Chelsea vs. Fulham : 26 December 2024.
Nobody likes sloppy seconds.
And that was a very sloppy second-half performance. We just about edged the first-half, but lost our way significantly after the break.
Right, that’s the match report done. What else happened on Boxing Day 2024?
I was up early for the game with Fulham. The alarm rang at 5.30am and I soon got into my morning routine. While my hometown prepared itself for the Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway game at 3pm – a relegation six-pointer – I crept around in the darkness and collected first PD and then Glenn. Then a quick spin through some back roads to collect Ron from his house at 7am and then on to collect Parky at 7.20am.
There were five-up in the car for the first time since Aston Villa a few weeks back, and this was only the third time this season that Ron has been with us. It was lovely to get the gang back together. As a “thank you” for the time we spend with Ron, the Chelsea Foundation very kindly gave Glenn a ticket for the Chelsea Foundation box for the Villa game, and today it was my turn. This allowed me to give my season ticket to Glenn who would be watching alongside Alan, Clive and PD in the Sleepy Hollow.
On the M4, as we headed west near Swindon, everything was quiet. Outside, the skies were a mixture of black and various dark grey hues. There were strong blocks of darkness, some low-lying cloud, but in truth it didn’t look like the sky at all, more a painter’s palette, with colours mixing and blurring. With the spots of water on my driver’s side window contorting an already ethereal scene, the effect was mesmerising. Then, suddenly appearing high, just through some gaps in the blotchy clouds, I spotted the moon, though it was the slimmest and feintest sliver of white, barely there, barely visible.
The road was almost devoid of traffic.
I stopped at Membury Services for a couple of cans of iced coffee to keep me going, but also a very stale bacon bap.
On the drive, I coolly stated that “Fulham never win at Chelsea. Their last win was in 1979 in the old Second Division.”
I drove into London bang on time. I dropped PD and Parky off near The Eight Bells at 9.30am and I dropped Ron and Glenn outside the main gates just after. I did a little driving around SW6 – some reconnaissance – to check out the area’s new parking regime. In the end, I parked, again, right outside the Italian restaurant that I used for the Shamrock Rovers game, which seemed strangely ages ago. Then, a brisk walk down to Stamford Bridge.
I had been keeping a secret from the chaps for this game. Our great friend Dave was over from his home in the South of France with his football-mad seven-year-old son Jared and I had managed to obtain two tickets for them via my friend Gary. Dave was originally from Dartford in Kent but I first met him out in Los Angeles when Chelsea played a couple of matches in the summer of 2007. At the time he was living in New York and only returned to England in around 2013. He was, memorably, with me when Demba Ba did his magic at Anfield that year. Since then, he moved to France. His son has top Chelsea pedigree; he was born on the same day that Chelsea won at West Bromwich Albion in 2017 to win our last league title. I visited Dave in Nice for a day in September 2023 while on holiday on the Italian Riviera, but the lads had not seen Dave for a good three years or so. We decided to keep their visit a surprise.
Dave and Jared, a keen footballer now, had encountered train problems en route but were waiting for me ahead of schedule at 10.15am. We met up with Glenn in the hotel bar and there were hugs and smiles. I handed over the two season tickets, just a few yards away from our seats, and then the three of them sped off to meet up with the lads in the pub near Putney Bridge.
I sat with Ron, and three long-time Chelsea fans – John, Mark and his mother – and waited for a few more of the other Chelsea players who take part in the pre-match hospitality to arrive. I was gasping for a drink, but was gasping at the price that I was charged for a small “Diet-Coke”; a mighty £3.58. It was nothing more than half-a-pint.
A dry bap, an expensive “Coke”, I was doing well.
I really enjoyed spending time with the three supporters, two of whom – Mark and John – I regularly see at the hotel. Both kept me occupied with stories from a shared Chelsea past. I had chatted to Mark at our mutual friend Gary’s funeral back in June, and Mark’s mother was there too. His mother had been born locally in Chelsea in 1940 and lived very close indeed to Stamford Bridge, possibly just off the Fulham Road. She explained how she got to know some of the players in the late ‘fifties, and how one of them – I forget who – was her late husband’s best man, and that two others were Mark’s Godparents.
Talk about Chelsea heritage.
Some players arrived.
Tommy Langley, Gary Chivers, Colin Pates, John Bumstead, David Lee, John Boyle.
They paired up and went on their way around the executive and hospitality areas at around midday. There was more chat with a few other Chelsea fans; a couple from Boston, their first match, a couple of lads from Norway.
At 1pm, I disappeared out of the hotel and soon find myself being welcomed into the Chelsea Foundation box that sits next to the Shed Wall inside the stadium, right down the southern end of the West Lower. Glenn had praised the lovely selection of food on offer at the Villa game, and I was looking forward to some better-quality food than I was served at Membury Services. Not long after I had sat at one of the two tables, I spotted a former player arrive.
Brian Bason played nineteen games for Chelsea between 1972 and 1977, and I think that he was taken aback that I recognised him. We had been friends on Facebook before my account was hacked in June, and I had actually forgotten that we were friends again on my new account. I enjoyed hearing about Brian’s Chelsea career and it gave me great pleasure to hear that he was a boyhood fan of the club. I am not sure if it was his debut, but he told the story of him playing at Tottenham in October 1972 – and winning 1-0, of course – and being so thrilled that Ron Harris gave him a lift back to his house after the game.
“Ron wasn’t a dirty player. He was just hard and solid.”
We spoke about Brian’s blooter against Carlisle in the autumn of 1975, but how Sammy Nelson broke his leg in a League Cup tie at Highbury in October 1976. I remembered that I had seen Brian play twice for Chelsea – at home to Cardiff City, away to Bristol Rovers – and those games were just before the leg-break. Incidentally, Brian was replaced by Ron Harris in that Arsenal game.
Brian went on to play 130 games for Plymouth Argyle, and also for Vancouver Whitecaps, Crystal Palace, Portsmouth and Reading. While playing in the NASL he played against Pele and George Best. Just imagine that. Brian retired from football in 1983 and he now lives in Brittany. He’s a lovely chap.
The food on offer was unsurprisingly top quality, and I devoured some chicken breasts with assorted vegetables. As I was driving, I kept to “Diet-Cokes” and strong coffees.
Ron arrived with David Lee, Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers and tucked into some food too; “I’m starving.”
At 2.45pm we went outside and took our seats in the front row of the two rows in front of the box.
A box on Boxing Day. The SW6 derby was about to begin.
Back in 1984, Chelsea faced another local foe in a Hammersmith & Fulham derby. On 26 December 1984, we travelled to Loftus Road and eked out a 2-2 draw, with both goals coming from Kerry Dixon, one of them a penalty. I was listening in to score updates at home in Somerset. QPR was always a difficult ticket for me, and I didn’t see my first match at Loftus Road until 1995. Hell, I didn’t see my first game at Craven Cottage until 2004.
I dislike QPR intensely in the 1979 to 1990 period as they often seemed to have the upper-hand over us. I remember a horrible 1-3 defeat at The Bridge on a rainy and dismal Saturday in March 1979, and the couple of Rangers fans sat right in front of me in the East Lower.
The gate at Loftus Road on Boxing Day 1984 was a mighty 26,610. At least half of the spectators would have been Chelsea. We used to take over the place in those days.
Here is a comparison with QPR’s home games against all London teams that season.
Tottenham Hotspur 27,404
Chelsea 26,610
Arsenal 20,189
West Ham 16,085
QPR had seven gates under 12,000 that season, including 11,007 on a Friday night against Liverpool, the European Champions, although that game was live on TV. In those days, TV games were often poorly attended.
In 2024, it was a mild Boxing Day, and the masses had packed out Stamford Bridge to another capacity crowd.
Us?
Sanchez
Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
It was odd to be watching from such a strange angle. I noticed how shallow the West Lower is; a really low rake, a low angle, unlike the old West Stand.
The game began and Chelsea attacked the Shed. Fulham probably enjoyed the best of the first five minutes but we steadily improved as the game developed. Jadon Sancho on the far side was an early bright spark, an early leading light, and he looked keen to impress. Both teams were sounding each other out, with only a few jabs being thrown.
On sixteen minutes, the game changed. Cole Palmer had started the game quietly, but there is always a threat when he is given the ball. Levi Colwill, our most consistent centre-back now, passed the ball to Palmer and he moved gracefully forward. He evaded the presence of one Fulham player and then another, all the while the ball mesmerizingly close to his feet. He advanced further and the coolly and calmly dispatched the ball through a crowd of legs and past Bernd Leno, who used to be a goalkeeper, and into the goal.
I’ll be honest. I could hardly believe what I had seen. I turned around and said “in those situations, he is ice-cold” and I immediately added to Ron and Brian that it was a goal that was so reminiscent of Jimmy Greaves. Greaves would often pass the ball into the net.
Chelsea 1 Fulham 0.
Fantastic.
From Alan in The Sleepy : “THTCAUN.”
Chris in the West Lower : “COMLD.”
Just after, there was some over-elaboration which frustrated us all, with Nicolas Jackson and Palmer combining but a weak effort on goal.
Just after that, some more lovely stuff from Palmer and a curler from outside the box. We were in a great little spell.
But then Fulham got involved in the game. There was a shot that cleared the bar, and then someone called Calvin Bassey had an unfettered and lengthy run up the park before shooting low, but Sanchez was able to save.
Adama Traore was playing well, too, and Alex Iwobi was floating around waiting to strike.
Halfway through the first-half, I mused that it was perhaps a little fortunate that we were 1-0 up.
A lovely free-kick from Cole Palmer was floated into an empty six-yard box where it was met by a dive from Marc Cucarella, but the effort was firstly saved by Leno and then kicked to safety by a teammate.
As half-time approached, I was able to say it was a decent enough game, and we had indeed edged it.
Bloody quiet though.
I turned to Ron.
“Good news. Frome are winning 2-0 at half-time.”
At the break, I fed myself manically.
Cheese and biscuits, a Christmas crumble with apple and mincemeat, some cheesecakes and ice creams, a coffee.
It was the quickest half-time ever.
“That’s what happens when you spend the entire time stuffing your face with food.”
I missed the start of the second-half by a minute or so, the shame.
There was a fine curling effort from Enzo that was tipped over the bar by Leno, then a header by Colwill that was quickly disallowed for offside. Such a shame, because it came from a deliciously whipped-in cross by that man Palmer.
Iwobi went close down at our end, and the game heated up. A few of us in the West Lower tried to get others fired up to join in with some chanting but it was a desperate struggle. The noise had increased, though. It was, no longer, football in a library.
Fulham definitely grew stronger and were especially worrying me on the counter-attack where Traore and others were occasionally gifted space. Cucarella, pushed inside when we had the ball, was often out of position when we lost the ball. Very often it was two white shirts against his solitary blue one.
As the second-half developed, we grew frustrated with our slow build up play. I struggled to see the point in us gathering some momentum, Fulham out of shape, but then slowing the game down to a snail’s pace.
An arthritic snail at that. An arthritic snail with asthma.
Fackinell.
We just didn’t go for the kill in that second-half. And our play became so sloppy, and lacking focus.
We grew tense.
Sanchez made a big save close-in from Andreas Pereira.
On sixty-six minutes, at last a chance, started by a fantastic tackle by Caicedo, and then a strong piercing run by Jackson but saved well by Leno.
“Frome are 3-0 up, Ron.”
An effort from Raul Jiminez was sliced way up into the Shed Upper.
The tension would not go away. Fulham were a decent team. No doubt.
Fulham made a few changes, but we only brought on Christopher Nkunku and his blue balloons in place of Jackson, who had not been at his best.
Our sloppiness continued.
On eighty-two minutes, a cross from the Fulham left by Iwobi was met by a big leap by Timothy Castagne, who headed it back for Harry Wilson to head down and in and past Sanchez. The play was right in line with us and it all looked like an offside was involved, but alas not.
We attacked again, the game opening up, but Fulham always looked better placed to exploit the spaces that were appearing. Six minutes of extra time were signalled.
Death or glory?
Something like that maybe.
Alas, in the very last minute, with us all standing in the box, Fulham attacked us after the ball was given up way too easily. Sasa Lukic burst in front of us and crossed low for Rodrigo Muniz to turn the ball past Sanchez.
I slumped in my seat as the Fulham players celebrated in the far corner.
Bollocks.
For the neutral, a decent game. Fulham had played well, and had deserved a point, but perhaps their victory – hello 1979, the lads would crucify me in the car – was equally of our doing as theirs.
To be honest, though, no grumbles. We had been poor in that second-half.
There was a quick “hello goodbye” with Dave and I gave Jared a hug. I was so sad that his first game at Chelsea had ended in the saddest of ways.
There was time to tell Ron and Glenn that Frome had eventually walloped Plymouth Parkway 5-0 (four wins in a row now, no goals conceded either) before I marched back to the car.
The Fulham fans were cock-a-hoop on the Fulham Road.
“There’s only one team in Fulham…”
I felt like saying “with not one single major trophy since 1879, it ain’t you” but I kept silent.
At Tony Millard’s “The Clarence” on the North End Road, the boozer where many old school Chelsea types, old school hoolies, and those on banning orders reside on match days, the opening bars of “Yes Sir I Can Boogie” by Baccara were playing. It was clearly a very strange night in deepest SW6, but surely things would return to normal very soon.
CHELSEA/esque 