Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 31 October 2026.

Now then dear reader, I must confess.

I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about our lunchtime fixture against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one. What kept preying on my mind was the fact that we have enjoyed some real humdingers against United, and their current demise – in the red corner – allied with our recent loss of form and direction – in the blue corner – made for a far less attractive proposition in comparison to previous battles.

This 2026 version just seemed so insipid and pale.

In my living memory, I can easily recall some seismic encounters, especially in the recent hey-day of both clubs from the mid-‘nineties.

Who can forget us beating them 5-0 in 1999?

But then the horrible loss to them in Moscow in 2008.

We suffered an FA Cup Final defeat in 1994, but relished FA Cup Final triumphs in 2007 and 2018.

Every match in that era was a heavyweight fight and we would go toe-to-toe with them.

The two teams were absolute juggernauts.

But our history with Manchester United goes way back. It stretches as far back as is possible to go; to our first season of football in 1905/06. In this inaugural Chelsea campaign, in the Second Division, we drew 0-0 on Christmas Day at their ground on Bank Street in Clayton. This is now the site of the National Cycling Centre and is no more than half a mile from Manchester City’s Etihad Stadium. The return fixture took place on 14 April and a mighty 67,000 attended when the average in the First Division was just 13,000. The results of those two fixtures? 0-0 in Manchester, 1-1 in London.

Even before my time, in the ‘sixties especially, the two teams provided entertaining spectacles in both Manchester and London. And then there was the Chelsea 5 Manchester United 6 slugfest during our first championship campaign of 1954/55.

By some nice twist of fate, this game on Halloween 2026 would be the two-hundredth game to be played between the two clubs in all competitions. The overall record stood as below :

Chelsea : 57

Draw : 57

Manchester United : 85

Incidentally, my personal total stood at 86 games with this record :

Chelsea : 27

Draw : 24

Manchester United : 35

Enough history.

Let’s concentrate on the last day of October in 2026.

This was a 12.30pm kick-off and so an early start was required. I was due to collect PD at 7am. It’s an eight-minute drive from my house to his house. I left two minutes early at 6.50am so I could take an early morning photo of my dormant village to act as a starting point to the day’s activities. As I stopped opposite a thatched cottage, the scene of the road leading down to the centre of the village – the pub, the church, maybe in that order of priorities – looked so idyllic and calm.

I drove into town, through the deserted streets, and headed up the hill to Keyford. Paul was waiting for me outside his house.

It was exactly 7am.

“Alright mezun?”

“Good morning! Alright?”

Parky was collected soon after and we breakfasted on the hoof. On the way up to London, I updated them with Frome Town’s recent exploits. On the Wednesday evening, while Chelsea were on League Cup duty at Anfield, I attended a Somerset County Cup game against Welton Rovers at Badgers Hill. This club is just down the road from Frome in Midsomer Norton, and I always think that Welton Rovers sounds like a fictional team that Roy Race used to pit his wits against in the “Tiger” comic. It was a mismatch and Frome ended up 11-0 winners. It’s the highest score that I had ever seen in a game that I have paid to see, though I grimly remember losing 13-1 in a school game once. At half-time, with Dodge 3-0 up, I crept into the clubhouse and timed it perfectly to see the two penalties from Anfield. I kept in touch with the developments at Liverpool in the second period when eight further Frome goals were scored. At the end of the game, I decided not to watch the penalties in the clubhouse after the 1-1 draw at Anfield.

“If I watch, we are bound to lose.”

I drove home, and we lost anyway.

On this Saturday, Frome Town were at home to Chichester City. Despite my ambivalence to the United game, there was not a hope in hell of me choosing Chichester City over Manchester United.

Not yet anyway.

Pete from Texas was going to the game and I had arranged to meet him in “The Eight Bells” at 10.30am. I think I last bumped into him at Leicester a few years back.

It had been a cracking drive east and the skies brightened further as I dropped my passengers off at the bottom end of Fulham Palace Road for them to be able to meet the usual suspects in the pub at 10am. I buggered off to park up just off Lillee Road and then walked over to West Brompton tube. From there, it was a quick dart down to Putney Bridge. I sidled up to Pete at the bar bang on 10.30am. If my accomplishments in life could match my ability to pick up co-passengers and to meet mates in bars at exactly the right times, I would be unstoppable.

I stood with Pete and his wife Margaret, and we chatted about all sorts of football-related shite. I had to grimace when Pete suggested that “The Eight Bells”, on his first-ever visit, was something of an old man’s pub.

Shudder.

I corrected him.

“Old school, maybe.”

We laughed.

Maybe Pete didn’t realise that every single one of the people who were cramped around tables in the pub and nestled on benches outside were all going to the game. Visually, there were very few clues that we were all Chelsea.

Margaret and Pete had acquired tickets alongside his son and his wife in the East Upper and headed off early. I stayed alongside PD and Parky, Jimmy the Greek, Salisbury Steve, Benches Dave, DJ Ian and Doncaster Paul. It was the first visit to our “local” since Hull City. I have missed it badly.

We left for the game at around 11.30am.

Just as with the old Fulham Broadway station, there is an exit that gets used only on match days. As I ascended the steps to the rear of the station, I took a photo of the stadium’s roof supports, the rear of the West Stand and the autumn leaves. If we are to see redevelopment at Stamford Bridge, then I suspect that there will be substantial exits built where the northern edge of the Oswald Stoll buildings sits.

I was in relatively early again. I spotted a few of the trademark red / white / black flags in the United section of The Shed.

A large red poppy sat on the centre circle. This would be our closest home match to Remembrance Day, so it was no surprise to see it.

Chelsea Football Club always carries the ceremonies linked to remembering those lost in conflicts over the years with great class and understated style.

Apart from on this occasion. While members of the armed forces strode out towards the centre of the pitch and along the West Stand touchline, instead of complete silence, there was the loud playing of “The Liquidator” and thousands yelling “We hate Tottenham.” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I shook my head in disbelief.

I remember the days when balconies were stripped of banners too, thus emphasising the importance of the focus of the pre-match.

I guess that won’t happen again.

There was, however, a fine tribute at The Shed; a large red poppy, a sea of white mosaic cards, and a solemn banner below – “We Will Remember Them” – and a sole Chelsea Union flag was waved in the Shed Lower.

That was more like it.

As the players stood in the centre circle – attended by two Chelsea Pensioners – everyone became silent as a passage from “For the Fallen” by Laurence Binyon was read.

“They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

And then, with everyone quiet, “The Last Post.”

That was more like it, Chelsea. My faith in everything was restored. A few spectators raced in to sit at the last few remaining seats. I was alongside Clive and PD. I mentioned to Clive that I didn’t think that United had ever turned up wearing black shorts, and not white, at the previous forty-six visits that I had seen in person.

Without Joao Pedro again, Xabi Alonso played Pedro Neto as a “false nine” which allowed Estevao to play on the right. Marco Palestra made his league debut.

Mike Penders

Josh Acheampong – Wesley Fofana – Levi Colwill – Marco Palestra

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Estevao – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Pedro Neto

We attacked the twin sets of supporters at The Shed in the first half.

As I looked over to the East Stand, bathed in sunshine, how nice it would have been to see the bright scarlet tunics of some Chelsea Pensioners in the front row of the East Middle. Instead, I saw one climbing the steps to sit in the back row of the middle tier right at the northern end.

We began reasonably brightly. Early on there were two searching balls towards Neto, one centrally lofted by Palmer, and the other from the left. He almost reached them. On eight minutes, Estevao – looking keen – cut inside but his strong shot flew past both the ‘keeper and the post.

I admitted to Clive that I couldn’t name United’s keeper if I was offered £10,000.

“It’s not Paddy Roche, is it?”

Just after, United broke and a shot from Andrey Santos flew high and wide. There had been no reaction to his reappearance at Stamford Bridge.

On eleven minutes, a fine and fancy run from Estevao deep into their box, and he reached the goal-line but there was nobody to prod home. I think it was Harry Maguire who thumped the ball out.

Estevao had started very well, and on fourteen minutes he finished off a fine move that he had instigated with a pass to Neto. There was a shot, a save by Senne Lammens – for it was him – a prod home, but I immediately saw a raised flag from the lino.

Immediately after a Chelsea corner, Bryan Mbeumo raced away and flighted a perfect cross over to Brino Fernandes, alone in the middle His rushed shot flashed high. How we laughed, with associated hand gestures of course.

Twenty minutes had passed and I thought that Chelsea were slightly on top.

However, United were starting to warm up.

On twenty-five minutes we witnessed two chances for the away team, including a low cross from Fernandes that thankfully missed everyone.

On twenty-nine minutes, Penders did well to block a shot from Matheus Cunha and the ever-reliable Josh blocked a follow-up shot.

Penders did well to block an effort at the near post from Amad Diallo after Wesley Fofana had managed to get his right leg going towards Lambeth and his left leg going towards Leytonstone.

On thirty minutes, a United break threatened to cut us open, and I bellowed “get an early touch, Fofana” but the moment was lost as he dillied-and-dallied, dallied-and-dillied and lost his way.

I’ll say it again.

Fofucksake Fofana.

On thirty-three minutes, a corner from Fernandes down below us, and Maguire lept at the back stick and Cunha headed home. The United players raced off to celebrate using a very odd dance routine in the far corner. Thankfully, VAR intervened and the lead was annulled.

Then, bizarrely, we hit the United post.

I kid you not.

A corner, and Fofana – yes, really – headed towards goal. The ball touched Caicedo and apologetically bumped against the base of the post.

On forty-two minutes, United broke into acres of space. Fofana – yes, him again – was the lone defender charged with tackling Diallo. Fofana’s response to this heavy task reminded me of the moment when you spot someone you know in a supermarket from a distance, so you prepare a little greeting in your head, walk on, but at the last moment you realise that it wasn’t who you thought it was, and you veer off to inanely gawp at pineapple chunks in aisle seven.

It wasn’t a tackle; it wasn’t a challenge. It seemed there was no physical contact whatsoever. The moment that the two players went their separate ways was captured on my SLR and I include it here for – I guess – comedic value.

Don’t hate me.

Thankfully, Diallo lifted the ball over the goal frame, and we lived to tell the tale.

A minute later, a break down our left and Neto pick-pocketed the lumbering Maguire but drilled a shot past the far post. Then, just after, an Estevao run and shot, but his effort was smacked at Lammens. Estevao, full of tricks early on, had drifted out of the game.

At half-time, it was time for honest reflection and one of Clive’s choccy bars. I thought that we were on top for twenty minutes but then United had the chances to lead. I’m not into negativity but – my goodness – it’s hard to warm to Fofana. I wanted Morgan Rogers to be more confident and to take players on. Palmer had struggled to get a foothold. But there were signs that Romeo Lavia was finding his feet at the club.

The second half began, but the atmosphere, that had been awful in the first half, showed no signs of improving.

With five minutes of the second half elapsed, a fifty-fifty in the centre circle, and one became two snappy tackles from Lavia. The second allowed the ball to be touched to Rogers.

I grasped my camera and snapped away as our forward – showing all the self-belief that I craved at half-time – raced forward, pacing himself against the United players alongside him. He had the better of them. An extra touch – please God let it not be one too many – and then a sublime flick over the United ‘keeper who I have now forgotten the name of again, and the net rippled.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Alas, the limbs of the bloke in front of me spoiled any photos of him leaning against the corner flag, but I did not care. I was ecstatic and punched the air instead.

GET IN MY SON.

Advantage us, and we then started playing. Caicedo fell inside the box, and appealed for a penalty, but it looked a weak challenge; just a coming together.

I was having none of it.

“If that’s a penalty, I’m a Dutchman.”

Immediately, the bloke in front of me turned and spoke some Dutch.

“Love it mate. That’s brilliant.”

Estevao, charged with delivering most of the dead balls, swung in a tight corner and the ball nestled right on top of the net. It so easily could have dropped into the goal. Another corner from him, deeper, and the ball was headed away for a corner. I saw a Chelsea player fall to the floor – guess who? Yes, Fofana – but I did not see what had happened. Our lads were appealing strongly for a foul and thus a penalty.

VAR was called into action.

There was no excitement from me. I greet every VAR intervention the same way; with grim disapproval.

The referee was told to check the replay on the small screen by the West Stand. Tellingly, no United players raced over. They stayed within the penalty area. It was as if they knew it was a penalty. Well, as soon as a referee starts talking, you know the decision.

Penalty.

I did not celebrate.

However, Lisandro Martinez now had two yellows, so he was off, and that gave me a nice warm feeling; perhaps a security blanket.

We waited for the penalty kick.

Cole Palmer slapped it low, but the ‘keeper reacted well and his body blocked the ball’s path, only for it to rise off his shoulder.

But it was in.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

I celebrated now.

However, I spotted that Palmer seemed quite subdued. Maybe he realised how lucky it was that his shot was hit so powerfully that it was not stopped by the ‘keeper’s touch.

The Chelsea crowd, louder now, were in a playful mood.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

On sixty-six minutes, the United manager Michael Carrick, made two substitutions. Amidst the changes, Santos exited, and Mason Mount appeared. I did not boo. I certainly did not clap. I just indulged in a hand gesture well loved by boys of a certain age and beyond.

There was an ambitious curler from Estevao, that I caught on camera, but which went well wide.

With an extra man, we were purring.

Clive : “they can smell blood.”

This really was much better. I loved how Lavia was playing alongside Caicedo. Rogers looked more at ease. And what a joy it is – in an age where damned statistics determine playing styles – that we can watch Palmer and Estevao, the free-stylers, performing on the same pitch.

These two players then combined, racing through the middle. Palmer played the ball out to his right to Estevao, but I must admit that I thought Estevao was offside from my angle. However, I managed to capture his exquisite finish, with Maguire floundering, whipped high past the ‘keeper at his near stick. The scorer raced away to milk the applause with smiles on the faces of everyone. He even dropped on top of the crowd at one stage; a human crowd-surfer.

But wait. After what seemed a very long time, but was probably around ninety seconds or so, VAR flashed up on the TV screen. To be honest this came as no surprise to me as I originally thought that Palmer’s ball was played to Estevao in an offside position. In fact, I hardly celebrated the goal.

But this is what annoyed me about everything.

Why did it take so long for VAR to be signalled? Surely the folks at Stockley Park could have spotted a borderline moment within ten seconds?

To me it seems that the officials are in cahoots with the TV companies to create false drama here. It’s as if the TV cameras crave wild celebrations after a great goal as it shows players and fans alike enjoying those blissful moments of football. Players smiling, celebrating, carrying out embarrassing dance routines, high-fives, hugs, glances towards cameras, braggadocio. Fans in ecstasy, hugging, cheering, boisterous and living for the moment.

And how often do we get the VAR signalled once the scoring team’s players have walked back to their positions for the re-start.

Now we have the TV cameras searching out the dismay of those same fans, the annoyance of the scorer, the change of atmosphere in the stadium.

It’s almost as if this routine – that happens so fucking often – is especially stage managed for the folks at home.

Is this what football has become?

Some sort of showcase for fake drama and a circus for fools?

I was not surprised that Estevao was called offside; neither were PD and Clive, nor the lads sitting behind me. But imagine my disapproval when I soon found out that the margin was just a few inches. In those cases, let the goal stand.

Please.

VAR is a betrayal of everything that football – the spirit of football – was about.

I despise it.

Alonso shuffled his pack.

Seventy-four minutes :

Pep Chavarria for Palestra.

On eighty-three minutes, Penders carried out his first real save of the second period when Joshua Zirkzee made it easy with a shot right at him.

Estevao forced the United ‘keeper to dive full length to save another of his fierce shots.

By now, the Chelsea crowd had changed the tune for the United manager.

“Michael Carrick – we want you to stay.”

And then, later, this one.

“You’re going down with the City.”

More shuffling.

Eighty-seven minutes :

Danny Welbeck for Caicedo.

Valentin Barco for Pedro Neto.

Malo Gusto for Estevao.

A mighty ten extra minutes were signalled and yes – us being us – I was immediately concerned. Mbeumo slammed a spectacular volley against the bar, and we were all so grateful that the ball didn’t bounce down over the line.

A goal then would have created a few tense minutes.

Two late chances presented themselves; a Palmer curler after a pass from Chavarria, and then a cross from Gusto set up Barco, who sadly slammed his shot over.

Very late on, Geovany Quenda replaced Palmer.

It stayed 2-0 and we stayed fourth.

Manchester United had still only won once in the league this season.

The mood was certainly buoyant as I made my way down the Fulham Road. It was so different to the feelings of despair and even anger of the previous Saturday. Here, there were smiles, and positivity. It really was a massive change and I felt it sharply.

It solidified my feelings that football is so important to us all, despite its detractors and its ability of self-afflicted pain.

In a nutshell, the Chelsea Nation would be happy on this Halloween.

Everyone was talking about Lavia. It was, for sure, his best game for us by a country mile. I hoped that this game represented a base camp from which the Caicedo / Lavia midfield partnership could rise and conquer football’s summits.

I made my way back to the car and slowly drove out of London. I was very much aware that another game was starting, and I checked its progress at Reading Services.

I saw that Chelsea fan Albie Hopkins had put Frome 1-0 up on fifty-six minutes.

Alas, I also stopped at Membury Services only to find that we were now 1-3 down.

It ended 2-3.

Bollocks.

Frome have now dropped to eleventh in the division.

I reached Dodge and treated myself to a Victory Kebab, the staple food chosen by my Chelsea mate Leggo every time his Bedford Town wins a game.

It had been a cracking day out and this Chelsea win now changed things slightly.

Chelsea : 58

Draw : 57

Manchester United : 85

Looking ahead, a magnificent road trip is planned for next weekend.

I will see you at either Sandhurst or Sunderland.

Cheers.