gary – a kleptomaniac – reached down and would eventually hide it away in his rolled-up jacket.
I then looked up and found out that Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was on the pitch, replacing Madueke.
An update :
Manchester United 2 Aston Villa 0.
A Forest corner at the Trent End resulted in a series of mad blocks from our resolute defenders. Sanchez eventually fell on the ball, and we breathed a sigh of relief.
I found it funny that the home fans were not happy with the referee Anthony Taylor, in much the same way that we are not too enamoured.
“Anthony Taylor. It’s all about you.”
On ninety-three minutes, the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sels trotted up field and launched a fantastic ball towards Wood. Thankfully, the striker missed the target, the ball flying high into the stand.
Fackinell.
In truth, an equaliser for Forest would not have hindered our progress into next season’s Champions League.
After eight and then nine minutes of injury time, the referee blew.
We were in our happy place once again.
Back in Europe.
Back in the Champions League.
Back at the top table.
What a mad, noisy, funny, crazy – but perfect – day.
There was time for a few hugs and handshakes in the concourse and outside. My good mate Callum approached me.
“Never been a big fan of the manager, but he has done it, he has to stay.”
“Yeah, would be churlish to want him out.”
A last photo of the season, and then a slow walk back to the car.
It was a bloody magnificent drive home, through the shires of England, as the sun set to our right, above The Cotswolds.
I reached home at 10.15pm.
It had been a great day.
I will see many of you in Wroclaw.
1,500
Game 1 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United – 16/3/74
Game 100 : Chelsea vs. West Ham United – 23/3/87
Game 200 : Coventry City vs. Chelsea – 4/2/95
Game 300 : Chelsea vs. Real Betis – 5/3/98
Game 400 : Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough – 31/3/01
Game 500 – Chelsea vs. Real Zaragoza – 8/8/04
Game 600 – Chelsea vs. Levski Sofia – 5/12/06
Game 700 – Hull City vs. Chelsea – 29/10/08
Game 800 – Manchester City vs. Chelsea – 25/9/10
Game 900 – Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea – 19/8/12
Game 1,000 – Burnley vs. Chelsea – 19/8/14
Game 1,100 – Chelsea vs. West Ham United – 15/8/16
Game 1,200 – Perth Glory vs. Chelsea – 23/7/18
Game 1,300 – Chelsea vs. Villareal – 11/8/21
Game 1,400 – Chelsea vs. Newcastle United – 28/5/23
Game 1,500 – Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea – 25/5/25
Our third match in this season’s UEFA Europa Conference would be a home game against Armenian side Noah. Ever since the draw took place a couple of months ago, I had been flinching at all of the puny puns emanating from everyone concerning the team’s name, but I also knew that it would be remarkable should I not join in at some stage.
I stumbled across a reference that my good friend Alan might appreciate. The day before the game, late on, I messaged him about the imminent game.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark.”
He replied with an emoji of a wide grin.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark” is a Cocteau Twins song from their “Lullabies” EP from October 1982.
You all knew that, right?
On the day of the match, the Thursday, I worked an early shift, finishing at 2pm, and my thoughts centred on Noah being, quite possibly, the worst team that the full Chelsea side might ever play. The 21-0 aggregate score line against Jeunesse Hautcharage in the ECWC in 1971 drifted into my mind a few times too. The scores were 8-0 away and then 13-0 at home and I wondered about comparisons. One of that Luxembourg team wore glasses apparently although there is no truth in the urban myth that one of his team mates only had one arm.
Just as I left the office, I could not resist. I turned to my work colleague Stu and said that Noah’s formation later in the day would be 2-2-2-2-2 and I heard a hollow laugh inside me.
Fackinell.
I collected PD and Parky and we were away.
A couple of days before the game, however, there had been a double strike of sad news.
On the Tuesday, we all heard that Doreen Bruce had passed away. I first met Doreen, a proud wee Scot, out in Kiev in 2019, and our paths crossed on many occasions over the recent past. Doreen was big friends with Aroha and Luke, and they were always seen together. I remember spending some time with Doreen in that square in Porto ahead of the CL Final in 2021. She loved Chelsea and she loved Scotland just as much. I always enjoyed seeing her patriotic posts from Hampden Park and elsewhere. She was a real character, full of bubby energy, and will certainly be missed.
RIP Doreen.
On the Wednesday, we learned that John Dempsey passed away at the age of seventy-eight. He was an old stalwart from our early ‘seventies golden era, was one of Chopper’s “assassins” and was a respected defender. I saw John play in three of the first five Chelsea games that I ever attended, in 1974 and 1975. I remember him winding up some Arsenal fans at half-time in a game at Stamford Bridge a few years back. I also remember him playing alongside Peter Osgood at Philadelphia Fury in the late ‘seventies. I believe he worked for many years with underprivileged children.
RIP John.
The drive up to London was uneventful. While I waited for a pizza at “Koka” on the North End Road, I smiled when I heard “Kiss Of Life” by Sade being played. From Rio de Janeiro in July, to West Ham away in September, to the North End Road in November, this singer is haunting me this season.
I trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Luke, Alex from Houston – again – and also my mate Leggo from Bedford, but also from The Benches in 1984.
Ah, 1984.
Just a very quick mention of our next game in that 1984/85 season. On Tuesday 6 November 1984, Chelsea beat Walsall 3-0 in a League Cup Third Round Replay in front of a pretty reasonable 19,502. Keith Jones followed up his brace against Cov with one goal, while David Speedie and Kerry Dixon scored too.
We were joined by some friends from the US; Jesus, Austin, Tim, Hooman, Detroit Bob.
Everyone together. Everyone tacking the Mick. Tons of laughs.
Football, eh?
I loved to hear that Doreen had bequeathed her season ticket to Luke’s little three-year-old son Archie – as featured last season – and Luke had spent a large part of the Wednesday sorting that out. I also loved the fact that Archie has a ticket for the trip to Heidenheim in a few weeks.
We saw the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen. It looked remarkably attack-minded.
Jorgensen
Disasi – Tosin – Badiashile – Veiga
Enzo
George – Nkunku – Joao Felix – Mudryk
Guiu
Although I was inside with a fair few minutes to go before kick-off, it seemed that we had missed a minute of applause in memory of John Dempsey. The teams appeared as the pre-game rituals began in earnest. I could not help but think that the Europa Conference anthem sounded like something that Baltimora may have recorded in around 1985.
The teams stood in silence in memory of those who had perished in the floods in Valencia.
I was pretty impressed with the Armenians’ support; maybe a thousand or so. There were a few multi-coloured Armenian flags dotted around.
The over-eager PA announcer was shouting at his mic for us to “make some noise.”
Oh do shut up, you twat.
The game began with Chelsea attacking The Shed.
However, it was the unfancied visitors who dominated the very early moments of the game. A rapid counter-attack resulted in an effort on goal that Filip Jorgensen did well to save. They followed this up with a couple of corners.
Alongside me, Alan was getting confused.
“This lot only took about fifty to The New Saints.”
“Nah, that was Astana.”
This new-fangled format is succeeding in confusing all of us. I said to Alan that we seem to be remotely connected to teams that our opponents play, but we don’t. On the same night, Heidenheim were at Hearts, yet we won’t play Hearts, nor TNS for that matter.
It’s like some bizarre inter-related family tree, with off-shoots appearing in the unlikeliest of places.
“A Family Tree Of Bastards.”
The visitors threatened again. They definitely had the best of the early attacks.
But Chelsea soon responded, with Joao Felix getting a sniff from Tyrique George on the right.
As is a superstition at European home games, Alan shared out some wine gums.
“Want some Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops, mate?”
As the game developed, we grew stronger.
On twelve minutes, Enzo sent over a firm corner from Parkyville and Tosin was able to steer the ball in with a well-timed header. I was lucky enough to get that one on film.
While we were up and celebrating, the game restarted. I was looking at Alan, expecting him to soon launch our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.
I had to prompt him.
“What’s that, Al?”
But in no time at all, I looked up to see that Guiu had intercepted a terrible square pass from one Noah defender to another and he had calmly slotted the ball home to make it 2-0.
Fackinell.
Those goals had to be the quickest back-to-back goals in our history surely?
Five minutes later, Enzo again swung in a corner and it was Disasi who smashed it over the line in a virtual carbon copy of our first goal. This was getting silly.
Three minutes later, on just twenty-one minutes, Guiu robbed the ball off a visitor and the ball fell to Enzo, who picked out Joao Felix. He advanced and clipped the ball over the hapless ‘keeper Ognjen Chancharevich.
Blimey.
By now, Alan and I were relaxing and just enjoying the night, with plenty of humorous anecdotes keeping us happy. What a nice time.
Just after the half-hour mark, Mykhailo Mudryk took a pot-shot that was so high and wide of the target that it came down to Earth near the West Stand corner flag, and still stayed on the pitch.
His next effort was much more pleasing. He picked up the ball outside the penalty area, touched the ball forward to set himself, and then unleashed a perfect curler into the top right-hand corner of the goal. I took a photo just as it flew off his boot. What a cracker.
By now, a few folk around me were referencing the 13-0 win over Hautcharage in 1971.
Two minutes later, a counter-attack and the ball was fed to Joao Felix, who picked his way through and slotted home off the leg of a covering white-shirted defender.
I pointed at Lee a few seats away.
“It’s gonna happen. It’s gonna happen.”
We were 6-0 up at half-time, with the away team hopefully weakening in the second-half, when would the goals stop?
In both Hautcharage games in 1971, we were 6-0 up at half-time too.
At half-time, what was everyone thinking?
10-0?
13-0?
14-0?
I said to a few friends that it was a shame that we weren’t playing them over two legs. That 21-0 aggregate score would be in trouble. I am sure it is still the highest aggregate score in UEFA history.
As the second-half began, some substitutions.
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Guiu.
Cesare Casadei for Enzo.
What did that mean? I wasn’t sure.
The pace slackened in the second-half, but we still dominated the chances. Benoit Badiashile soon volleyed over a cross. The Noah ‘keeper Chancharevich twice foiled Felix, who – along with Mudryk – were the two players that took my eye.
Christopher Nkunku slammed a shot at goal but it clipped the top of the crossbar.
Carney Chukwuemeka for George.
On the sixty-ninth minute, fancy footwork from Felix released Nkunku. His first shot was blocked by the unlucky ‘keeper but the ball came back out for Nkunku to poke home at an angle between defender and post. The blue balloon stayed in his sock. It was no time to take the Mick.
On seventy-six minutes, a rather soft penalty was awarded after Dewsbury-Hall was fouled inside the six-yard box. Nkunku drilled it home.
Chelsea 8 Noah 0.
Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well.
I wondered if we were already promoted from this league.
A rare Noah corner elicited some high-pitched shrieks and much flag-waving from the Armenians in the far corner.
On seventy-nine minutes, debutant Samuel Rak-Sakyi replaced Nkunku.
A few late chances were spurned and so the elusive double figures were not reached. They stay as an elusive target. Were Noah the worst team that I had ever seen us play? Yes, I think so, and I have seen us play Tottenham a few times too, mind.
What a fun night though. I loved it.
It had, indeed, been an Ark Lark.
Dedicated to the memory of John Dempsey who scored against Real Madrid in Athens in 1971 and to the memory of Doreen Bruce who was with us against Manchester City in Porto in 2021, fifty years later.
For those of us that live miles away from Stamford Bridge, travelling to and from games can be tiresome affairs, especially those that take place during the week. But I always love the fact that no matter how late games finish on Thursday nights – shall we talk about extra-time and penalties that might extend the night even further, shall I mention the penalties against Eintracht Frankfurt in 2019? – there is the lovely knowledge that I only have to struggle with work on Friday, for one day only. Then, the glorious respite of the weekend, especially since there are no games on Saturdays after European games these days.
Contrast this with a Monday night league game, and the sure knowledge that my sleeping patterns won’t recover for a few days. On a personal level, Monday night games are just horrible.
On this particular Thursday night, Chelsea were to embark on a new European journey, but it wasn’t one that I was completely happy with. Not only were we to take part in the fourth edition of UEFA’s newest baby the “Conference League”, but this was to be the first season that all UEFA competitions were to take the form of a “league” format in the autumn period.
The common view among football fanciers was that this was all an attempt to see off the continued rumours about certain European heavyweights – “Super Clubs”, their words not mine – needing a Super League for them to guarantee huge revenue streams. However, I haven’t met a single football supporter who is in favour of this new format. I know we are often seen as misty-eyed sentimental traditionalists, but the old system seemed to be a decent way to approach pan-European competitions.
The three UEFA competitions are basically three divisions of thirty-two teams.
More. More. More.
Before I continue with the events of this particular Thursday night, a quick mention of a Saturday in 1984 in my retrospective from forty years ago.
On Saturday 28 September 1984, Chelsea were at home to Leicester City in the old First Division. I was newly-arrived in Stoke and had survived “Freshers’ Week”. Originally, my first visit to Stamford Bridge was going to be the Watford match on 13 October, but as I walked past Stoke train station late on the Friday night, I decided there and then to get up early on the Saturday and get myself down to Stamford Bridge. I had attended the “Freshers Ball” that night – the main band was H2O, hit song “I Dream To Sleep” – but a planned liaison with Gill, an Everton fan, never materialised and so I needed to cheer myself up.
A Saturday in London with Chelsea was a quick and easy remedy.
This trip was a new experience for me, but the journey would be repeated on many occasions over the next three seasons. I was happily surprised that the fare was just £8. This felt knew and exciting. The route took me through Tamworth, Rugby, Milton Keynes and Watford. I made my way across London from Euston – “spotted a load of casuals, probably Arsenal going to Coventry” – to Stamford Bridge and took my position alongside new mates Alan, Mark and Leggo. I didn’t take my camera to this game, but I remember a nasty green away kit being worn by Leicester City. Chelsea easily won 3-0 with two goals from Kerry Dixon and one from Pat Nevin. The gate was just 18,521. I caught the 6.10pm train back to Stoke from Euston and got back to Stoke at 8.30pm, this time via Birmingham and Wolverhampton.
A new pattern to my football life had emerged.
Fast forward to 2024 and just PD and travelled up from the west of England for this game. After I demolished a pizza on the North End Road I joined up with him at “Simmons” just after 6pm. We were joined by Rob from Hersham, Luke from Ruislip and Andy from Los Angeles, who was en route to Munich for the Oktoberfest.
There was time to reminisce about Munich in 2012 – I kipped in Andy’s hotel room for a few hours after that most momentous of Saturday nights – but we also chatted a little about this new UEFA competition. I must admit that it was derided when it first started in 2021 – “a ridiculous competition for also-rans” – and even more so after West Ham won it in 2023, and ludicrously declared themselves “Champions of Europe” for a while, without the merest hint of irony, but the view of us Chelsea fans back in May when United won the FA Cup, thus pushing into this competition, was to embrace it, to enjoy some foreign travel again and to bloody well win it.
Wroclaw here we come? Hopefully.
With Andy in town there was also talk of the FIFA World Club Cup competition which is set to take place in twelve stadia in the US in June and July next summer. I am keen to go, as is my mate Glenn; it would be my twentieth visit to the US and it would celebrate my sixtieth birthday – a nice present to myself, no?
The strong rumour was that all games would be held on the East Coast, to satisfy European TV audiences and to keep travel, both by players and supporters, to a minimum. Alas, last week, the full list of venues was announced and only eight venues could really be classed as East Coast. In addition to games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, DC, North Carolina, Georgia and Florida, there are also games in Tennessee, Ohio, Washington and California.
I just hope that FIFA does the right thing and keeps each of the first stage groups to as tight a geographical area as possible. As an example, I would be more than happy with three games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and DC, or Tennessee, North Carolina and Georgia. At a push, three games in Florida, but God help us all in those stratospheric temperatures.
But I am not confident. There is no doubt that FIFA will want to ensure that fans all over the US will get a chance to see as many teams as possible, so I fully expect a taxing and expensive three-game set that might even see us play in Seattle, then Orlando, then Los Angeles. In such circumstances, I might just go for two games rather than all three.
The two West Coast venues, it seems, have been included for the benefit of the US’ sole team, thus far, from Seattle, who have been promised three home games, which seems unfair. Why should they be given home advantage? Well, it’s not too hard to work out.
Thirty of the thirty-two teams have qualified through debatable selection criteria and are awaiting the final two competitors. I see that the 2024 Coppa Libertadores winner is one of the final two places up for grabs along with a second US team. The draw is in December. Glenn and I will be on tenterhooks awaiting news.
There are some cracking teams from South America lined-up to attend; Chelsea vs. Boca Juniors or Chelsea vs. Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, anyone?
Of course, many are mocking this expanded competition and I can understand why. Extra games for an already-exhausted set of players and the risk of injury, plus talk of a money grab by FIFA and all of its murky corporate partners.
More football. More games. More sponsors. More TV. More money. More everything.
More. More More.
Back in my youth, this competition was a plain and simple one; European Cup Winner vs. Coppa Libertadores winner, one match in Tokyo, and that was that. It was then expanded to eight teams when it was held in Brazil in 2000. It then didn’t take place again until 2005, and since then has been held in Japan, the Arabian Peninsula and Morocco. Bizarrely, and I cannot understand this, there is still going to be an annual FIFA Intercontinental Cup held annually too.
More. More. More.
When will it stop?
I had seen a few Gent fans, dressed in blue and white, pottering down the North End Road earlier, and we saw more on the walk to the ground. I was inside at about 7.30pm ahead of the 8pm kick-off. We had seen the team in the pub. It was a completely different team that had played so well against Brighton on Saturday.
Jorgensen.
Disasi – Badiashile – Tosin – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
A B Team? Yes, evidently so, and a pretty decent one, we hoped.
The lights soon dimmed and the players appeared. Whereas UEFA has chosen blue as the brand colour of the Champions League and red as the colour of the Europa league, it seems that green is the chosen colour of the Europa Conference. A green and black banner was waved on the centre-circle as the players lined up. The three-thousand fans held their scarves aloft.
The game began.
I spoke to Al about Eidur Dudjohnsen’s son, Andri, who was leading the Gent line.
I also spoke to Al about the possibility of Christopher Nkunku’s blue balloons making an appearance, and we wondered if I could shoehorn the phrase “balloons and Walloons” into this match report.
Soon into the game, it seemed that the entire Gent support was engaged in their version of “the bouncy” and it looked an impressive sight. Their support didn’t seem to have an “ultra” element, but just a noisy support with replica shirts and scarves, and a desire to sing.
Ten minutes in, it was all us. We had enjoyed a couple of early efforts as Al and I caught up with a few things; I had not seen him for a while.
On twelve minutes, Mykailo Mudryk was able to choose his moment in front of Parkyville and dolloped a long cross onto the head of the on-rushing Renato Veiga who finished with aplomb, heading down and past the Gent ‘keeper.
Chelsea 1 Gent 0.
Fifteen minutes in, it was all us.
“Have they even touched the ball in our half yet?”
There was a delightful flick from Joao Felix, in the Cole Palmer “creator” spot, but Nkunku stumbled as he tried to reach the ball.
A Pedro Neto run was captured on film – snap, snap, snap, snap – but the resultant shot from Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was snatched, and my photo was blurred, so it didn’t make the cut.
We dominated still, but it was all a bit laboured. On the half-hour, Gent enjoyed a rare attack and an effort from the Archie Brown, an English export flourishing in Europe. Gent then had a tidy little spell. During one attack, I was fuming that two attackers were let free on our right.
The boy Gudjohnsen shot at goal from an angle after a neat move but it flashed over.
Our play became laboured. I toyed with the notion of this modern type of football – passing to oblivion, waiting for a chink in the deep-lying defence’s armour – being dropped into our football-going experience of twenty-five years ago. I suspect that it would have been booed relentlessly.
But progress is progress, eh?
It became a time for reflection. This actually didn’t seem much like a European game at all. The days of two-legged knock-out ties in the autumn – God, how exciting was Zizkov at home in 1994? – are long gone, but even the closeness of a four-team group of recent times, with home-and-away games, little histories being made, little rivalries developing, back stories, duels, seemed a darned sight better than this. The 2024 version of a European tie lacked intensity and drama and the competition, at least this huge first phase, seemed fuzzy and bloated.
More. More. More.
We felt that this whole first phase lacked a focus, a goal, a point. We were, after all, playing six apparently random teams, and in the biggest division, thirty-two teams, of all time. Both Al and I were struggling with the concept if it all. We kept referring to “our group” but of course there was no group, no group at all. The only common thing linking our six opponents was that two of them have a shamrock on their badge. How soon would this damned league table make any sense at all? Was the common denominator now to simply win as many games as possible? In closed groups, teams could play the system and budget for away draws against teams on the premise of beating them at home. Yet in this competition, there seemed to be no similar strategy.
In a nutshell, there would be no return leg in Gent.
Oh boy.
The “randomness” of the fixtures ate away at me too. One team could get top-ranking teams in each of the six pots, whereas another team could get drawn against low-ranking teams in each of the pots.
That would be a large discrepancy, no?
It just seemed wrong.
The atmosphere around me seemed a little quiet after a noisy start to the game.
Ho hum.
At the end of the half-time break, I disappeared to turn my bike around. While otherwise occupied, I heard a roar.
“Bloody hell, there was only one team on the pitch when I left my seat.”
Neto had blasted one in from close range apparently.
Chelsea 2 Gent 0.
Sadly, on fifty minutes, after a Gent corner, Gudjohnsen’s cross was flung into our box. There were five Chelsea defenders protecting the near post. Sadly, the unmarked Tsuyoshi Watanabe, along with four other Gent players, were at the rear post. He headed into Filip Jorgensen’s net. There were groans. It was a very sloppy goal to concede.
Chelsea 2 Gent 1.
With that, the away fans turned the away section into a Barry Manilow concert by turning on their phone torches. Memories of Napoli in 2012.
“That is embarrassing. That is embarrassing” sang the Matthew Harding.
The game became much more of a spectacle in the second-half, and the Stamford Bridge crowd became noisier.
On sixty-three minutes, the ball was played in from down below us and after the ball was kept alive, it eventually rolled out to Nkunku who smacked it home.
Chelsea 3 Gent 1.
He raced towards me, and was joined by his team mates.
Smiles all around.
He reached into his sock, I think, for the blue balloon and if only Gent was in the southern part of Belgium and not in the Flemish-speaking part, I could have used a geographically precise pun.
Instead, the home areas of Stamford Bridge decided to have a laugh en masse. Out came the mobile phones, out came the torches.
A nice giggle.
This was followed by a booming “CAREFREE.”
That’s more like it.
On seventy minutes, the light-footed Felix played in Nkunku, but a sliding tackle robbed him of a shot. The ball rolled nicely to Dewsbury-Hall, who slammed it in.
Chelsea 4 Gent 1.
A slide into our corner and smiles-aplenty from Dewsbury-Hall.
Time for some substitutions on eighty minutes.
Tyrique George for Neto.
Marc Guiu for Nkunku.
Axel Disasi ended up in the net after both he and Benoit Badiashile could not quite connect from a cross from Neto.
In the last few moments of the game, Gent were given far too much space down our left and the ball was easily played in for Omri Gandelman to smack home.
Chelsea 4 Gent 2.
By this time, orange jacketed stewards had been crowded around the gap between the home and away fans in the Shed Lower. What exactly was going on down there?
There was one last chance for Gent, but the toe-poke from outside the box flew over.
I thought to myself “you’re no Ronaldinho, mate.”
It had been, I think, an odd game, for more than one reason.
I met PD back at the car and I made good time on the drive west. I made it home at 12.45am.
After a League Cup tie on the Tuesday, we now had an FA Cup tie on the Friday. Two cup games within four days, both at Stamford Bridge, 460 miles for me to navigate, it’s tough at the top.
Of course I enjoyed the 6-1 triumph over Middlesbrough on Tuesday, but I was certainly not getting carried away with the amount of goals that we scored. It was, after all, only Middlesbrough, a mid-table Championship team.
I was sure that if we managed to score against a far more formidable side in the FA Fourth Round tie, I would be celebrating more wildly.
But halfway through Friday morning I was struggling. After finishing the blog for the Middlesbrough game at 10pm on Thursday night, I was up at 4.45am on Friday in order to work an early 6am to 2pm shift in the twin worlds of logistics and office furniture. At about 9.30am, I was bloody hanging, stifling yawns and finding it hard to concentrate. I was dreading the drive to and from London. I would not be home again around 1am in the small hours of Friday / Saturday night. Thankfully the arrival of some pods for our office coffee-maker breathed new life into me.
I picked-up the chaps outside the pub opposite work and set off, feeling fine, feeling happy that work was over for the week, a Chelsea game a reward for my sleep-starved existence. The clear blue skies and bright sunshine invigorated me further and I was actually able to drive to London with a deep sense of contentment.
Alas, mind-numbing traffic congestion as I approached the Hammersmith roundabout halted our swift progress. I eventually dropped two of my passengers at “The Eight Bells” at 4.45pm and the remaining one outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge at just before 5pm. After parking up in virtually the same spot as on Tuesday, I dropped into “The Anchor” take-away for an unplanned saveloy and chips. It warmed me up, and gave me some fuel on a cold night in SW6.
I walked to West Brompton tube and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I spent from 6pm to 7pm in the company of PD, Glenn, Salisbury Steve and London Luke. Rich, from St. Albans – we go back to The Benches in 1984 – was there with his daughter Amber, nineteen, and James, fourteen. It would be James’ first-ever game. I had picked up tickets for the three of them from friends in the US who had bought them to raise their loyalty points for a game later in the season. The tickets came from Jacksonville to Axonville.
Boom boom.
Appearing at “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at the Bridge was a first for us. The place was full of regulars. On the tube up to Fulham Broadway, it was no surprise to see Villa fans in our carriage.
“Yippy-aye-ay, yippy-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”
The weather was bitter, much colder than Tuesday.
There was a welcoming tune that greeted me as I reached the seats.
“Blue Monday” by New Order.
I was behind the goal in the Matthew Harding Upper again, but a few rows nearer the front and a few yards closer to the goal than on Tuesday. It honestly felt like only five minutes ago since I was last at Stamford Bridge.
In the match programme, Rick Glanville had written a very interesting article about Chelsea Football Club’s early desire for Stamford Bridge to host FA Cup Finals after it became apparent that Crystal Palace was not an appropriate venue. Lo and behold, we almost played in the first FA Cup Final – in 1920 – to take place at Stamford Bridge. Sadly, we lost 1-3 to Aston Villa in a semi-final that took place at Bramall Lane in Sheffield. That year, Villa defeated Huddersfield Town 1-0 in the final, a game in which my grandfather may have attended. I penned a few pieces about this in the 2019/20 and 2020/21 FA Cup campaigns.
My first viewing of an Aston Villa FA Cup tie against Chelsea took place in early 1987, an away game that ended 2-2. We won the replay 2-1.
The next FA Cup tie against Villa was of much more importance.
The 2000 FA Cup Final was always going to be a very special occasion. The final tie of the 1999-2000 competition was to be held at the original Wembley Stadium – chosen for Cup Finals after Stamford Bridge’s little run from 1920 to 1922 – for the very last time. The venerable old stadium, dating back to 1923, had hosted so many important and memorable football games in its eight decades. In its latter years, it was showing its age, but the thrill, for me anyway, of seeing the famous twin towers on FA Cup Final days evoked wonderful memories of past games and past glories. However, I totally understood the need to update the national stadium. As the season developed, I hoped that we would end up there for one final hurrah.
Season 1999/2000 was an eventful season for Chelsea Football Club. For the first time ever, we embarked on our first every Champions League journey. After winning a qualifier against Skonta Riga – I went to the home leg, not the away game – we were drawn in a group with Milan, Galatasaray and Hertha Berlin. I went to all home games, but no away games.
At the time, my job involved shift work and so I could not always get time off work to follow the boys. I still went to thirty-eight games, my highest-ever total, beating the thirty-five games of 1997/98.
In the league, despite walloping the then European Champions Manchester United 5-0 at Stamford Bridge, we flattered to deceive, finishing in fifth place and a hefty twenty-six points behind United who romped home. In the League Cup, we were sent packing in our first tie, a 0-1 home defeat by Huddersfield Town.
We qualified for the second Group Phase of the Champions League and were grouped with Lazio, Marseille and Feyenoord. I went to the game in Rome, a dour 0-0 draw. Winning that second group set us up for a semi-final with Barcelona. I was lucky enough to go to both games; sadly, a mad 3-1 victory at home was matched by a 1-5 reverse in Catalonia.
As the latter stages of the season were played out, Chelsea made solid progress in the FA Cup. We won 6-1 at Hull City – old Boothferry Park – then enjoyed a run of home games, and victories, against Nottingham Forest, Leicester City and Gillingham. This set us up for a semi-final against Newcastle United at Wembley. Two Gus Poyet goals sent us into the FA Cup Final in a very fine game that would have graced the final itself. Our opponents on 20 May 2000 would be Aston Villa who had beaten Bolton Wanderers on penalties in their semi-final at Wembley.
However, the FA Cup wasn’t all plain sailing that season. For the first time that I could remember, the all-important Round Three was played in early December, though I forget the reasoning, and this was met with a formidable backlash. Also, Manchester United were forced to compete in the inaugural FIFA World Club Championships in Brazil in January 2000 by the FA and so withdrew from the 1999/2000 competition. United drew a lot of flak for withdrawing but, in reality, their hands were tied. In hindsight, one wonders why United could not have entered a youth team in the FA Cup to give the competition some dignity. In my mind, the 1999/2000 FA Cup was played out with an asterisk against it.
It had been a decent campaign for Chelsea and I just wanted us to win the FA Cup against Aston Villa to give us some sort of reward for the season. Unfortunately, I found myself coming off a week of nights, finishing mid-morning on the Friday, and was rather tired as we assembled for a pre-match drink or two at “The Princess Royal” – no longer there – near St. Johns Wood tube station and Lords Cricket Ground. There were probably more Villa fans in the pub than us.
“Ugly bunch, aren’t they?” whispered Daryl.
We had our usual pre-match chat and I think I wasn’t the only one who was a mite nervous. In 1997, it felt that fate – Matthew Harding – was on our side, but this one was too tight to call. Villa, playing in their first FA Cup Final since 1957, had finished just one place below us in the league table.
We caught the tube up to Wembley and posed for photos in front of the gleaming white Twin Towers. We had the same end as in 1997. That would hopefully count for something. FA Cup Finals are always linked to odd superstitions.
Our team?
Ed De Goey
Mario Melchiot – Frank Leboeuf – Marcel Desailly – Celestine Babayaro
Roberto di Matteo – Didier Deschamps – Gus Poyet – Dennis Wise
George Weah – Gianfranco Zola
The normal right backs Albert Ferrer and Graeme Le Saux were both injured. The Aston Villa team – playing in peculiar broad stripes – included David James, Gareth Southgate, Dion Dublin, Benito Carbone and Paul Merson. Merson, the Chelsea fan, was making his second Wembley appearance against Chelsea in barely over two years. Of course, the much-loved Gianluca Vialli was our smart-dressed manager at the time. Note George Weah’s white boots.
In truth, this was a poor game. The first-half was very mundane with precious few strikes on goal. Chances increased after the break with Chelsea enjoying more of them. Midway through the second-half, Dennis Wise scored for us with a close-in prod after a James fumble and the place erupted, limbs everywhere. Sadly, after the euphoria there was misery as we saw that the goal had been disallowed for off-side. From a Gianfranco Zola free-kick on our left, there was another James fumble. Roberto di Matteo was on hand to quickly hook the ball into the roof of the net from close range. We celebrated again but it always felt like it wasn’t with the same intensity of the first disallowed goal. It seemed that all of our energy had been expelled when that Wise effort went in.
Strange game football.
God knows what we would have made of the spectre of VAR in 2000.
After the game, we witnessed some marvellous celebrations from the Chelsea players, who were as relieved as the supporters that the long season had harvested some silverware. For some reason, we all assembled at a pub near Paddington Station after the game. I think that the idea was to give the lads who were not staying up in London for the parade on the Sunday a little send-off before they caught the train west. We saw a few lads from Frome off. Glenn and I went back to stay at Alan’s flat in South London.
This FA Cup lark was alright, wasn’t it?
We had won in 1997 and again in 2000.
These were great times to be Chelsea supporters. I just tried not to think about that bloody asterisk in 2000.
Oh, one last remark about the two centre forwards from 2000.
George Weah was President of Liberia from 2018 until earlier this week.
Dion Dublin currently presents “Homes Under The Hammer” on the BBC.
Weah won that battle, no asterisk required.
We met Villa in one more FA Cup tie, the 2010 semi-final at Wembley. We used to drink in “The Duke Of York” for Wembley games in those days and seven of us memorably showed up in Lacoste polos. Snappy dressers, eh?
The game was an easy 3-0 win with us watching way above the halfway line, with all of the goals coming in the second-half. Thankyou Didier Drogba, Florent Malouda and Frank Lampard. It was a vital step in our march to the domestic double in 2010.
I am not sure how many Villa fans were in the 50,018 crowd at the 1920 FA Cup Final, but there were six thousand Villa fans at Stamford Bridge in 2024. They had the usual smattering of flags, but were not wearing quite so many colours as ‘Boro on Tuesday.
I was seated at 7.30pm.
“Disco 2000” by Pulp.
If this was a deliberate dig by the Chelsea DJ at Villa regarding the 2000 FA Cup Final, then fair play. I remember that in the late ‘nineties, in the car to and from Somerset to Chelsea, we changed the words.
“We’ll win the league by the Year 2000.”
It later became “we won the Cup in the Year 2000.”
We had seen the line-up, but Levi Colwill was injured pre-match. It resulted in a last minute change.
Petrovic
Gilchrist – Disasi – Silva – Badiashile
Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Sterling
The pitch was watered right up until the last minute. Water gave way to flames. The players entered the pitch. Chelsea in royal blue and navy tracky tops, Villa in claret ones.
The game began.
We began OK, but then Villa had a little spell. A really well-worked free-kick (memories of John Sheridan in 1991) was played by the Villa captain John McGinn out to Alex Moreno out on the Villa left. His cross was met with a “down and up” header by Youri Tielemans (our nemesis in the 2021 FA Cup Final), but Djordje Petrovic palmed it over as the ball bounced up off the deck.
Phew.
Soon after, a short corner was worked inside and Moussa Diaby unleashed a shot at goal. The ball was deflected by Alfie Gilchrist into the path of Douglas Luiz, who tapped in from a few feet out. The Villa players ran off to celebrate down below PD, Parky and Co., and their fans roared.
However, after what seemed an absolute age, VAR chimed in. A handball? No idea. No clue.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No goal.
Phew.
No celebrations from me though.
This seemed to spark some life into us and we improved. At around the twenty-minute mark we had a lovely little spell. We admired a great move from Raheem Sterling to Enzo to Cole Palmer – a beautiful flick – and a pass that set up Noni Madueke. However, his studied low shot was met with a fine save by Emilio Martinez. A Villa defender made a balls-up of passing to his team mate after good pressure from the lively Conor Gallagher. The ball ended up at the feet of Palmer, but he was found wanting with a tame shot at goal, again cleared by Martinez.
Ugh. Martinez. The memory of that “non-Final” on the first day of August in 2020.
On thirty minutes, Sterling set up Palmer who reached the by-line but the incoming cross was somehow blocked. Raheem was having a mixed game. Sometimes you just feel that he often dribbles at players as his first thought rather than looking up to assess other options. He seems obsessed in beating opponents. On the other side, Madueke was full of flicks, turns, spins, but they didn’t always work out to the greater good.
It looked odd to see the central Palmer playing adrift of the others. He looked like he was sweeping up behind the Villa paring of Ezri Konsa and Clement Lenglet. A few years back, supporters would have wondered what on earth he was doing.
It was an intriguing half and I was enjoying it. After the disallowed goal, Villa seemed to go into their shell. We, however grew stronger and more confident.
Good work from Madueke in front of Parkyville and the ball was rolled back to Sterling, finding himself on the right flank, but his cross was headed by Benoit Badiashile straight at Martinez.
At the break, I was happy with our performance against a decent team. At times our passing was a little too slow for our liking. I couldn’t help think about that old adage about any move having a crucial moment when the ball has to be played. That moment was reached, and ignored, too many times for my liking. Our slow passing – at times, not always – seemed to allow the momentum to be lost. In the middle, Enzo and Moises Caicedo solid and involved, while Gallagher must have covered almost ever blade of grass on the pitch.
The Villa fans began loudly but soon quietened. Our noise wasn’t bad, especially the first twenty minutes.
There was music at half-time.
“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division.
“There She Goes” by The La’s.
The second-half began. More decent stuff from us. Down the left, Enzo slid in Gallagher and the ball fell to Palmer on his favoured left foot. He guided the ball towards goal but it was always drifting past the far stick. A long cross from Matty Cash on the right was headed over by Moreno, unhindered, at the far post.
Midway through the half, Martinez’ clearance hit Palmer’s heels but he was unable to connect with the ball as it dropped back down to Earth. Groans from everyone. A huge chance had been missed.
In the first-half, Villa’s play seemed to drop away after their goal was disallowed. In this second-half, our performance seemed to lack lustre after this miss. Perhaps it was tiredness.
On 65 minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced the steady Gilchrist. The back four was realigned with Disasi moved to right back, Badiashile in the middle with Silva and Chilwell out left.
Cash was proving to be a handful and the full back was then set up by Ollie Watkins but, thankfully, his low shot was saved well, down low, a Petrovic speciality. The save was warmly applauded. From a corner, Konsa slashed wide of the framework. Villa were enjoying a good spell, but I was pleased that the home crowd noted their ascendency and dug in and provided the loudest support of the night.
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”
I could hardly believe my eyes as I saw Petrovic going long at goal kicks as the second-half continued, a sure sign that players were tiring.
On 77 minutes, Armando Broja replaced Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Madueke.
We seemed to be shot as an attacking force and neither of these latest two subs were able to make their mark. We defended resolutely.
A late sub, on 89 minutes, saw Carney Chukwuemeka replace Enzo.
It stayed 0-0.
We would have to reconvene at Villa Park in a week and a half’s time. So be it. At least we will be in the draw for Round Five.
As I left, the final song of my night rang out.
“Brimful Of Asha” by Cornershop.
Ah – a nice bit of symmetry. One of my friends from Wembley 2010 – Simon, pictured in the white polo, third from the right – directed the video of that song, a hit from 1997.
On the drive back in the car – a decent finishing time of 12.50am for me – we wondered how many we would get for Villa Park.
“More than the usual 3,000 no doubt.”
“Wonder if we will have enough time to pop into ‘The Vine’ too?”
Next up, back to the league and an away game at Anfield on Wednesday.
It’s hard to believe that the home match with newly-promoted Luton Town would only be my fifth Chelsea match against the team from the much-derided town in Bedfordshire. We met plenty of times from the mid-‘seventies to the early ‘nineties, but not many times since.
For some reason, the mention of Luton Town always takes me back to the first day of 1980 and an early kick-off at Kenilworth Road, a frosty pitch, and most of the players wearing trainers. The game was an entertaining 3-3 draw. A more notorious away game had taken place five years earlier, in January 1975, when the two teams eked out a 1-1 draw, but Chelsea fans set fire to the train taking them back to London after the game. I was at neither game.
My first Luton game took place on Saturday 8 May 1982 at the end of a “typical” Chelsea season that saw us over-perform in both domestic cups but under-perform in our Second Division campaign. I travelled up alone, on the train, and remember buying the wonderful Le Coq Sportif pinstriped – and super shiny – home shirt before the game. I watched from The Shed and I recollect Paul Canoville’s home debut, sadly accompanied by boos, and I remember a 1-2 loss and a Clive Walker goal. That season, Luton – in a very fine kit of their own, all white with Adidas stripes in orange – narrowly beat neighbours Watford to the Second Division Championship. There was a deep contrast in styles between these two rivals. Luton played expansive, skilful stuff using a variety of attacking options whereas Watford were “route one” merchants, utilising wingers and tall centre-forwards.
I then saw us play Luton Town at Stamford Bridge on 11 January 1986. I watched with my mate Swan in the East Lower – using complimentary tickets if I am not mistaken – and we won 1-0 via David Speedie.
Next up was the famous FA Cup semi-final in 1994 when two Gavin Peacock goals sent us to an FA Cup Final for the first time in twenty-four years. Kerry Dixon was playing for Luton Town by now and we certainly gave him a full-on reception. Looking back, the win on that day – in my mind – changed our history.
A loss; back to being normal unpredictable Chelsea.
A win; guaranteed European football what with our Cup Final opponents already looking like being crowned League Champions and thus a Champions League place in 1994/95. We would slide into the ECWC, and our profile would be raised, thus enticing Gullit and Hughes the following pre-season.
Lastly, just over eighteen months ago, a first-ever visit for me to the infamously compact stadium of Kenilworth Road where we squeaked a narrow 3-2 FA Cup win on a night when we heard that Roman Abramovich had put the club up for sale. The scorers? Saul Niguez, Timo Werner and Romelu Lukaku. God, that already seems like three teams ago, doesn’t it?
So, game number five and a Friday flit up the M4 with the usual suspects.
After a decent run out against Liverpool followed by a disappointing performance at West Ham, one phrase was surely uttered by us a few times, and by thousands of others.
…”well, if we can’t beat Luton.”
On paper, this was a run-of-the-mill football match, but not for me. I would be joined by my very good mate JR from Detroit. He was last alongside me at Stamford Bridge, alongside Alan in The Sleepy Hollow, for the PSG home game in March 2016, a 1-2 loss. The last Chelsea game we saw together was in Ann Arbor in July of the same year, a 2-3 loss against Real Madrid, in front of – officially – the largest ever crowd to attend a Chelsea game.
105,826.
I suspect the Moscow Dynamo game exceeded that figure but we will never know.
The last sports fixture that we both attended took place the day after the Real Madrid game; a 11-0 win for his Detroit Tigers against Houston Astros in downtown Detroit.
Seven years ago. Damn, where has the time gone?
I met up with JR just after 5pm, alongside Dan, whose wedding in deepest Cambridgeshire JR is attending with his wife Erin next weekend.
It was lovely to see them both again. The last time I saw Dan was – we think – before the away game in Newcastle in January 2020, before COVID, before the lockdown, before football behind closed doors, before Putin, before the sale, before Clearlake, before “Supermarket Sweep” and another age, or so it seems.
We decamped to “The Butcher’s Hook.”
Some Chelsea young’uns were finishing off that horrible Arsenal chant aimed at Tottenham – “that’s alright”, my arse – in front of a sea of Chelsea-liveried tourists, and then went into “Chelsea Alouette” with all the actions. It seemed like the “So Bar” circa 2006 had moved east a few hundred yards. Dan said he saw an over-protective father cup the ears of his child to protect said junior from the swearing.
This is football, not soft play.
Chelsea World Is A Small World Part One.
At the first Frome Town league game of this season, a fortnight ago, my mates Francis and Tom were checking out the antics of the new club mascot Dodge The Dog. Tom, who is originally from Cambridge and follows Cambridge United, told the story of how his team’s mascot is called Marvin The Moose.
Francis and I immediately recoiled at the name, since there seemed to be little relevance to Cambridge to an animal that inhabits the northern extremities of North America, Scandinavia and Russia. However, Tom told the story of how one Cambridge fan just started bellowing “moose!” during a particular game for no apparent reason, and others latched on to the idea. Oh, I approved of that. Here was a story that seemed totally organic, from within the club’s rank and file, rather than from the imagination of an out-of-touch marketing guru.
Knowing that Dan was a Cambridge United season ticket holder, I happened to share this story with Dan and JR. With a broadening smile, Dan admitted that on occasion, he has dressed up as Marvin The Moose at their home games.
I shared this with Francis, who then shared it with Tom.
There were ripples of football laughter reverberating from London to Frome and to who knows where.
“Moose!”
We called into see Steve, from Somerset, at the programme stall and then Marco at the “CFCUK” stall opposite. Chidge was there too, and JR remembered how he had taken part in a “Chelsea Fancast” from 2011 on the occasion of his first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge. JR’s first ever game here was the West Ham game, the Torres goal, and we remembered that day well. Again, twelve years ago? Oh boy.
We trotted over to “Simmons” where we hoped a few of the usual suspects would congregate. Dan was surprised by the choice of venue.
“This isn’t the sort of bar I’d expect you to frequent, Chris.”
“It’s handy for evening games, being so near the stadium, just a ten-minute walk away.”
We settled down and waited for some troops to arrive. We didn’t have to wait long.
Luke, Aroha, Alan, Daryl, Parky, plus a few more.
The music boomed.
Chelsea World Is A Small World Part Two.
I often speak of my friend Andy from Nuneaton and his daughter Sophie, who sometimes meet us down “The Eight Bells”, and I was especially hoping that they would show up for this pre-match. Andy visited Detroit in 1987 with his Chelsea mate Jonesy – also mentioned herein – and took in a game at old Tiger Stadium. With Daryl and I favouring the New York Yankees over the years, Andy always used to tell us that “his” Detroit Tigers were better even when they weren’t. He always talks about their slugger Kirk Gibson. So, with JR on his way over from Detroit, I wanted to surprise Andy with some Tigers merchandise. To that end, JR picked up a mug and a pair of socks at the airport. I wanted to be able to present Andy with his gifts in the bar. Imagine my joy when I looked over to see Sophie arrive.
Lo and behold, not only did Andy soon appear, but he stood right next to JR at the bar. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I quickly walked over and stood between the two of them.
“JR, this is Andy.”
“Andy!”
“Andy, this is JR. He’s from Detroit.”
“Detroit!”
JR was wearing a Tigers cap, but I am not sure Andy recognised the fine detail. I then explained the back story and soon presented Andy with his gifts. He was well-pleased. It was a lovely moment.
The bar was noisy with a backdrop of classic pre-match music from “the football years”; a little David Bowie, a little Madness, some Oasis, some Blur, a little Specials, even the Frome Town song “A Town Called Malice.”
On his delayed trip from Detroit to Heathrow, JR had suffered the misfortune of his luggage taking a detour to Amsterdam but I could see he was enjoying this.
It was a Friday. The first day of a three-day weekend. The first game of three for me.
Time to relax.
Kinda.
In the midst of this mini-festival of football that was to encompass three stadia and five teams…Chelsea, Luton Town, Yate Town, Frome Town and Larkhall Athletic…there was a hospital appointment for me on the Sunday that was never completely out of my mind. But more of that later.
At about 7.20pm, JR, Dan and I set off for Stamford Bridge. We had, luckily, just missed a heavy downpour that had drenched the streets outside. Dan had managed to get hold of a ticket in the MHU and so he would not be too far away from us.
In we went.
JR met up with PD again, and Al soon joined us.
No surprises that Luton Town brought 3,000 with them. I have only ever met one Luton Town fan in my life – Turin, 2009 – and I wondered if he was in The Shed.
I made sure that JR sat between Alan and little old me. I wanted JR to witness the full “Sleepy Hollow Audio Visual Experience”, and I was especially thinking of the moment – hopefully – when we would take the lead and a certain famous interchange would take place between Alan and I.
JR’s noggin would be right in the middle of it.
The away fans were noisy, as expected. This was, after all, their first top flight visit to SW6 since 31 August 1991. That game, which we won 4-1, was made memorable for marking Vinnie Jones’ debut in Chelsea colours. I can keenly remember where I was that afternoon; near Ashby-de-la-Zouch in Leicestershire on an inter-company sports day, playing five-a-side, and spotting a girl in our team who took part in a few other events. I would go out with Sam on a couple of occasions and I think Vinnie Jones fared better at Chelsea than I did with her, but there you go.
“Park Life” was aired…”Parky Life” more like, I thought, and then the pre-match bullshit started, the flames and all, ending up with a dickhead bellowing into the mic : “make some noise!!!”
Oh do fuck off mate.
Our team lined up as below :
Sanchez
Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill
Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo
Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell
Or something like that.
In the Sleepy Hollow –
Chris – JR – Al – PD
Luton were wearing an away kit, all white with a broad vertical orange stripe. New buy Moises Caicedo took a position in our midfield. Former Chelsea player Ross Barkley started his first game for Luton after his spell with Nice. The air was full of drizzle. There were dark storm clouds over the East Stand. I guessed that they had just passed.
The game began with us attacking The Shed as per normal. The away support was on top from the off.
“Come on Lu’on, come on Lu’on.”
JR spoke about the fact that only two of the starting eleven have their own songs; Thiago Silva and Connor Gallagher, with two each.
We were treated to a scintillating run from Raheem Sterling on the right, deep into the heart of the crowded Luton defence and he looked interested from the first kick. There was a fierce shot from Sterling, a volley, that was saved by the Luton ‘keeper. Next, a riser from Enzo outside the box that skimmed the bar.
A rare attack for Luton after a slip by Caicedo but a wild shot flew high past the goal frame.
On seventeen minutes, Sterling ran through the Luton defence with a sublime piece of attacking intent, his weaving taking him away from tackles. At every juncture I thought he had taken it one step too far but he kept the ball close to him throughout. There was a dummy, and then the confident stab home.
The crowd erupted. There was pandemonium behind the goal where Sterling had slotted the ball in. Limbs were flying. The striker ran behind the netting and a few team mates joined in the wild celebrations. Whatever pre-match substances and liquids had been imbibed before the game were being mixed with an adrenalin rush to the head caused by the euphoria of an early goal. We are, after all, goal addicts.
It was pure Shedonism.
Then, our big moment.
I looked behind JR and caught Alan’s eye.
We looked at each other and I suspected that we were both thinking the exact same thing.
Alan paused for a few seconds.
Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris : “But not necessarily in the right order.”
Alan burst out laughing. Yes, he had been thinking the same thing. It was our perfect homage to Eric Morecambe.
I turned to JR : “Did you catch that electricity that buzzed past you there mate?”
I am sure that JR didn’t have a clue about our wise words, but he didn’t let on. Alan and I were giggling like schoolkids.
Back to the game.
A Colwill error on the goal-line let in a Luton attacker but the move was stewarded out for a corner. A Barkley near-post header from the resultant corner flew over the bar.
However, we absolutely controlled the first-half. I spotted that Nicolas Jackson often came deep to pick up the ball and run. It was reassuring to see a young forward looking to impact the game. After his far from perfect debut in Stratford, Moises Caicedo settled in nicely and broke up a few rare Luton attacks. At the break, I took a photo of JR alongside Alan and P-Diddy.
JR had put the “D” in Row D.
Kerry Dixon took the mic at half-time and said a few things. Thirty-nine years ago, on Saturday 25 August 1984, it was Kerry’s goal that sent all of us in the Clock End delirious. The clip of that goal always sends shivers down my spine.
The second-half was a far livelier affair. There was a natty one-two between Chilwell and Jackson but with only the ‘keeper to beat, Chilwell just couldn’t trust his right foot and tried to square the ball to Sterling. The pass was intercepted and we all groaned. Next, a neat volley from Jackson that forced a block. We were starting to purr.
A cross from Sterling, a crashing shot from Enzo that smacked the post.
From the away fans :
“Conference Champions, you’ll never sing that.”
Fair play.
Enzo raced on to a pacey through ball but could only hit the side netting.
Jackson swivelled well down below us but hit a strong shot at the ‘keeper.
I turned to JR :
“At long last, it looks like we have a decent young striker to hang our hat on.”
There was a comic interlude that amused us. A ball went off and had to be retrieved by a Luton player. It suddenly dawned on me that there were no ball boys – or girls – along the West Stand touchline. In fact, the stadium’s only five ball boys – or girls – were sat in two groups in front of the Matthew Harding. One group of two, one group of three. And they were adamantly refusing to budge to chase down stray balls. Their insouciance was captivating.
I wondered if their pre-match instructions went something like this.
“OK, the idea is for you five to take your stools and sit equidistantly on the perimeter of the pitch so that balls can be given back to the players as quickly as possible. Is that understood?”
I imagined a sea of blank faces.
Equidistant?
Perimeter?
And then a lone voice…
“Yes fam.”
They hardly moved the entire match, the little buggers.
What made it funnier was that each had “Ball Squad” bibs on.
Ball squad, my arse.
Jackson was running himself into the ground and impressing us all with his industry. He was certainly tenacious. I liked Gusto on the right, rarely a wasted pass.
A bouncing effort from Luton on the hour was gathered well by Robert Sanchez.
We were begging, though, for a second goal. Thankfully on sixty-nine minutes, a move that was beautiful in its simplicity allowed the ball to be moved quickly. Sterling to Caicedo to Gallagher, then to Gusto who sent in a low centre that Sterling swept home easily. He ran over to the far side and Stamford Bridge boomed again.
2-0 and safe, surely?
On seventy-five minutes, a lovely move developed. Enzo scooped a beautiful ball up and over the Luton defence for Sterling to collect. His first-time cross was stabbed home by that man Jackson and we all beamed a huge smile as he raced away.
Three-nil and coasting, the manager brought on three very late subs.
Lesley Uguchukwu for the excellent Jackson.
“We’ll just call you Les” chirped Alan.
Ian Maatsen for Chilwell.
Mason Burstow for Sterling, who was warmly applauded off.
Raheem has been a difficult player to warm to hasn’t he? Let’s hope his fine performance against Luton – yes, I know, it was only Luton – can be replicated over and over again this season.
A late song for our visitors…
“Shit fucking airport, you’re just a shit fucking airport.”
Quite.
At the final whistle, there was a genuine relief of seeing us win a game at Stamford Bridge for the first time since Dortmund in March, a couple of managers ago.
“Enjoyed that.”
Next up, a South-West London derby against AFC Wimbledon in the League Cup on Wednesday.
In order to get everybody up to Chelsea in good time, I needed to work another early shift. The alarm was set for 4.30am. This would be another long day following The Great Unpredictables
It’s odd the things that go through people’s minds first thing in the morning, eh? I had barely been fully awake a minute or two, but as I started to clean my teeth, my mind was already focussed on the game with Real Madrid. And, for the first time ever – probably – I pondered the “Real” part of their name. Well, it means “royal” right? I quickly came up with a buzz-phrase for the evening’s entertainment.
The Royal Blue of London versus the White of Royal Madrid.
And I was on my way. Off to work, an eight-hour shift, then a meet up with PD, Parky and Ron at just after 2pm, with thoughts of the game haunting our immediate future.
I just hoped that we wouldn’t get royally fucked.
I dropped Ron off at the bottom end of the North End Road so he could join Gary Chivers, Johnny Bumstead, Colin Pates, Kerry Dixon, Paul Canoville and David Lee in their corporate pre-match entertaining. The remaining three of us parked up and made a bee-line for “Norbros Pizzeria” – shite name, great food – which I use occasionally before mid-week games. I had booked a table for five o’clock but we were there early.
We hadn’t talked much about the imminent game. Why would we? Did anyone think we could turn it around? Not me. Not PD. Not Parky. In fact, to be brutally frank, I have rarely looked forward to a second leg at Stamford Bridge less. With our rapidly diminishing chances of partaking in UEFA competition – of any nature, even the rightly ridiculed Europa Conference – in 2023/24, this night of exotic European football seemed like it would be the last for some time.
With this in mind, I quickly termed our meal in deepest Fulham as “the last supper.”
The food was fine though; bruschetta and prawns, rice balls, chicken and mushrooms, spaghetti Bolognese and a pizza. They all managed to hit the spot, several in fact.
We popped into “The Goose” and bumped into a few faces from near and far. We then skipped down to “Simmons” to see others. The mood in both pubs was pretty sombre.
Inside the stadium, flags had been left by each seat and I knew that not many would be taking up the chance to “flag-wave” in our section. It seemed old hat in 2007, let alone now. Let the tourists in the Shed Lower and the West Lower do all that.
I briefly spoke to Oxford Frank.
“We will know we are in a bad way if Eden Hazard comes on to play during the second-half…”
The team that Frank chose didn’t seem to inspire many and I found it odd that Conor was our man supporting Kai. The midfield was certainly packed though. We had quality in some areas, not others.
If a curate’s egg was a football team…
Kepa
Chalobah – Silva – Fofana
James – Kante – Enzo – Kovavic – Cucarella
Gallagher – Havertz
An unpalatable part of the pre-game smorgasbord of images and sounds that UEFA foist upon us these days is a short segment of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Sod that.
This felt like a Champions League evening but only just. There was not the sense of occasion that was present in the air last season. And this is what the morons who were looking to foist a “closed shop” / US style Super League on us in 2021 always fail to recognise; that familiarity can breed boredom, even at the top table. For starters, there were clearly less Madridistas in The Shed than last season, down to 1,500 from 2,000 from memory. I guess Chelsea had been “ticked off” last season and the thrill of a “new ground” was not so big. However, I am sure that there were many Spaniards – and other nationalities too, my immediate boss is a Real Madrid fan from Latvia – dotted around the home areas. PD had arrived in the seats earlier than me and he commented that when the Madrid team took to the pitch for pre-match drills, a noticeable buzz came out of the Matthew Harding.
Sod that too.
We attacked the Matthew Harding in the first-half, never my preferred option. As the game got underway, it was a joy to be part of a noisier than usual crowd inside the stadium.
It was a lively start from both teams, but there was an early concern when Vinicius Junior showed Reece James the ball, then easily side-stepped him in a move of blinding speed and execution. Thankfully the cross did not hurt us. He looked a major threat in Madrid so we prayed that Reece could stay closer to him throughout this game.
Soon – almost too soon, “give the bloke a break” I chuckled to myself – the MHL were on to the visiting goalkeeper. However, Thibaut didn’t seem too bothered by the name calling.
On ten minutes, Alan opened up his packet of “lucky Maynard’s” and we chewed away. I felt like saying we might need several packets.
Soon after, a cross from James was half-cleared and the ball fell invitingly to N’Golo Kante, who rather stabbed at it and the ball bounced down and wide of Thibaut Courtois’ post. We groaned. But Stamford Bridge remained noisy. Despite a persistent cough and a thick head, I was bellowing away with the best of them.
“I’ll regret this in the morning…”
Our corners were mainly shite, though eh? One down below us from James got us all howling.
The noise kept up.
“Super Super Frank, Super Frankie Lampard.”
On twenty minutes, we gave them too much space, allowing Dani Carvajal to pass to Rodrygo who slammed a fierce shot against a post.
More song.
“Oh Tiago Silva.”
We continued to create half chances, and I was pleased with our application and drive. However, a terrible Enzo free-kick had us all wailing again. Thiago Silva then prodded a lob almost apologetically at Courtois.
We were half-way through the first-half.
“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC…”
There was a worrying burst from Vinicius but his shot was saved. Kepa then thwarted a shot from Luca Modric at his near post. I was relatively happy with our general play and the way that the noise kept up. Even Marc Cucarella was half-decent. I whispered to Clive :
“We are playing OK but this is our limit.”
With the end of the first-half approaching, Conor Gallagher made a fine run between two defenders but Enzo – new hair colour, new pink boots – over hit the ball.
On forty-two minutes, a lightning break caught us out but Karim Benzema, rather quiet thus far, overstretched and missed.
Right on half-time, a James cross found Cucarella at the far post. He took a touch, allowing Courtois to readjust. His powerful shot was miraculously saved by our former player. I turned away from the action in disgust.
Fackinell.
At the start of the game, we needed to score two goals – the bare minimum – in ninety minutes. We now needed to score two in forty-five minutes. I wasn’t hopeful. Was anyone?
There was applause for Antonio Rudiger, replacing David Alaba, at the start of the second-half. The game began again and it was a lively few minutes. I was frustrated to see Kai Havertz often appearing on the right when he was needed further inside. However, six minutes into the re-start, his fine cross caused panic in the Madrid box. It was headed out and Gallagher headed it back, but Kante’s shot was blocked by Eder Militao.
Another terrible free-kick from Reece got us all venting.
A roller from Enzo went wide.
We had a good little spell.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
A low shot from Havertz was easily saved. Oh for a cutting edge.
Then, on fifty-eight minutes, a lightning break and a failed Trevoh Chalobah slide to rob the breaking Rodrygo. He advanced and reached the goal-line before playing the ball in. Benzema fell over himself, but Vinicius was able to play the ball back to Rodrygo who had continued his run. He slotted it in easily.
We were down 0-3.
Bollocks. This was particularly annoying as we had seemed invigorated.
The half-chances continued.
A grass cutter from Gallagher at Courtois. A shot from Enzo at him again.
OH FOR A FUCKING CUTTING EDGE.
On sixty-five minutes, Real waltzed into our box but a weak shot from Benzema was easily saved. Their striker was having a quiet game.
Soon after, a plethora of substitutions.
Raheem Sterling for Enzo.
Joao Felix for Gallagher.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Cucarella.
I tried to work out who was playing where. It was a mite confused. A shot from James was blocked and we then admired a nice shimmy from Mudryk, but he skied it.
The Madrid fans were not the noisiest that have ever appeared at Stamford Bridge. Using my telephoto lens to zoom in on them all, they hardly looked the most intimidating bunch of individuals.
Despite being 0-3 down on aggregate, I loved it that virtually nobody in the home sections had left.
Proper Chelsea.
Mason Mount for Havertz.
Right after, a way-too-easy advance from Vinicius down below me resulted in a pull back towards that man Rodrygo who pushed the ball home easily.
We were down 0-4.
Now people left.
Improper Chelsea.
Alan mentioned how spoilt we have become and dropped in a reference from forty-years ago into the mix.
“Fans these days wouldn’t have coped losing 3-0 at Burnley in 1983.”
More of that later.
Our task was always going to be a supremely tough one. We had not been humiliated. To be truthful, it certainly appeared that Real had not moved out of second gear over the two legs. He is a wily old fox, that Carlo Ancelotti.
On ninety minutes, the home support still sang.
“We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.”
I took a photo of virtually the last kick of the game and shared it on Facebook.
“Over and out.”
So, 1983.
On Saturday 16 April 1983, I travelled up by National Express bus from Bath to Victoria Bus Station for the home game against Newcastle United. This would be my fourth and final game of this particular season. Amid the worry of the upcoming “A Level” exams, the day ought to have been a relaxing side-show…
Going in to the game, Chelsea were in fifteenth place, six places behind the visitors. With Kevin Keegan revitalising Newcastle, their league campaign had not lived up to the pre-season expectation. At the top of the table, QPR, Wolves and Fulham were in the three automatic places. I had hoped for a gate of 15,000 but fully expected one of around 12,000 to assemble at Stamford Bridge.
My diary tells me that – presumably to save money – I walked to and from Stamford Bridge, along the Kings Road, full of shoppers and punks. It was a lovely sunny day.
The team lined up as below –
Iles
Jones – Droy – Pates – Hutchings
Rhoades-Brown – Bumstead – Fillery – Canoville
Speedie – Lee
The visitors included some decent players; alongside Keegan were Imre Varadi, Terry McDermott, David McCreery and Chris Waddle. During the game, Keith Jones – yes, him – replaced Paul Canoville.
I remember that I wore the 1981 to 1983 replica shirt to the match.
“We started OK but when Keegan scored a penalty, it knocked the stuffing out of us. Mike Fillery was unrecognisable. Colin Lee played quite well. Keegan was the best player on the pitch; he was a bundle of energy. Newcastle played the more controlled football but we had more possession.”
After Keegan scored a first-half penalty at The Shed, Varadi made it two-nil to the visitors in the second-half. By then, the mood had deteriorated, with calls for John Neal’s resignation being heard in The Shed. One chap in front of me kept singing :
“Eddie McCreadie’s Blue & White Army.”
I also heard “One Man Went To Mow” at a game for the very first time.
At the game, I kept with my guess of 12,000. There were quite a few visitors – two pens from memory – and the East Lower was quite full, but The Shed not particularly. The actual gate was 13,466.
In the programme there was a letter from one of our greatest-ever supporters Ron Hockings, whose attendance at the Fulham away game had marked his 1,400th Chelsea game. He had seen 877 at home and 523 away. I can only imagine the awe that I must have had for such numbers as a seventeen-year-old Chelsea fan in Somerset.
Back at Victoria, the place was swarming with Brighton fans after their 2-1 win against Sheffield Wednesday at Highbury in their FA Cup semi-final. In the other semi, Manchester United had defeated Arsenal by the same score at Villa Park. Chelsea seemed well and truly down the pecking order. We could only dream of FA Cup semi-finals; our next one would still be eleven years away. On the coach trip home, I was of course pretty depressed about the state of our club. The Third Division was definitely beckoning. I was at a low ebb.
Next up – in 1983, that game at Burnley, in 2023 a home game against Brentford.
On a night of high drama at a wonderfully noisy Stamford Bridge, as Chelsea undoubtedly produced the finest performance of a deeply frustrating season, we defeated Borussia Dortmund 2-0 with goals in each half from the boots of Raheem Sterling and Kai Havertz, this from a twice-taken penalty, to secure our passage into the Champions League quarter finals once again.
It was always going to be a long day for me, this one. I had set the alarm for 4.30am so I could do an irregular 6am to 2pm shift. Thankfully, traffic was light on the way into London and at 4.30pm, I was parked up at Bramber Road between the North End Road and Queens Club. Heaven knows what time I’d be reaching my Somerset village after the game.
Throughout the day I had been quietly confident of us progressing against Dortmund. I felt sure that their 1-0 lead from the first leg could be overturned. I just felt it in my water. I had to smile when my fellow Frome Town supporter Steve, who would be watching the home game against Bashley – another team that plays in yellow shirts and black shorts – commented that he hoped both Yellow Walls would come tumbling down. Quite.
Pre-match was spent flitting between Stamford Bridge to chat to a couple of friends, a chip shop on Fulham Broadway for sustenance and “Simmons” to meet up with the usual suspects.
Just outside the Shed End, I chatted briefly to Mark M.
“I think we’ll do it. I think those buggers will raise their game and we’ll go through.”
And this was one of the main reasons why I was predicting a win and a safe passage into the next round. Myself and many others could not help but think that the Chelsea players, with just this one remaining trophy left to win in this dullest of seasons, were very likely indeed to go all out for a win against Dortmund. And yes, that would raise questions about desire and commitment to the cause in more mundane fixtures, but Mark smiled when he replied.
“Rather have us go through with that the case, rather than the alternative though.”
On the approach to the West Stand, supporters were being confronted by our very own yellow wall of hi-vis wearing stewards, a long line of them, who were asking for punters to show match tickets. It was calling out for a photograph and I duly snapped away. I was more than optimistic that the night would be supremely photogenic.
As I began to wolf down a saveloy and chips inside the busy chippy, I made room alongside me for a Dortmund fan. I had walked past “McGettigans” just as he had been in a discussion with a bouncer about being admitted into the pub. It didn’t surprise me that he had been turned away. We began chatting and I explained that I had attended the first leg. I also bravely retold the story of my “phantom trip” to see Borussia in 1987, hoping that he – Klaus, with his daughter alongside him – would understand my English. He was originally from Dortmund but now lives in Bonn. It was his first ever visit to London for a Champions League game. I again remained confident about a passage into the quarters and I told them so. As I sidled past them on leaving, I shook Klaus’ hand and said “when we beat you later tonight, you’ll remember this conversation.”
I then bumped into Mark W.
“Just walked up from Putney. There’s loads of them down there. In loads of pubs.”
It was no surprise that the Germans had travelled over in numbers. We had heard ridiculous stories of how many Eintracht Frankfurt supporters had descended on the capital in previous years and it was now the turn of the yellow and black hordes from Westphalia.
In the bar, my confidence was still surprisingly high. Jason and Gina from Dallas, remaining in London from the Leeds game, met up for a quick chat before disappearing off for a pre-match meal in one of the banqueting suites. I could sense that the mood in the small bar was buoyant. You could taste it in the air.
“Just need to avoid conceding an early goal.”
I walked up the Fulham Road with Parky. I was aware that the younger element in our support had planned a Liverpool-style welcome for the Dortmund coach outside the main gates between 5.30pm and 6pm – flares, noise – but I had not heard how well that had gone.
I was soon inside.
The three-thousand away fans were already occupying their allotted zone, though the section was configured slightly differently than the away area for a domestic league game; more in the lower, less in the upper, I know not why.
At 7.30pm, news filtered through that the kick-off had been delayed until 8.10pm. I wondered if the fans’ “welcome” had caused this.
We heard the team, a trusted 3-4-3.
Kepa
Koulibaly – Fofana – Cucarella
James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell
Sterling – Havertz – Felix
For some reason, Chelsea had decided to position two blowers at either end of the West Stand, pitch-side, and for a few minutes before the pre-game ceremony really got going, these blew dry-ice into the air. I must admit that it added to the atmosphere and the sense of drama despite me preferring fan-led initiatives.
Clive : “Gary Numan is on the pitch next.”
Indeed, how very 1980.
Next up, a laser light show. Again dramatic, but it was as if we were being spoon-fed our atmosphere rather than being able to create our own.
Then the entrance of the teams. I’ll say it once again; I much preferred the dramatic walk across the pitch and the line-ups in front of the West Stand.
The game was almost upon us.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
But first, it was time for the away fans, seemingly all bedecked in yellow and black scarves, to give us all a show. It was, I have to say, stunning. Just as the teams stood for the anthem, scarves were held aloft. Then, a first for me, the Borussia players sprinted over to the away corner to show their appreciation. By now, the mosaic depicting many of our players was draped over both tiers of The Shed.
And then.
And then the yellow flares took over the away section, then the whole Shed End, then that part of the pitch. Alan likened it to a scene from the trenches of Picardy when mustard gas floated terrifyingly across battle lines. The scene reminded me of a Turner painting of the River Thames that I had recently seen at the art gallery in Liverpool; a yellow wash with broad brush strokes.
I wondered what masterpiece was going to unfold on the canvas before me.
This was it then. A massive game. Up until now, our season had been decidedly patchy, like one of those hideous denim jackets – “Kutte” – that many German football fans love to wear to games, but here was one easy path to redemption. Win this one boys and most – not all – will be forgotten.
Into them Chelsea.
We began so well, with some deep penetration – especially down the Chilwell and Felix flank – bringing us immediate joy, despite us watching the action through a cadmium yellow haze.
I was so pleased to see Julian Brandt, one of their best players in Germany three weeks ago, being substituted after just five minutes. The man mountain of Niklas Sule still stood in our way, though.
Our fine start – a header from Kalidou Koulibaly, a shot from Kai Havertz – helped to stir up a noisy reaction from us.
But the sight of all that yellow smoke drifting into the cold evening air, plus those sulphurous notes hitting our senses too, had set the tone. We were up for the vocal battle.
The atmosphere was bloody fantastic.
Even though I had seen many obvious tourist-types during my wanderings pre-match, wearing far too many friendship scarves for my liking, the old-school support had reacted so well in those early minutes. Again there had been a collective decision to ignore doubts about Graham Potter and to simply support.
And how.
The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge.
After having the best of the first fifteen minutes, the away team then had a little spell. Fearing danger, Alan had begun to share his packet of “Maynard Wine Gums”, our European good-luck charm for many a season – I have a ‘photo of Alan with a packet before the Vicenza game twenty-five years ago – and we managed to ride the storm.
There was, however, one moment of high drama. There was a foul in “Ward-Prowse” territory and Marco Reus – who did not play in the first-game – struck a fine free kick towards goal. Kepa flung himself across the goal to save well.
Phew.
A goal then would have been catastrophic.
Despite our keen start, the away team were now bossing the possession but we looked confident when we broke. As the minutes passed, it became an even game. At times we struggled a little to win the ball.
But the noise still gratifyingly rose out of the stands.
On twenty-seven minutes, a wicked cross from Reece James was whipped into the six-yard box but without anyone arriving to meet it. The ball rebounded out to Havertz who unleashed a thunderous strike goal wards goal. The effort slammed against one post and then seemed to spin slowly across the face of the goal, again with nobody close, and off it went for a goal kick.
Fackinell.
Next up, more drama. Chelsea on top again. The noise booming. A Raheem Sterling shot – after a run from deep – was saved but the ball reached Havertz. Cool as you like, the German curled an exquisite effort up and into the far top corner. I celebrated wildly but soon saw an off-side flag.
“Yeah, to be fair, Sterling did look offside.”
This was good stuff.
“Bellingham is quiet, in’ee?”
The whole stadium was now one huge unit.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
Next, a chance for Koulibaly was fluffed but the ball ran on to Felix but his shot was straight at Alexander Meyer in the Borussia goal. Then a shot from Chilwell, attacking space so well, but his effort went wide.
“Be brilliant to get a goal just before the break.”
Throughout the first-half, it was reassuring to see Marc Cucarella playing so well. His game was full of incisive tackles and intelligent passing. A huge plus.
With forty-three minutes on the clock, a move developed on our strong left flank. Often in this half Havertz was to be found in a slightly deeper role with Sterling in the middle up top. On this occasion, the ball was moved out of defence by Cucarella. The ball found Havertz who wriggled away down the left – liquid gold – and he then back-heeled to Mateo Kovacic who kept the ball moving. A cross from Chilwell was zipped in to the waiting Sterling. He stabbed at the ball but completely missed it. He did well to get to the ball again, take a touch and blast the ball goal wards. In the blink of an eye, the ball rose to hit the net high.
The Bridge shook.
GET IN YOU BASTARD.
Euphoria? You bet. Perfect timing. Perfect.
The players celebrated in front of the away fans. Snigger. Snigger.
At half-time, everything was good in my world, your world, our world.
In 1983, things were…different.
After the win at home to Blackburn Rovers, Chelsea travelled over to The Valley to play Charlton Athletic. The date was Saturday 5 March 1983. The result was horrific. We were 2-0 down at half-time and we went on to lose 5-2. Our scorers were Colin Lee and Pop Robson. The attendance was 11,211. I remember seeing highlights from this game on YouTube a couple of years ago. I saw half-baked football with the stadium at quarter capacity. I would advise against anyone doing the same. The former European footballer of the year in 1977 Allan Simonsen scored one of the five Charlton goals. Things were at a low ebb again.
Never mind, help was on hand. My diary noted that Bob Latchford, then at Swansea City, was going to join us on Saturday.
He didn’t.
Let’s get back to 2023 sharpish.
The second-half began and we were attacking the Matthew Harding as is our wont. We began the half in the same way that we had finished the first.
Again, this was good stuff.
After five minutes, there was an attack, developed well from right to left, that ended up with a cross from Chilwell that eventually resulted in a shot, saved, from Kovacic. But there had been a shout for handball, strangely not by myself, as the cross was whipped in.
Some of the crowd shouted “VAR”.
Fuck that.
We went to VAR.
The usual delay.
Then the referee was asked to check the TV monitor.
I chatted to Alan : “The longer these take, the better likelihood of a penalty. If they look at the TV, even more so.”
Penalty.
I didn’t cheer, I just can’t.
Havertz had the ball, carrying it, waiting for the protestations to pass.
A slow run up, a halt, a wait, a strike.
It hit the post.
The ball was cleared.
Fackinell Chels.
But, salvation.
Unbeknown to me, there had been encroachment.
The TV screen told the story.
“Straftsossausfuhrung Unerfrufung” gave way to “Betreten Des Strafraums. Wiederholung Des Strafstosses.”
Anyway, the whatever, the kick was to be retaken.
“Havertz again. Not convinced. Think he’ll miss again.”
A few fellow sufferers in the Sleepy Hollow were looking away. They could not dare to see it. I watched.
The same, lame, run up. The same side. In.
YES!
Pandemonium in the Sleepy Hollow, pandemonium at Stamford Bridge, pandemonium everywhere.
On aggregate, Chelsea 2 Borussia Dortmund 1.
Deep breaths, deep breaths.
On the hour, Stamford Bridge was again as one.
“We all follow the Chelsea.”
There was a clear chance for Jude Bellingham, but remarkably he volleyed wide.
Conor Gallagher replaced Joao Felix. The substitute provided fresh legs and kept our momentum going. But as the night grew older, and as the remaining wine gums were eked out between Alan, Clive and little old me, the nerves began to be tested.
A save by Kepa from Marius Wolf as the ball flew in.
On seventy-five minutes, Sterling raced through but I thought he was offside. He advanced, passed to Gallagher, goal. The flag was raised for the initial offside.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
On eighty-three minutes, Potter changed personnel.
Christian Pulisic – who? – for Sterling.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kovacic.
On eight-seven minutes, one final change.
Denis Zakaria for Enzo.
An extra six minutes of extra-time were signalled so Alan turned his stopwatch on.
I lived every tackle, every pass. The stopwatch passed six minutes, it entered the seventh. I watched the moment that the referee blew up.
Phew.
We were there.
Superb.
“One Step Beyond” boomed and I hurriedly put away my camera before turning to leave. All around me were smiling faces.
“See you at Leicester, Al.”
I needed to put something up on “Facebook” and it soon came to me.
“We Are Chelsea. We Do Europe.”
This has clearly been a difficult season and the football has, by our high standards, been very poor for more than this current campaign. But this game was so gorgeous to be part of. It was a complete joy to, at last, witness a proper game of football – “just like we used to” – with the added bonus of an active and energised crowd adding support and noise.
A masterpiece? It felt like it. Absolutely. It was one of those great Chelsea nights.
Walking along the Fulham Road, everyone seemed to be smiling. There were chants and songs. Along the North End Road, a car played “Blue Is The Colour” while one of the song’s original singers walked alongside me. It was a lovely moment.
“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”
The car continued on, now “toot-tooting” its horn as it disappeared into the night.
Everyone was super-happy on the drive home.
I eventually reached my house at 1.30am, just as snow started to fall, but I knew that I would not be able to crash straight away. My mind was still flying around – “Benfica next round please” – and I was able to upload a photo or two onto the internet. At just after 2.30am, I must have fallen asleep.
CHELSEA/esque 