Tales From A Date With Thiago Silva

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fluminense : 8 July 2025.

In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :

“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”

First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.

Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.

I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.

However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.

And it’s quite a story.

This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.

“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”

Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.

We kept in contact at various times over that season.

Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.

As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.

“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”

Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.

To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”

I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.

Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.

Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.

A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.

I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.

On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.

We were euphoric.

Of course, I had to take a photograph.

It’s what I do, right?

As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.

My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.

However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.

“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”

This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.

In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.

Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.

I think we were both amazed at our memories.

I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.

Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.

Fantastic.

With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.

I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.

It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.

Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.

This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.

But here we were.

The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.

Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.

As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.

Just imagine that.

Sssshhh.

During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.

I refreshed the flight options.

Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.

For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.

Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.

I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.

I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.

That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.

It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.

Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.

Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.

On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.

After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.

I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.

I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.

In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.

On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.

And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.

Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.

There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.

Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.

My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.

“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”

I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.

“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”

And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.

The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.

I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.

It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.

Phew.

There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.

I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.

To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.

Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.

My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”

“Take a jumbo cross the water.

Like to see America.”

On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.

I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.

The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.

Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.

A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.

Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.

“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”

“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”

Fackinell.

The pints of Peroni were going down well.

We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.

I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.

Sigh.

The team news came through.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.

“No pressure, mate.”

Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.

Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.

It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.

Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.

I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.

At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.

I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.

“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”

At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I was in. I could relax. Maybe.

Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.

Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.

The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.

There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.

The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.

I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.

“Will New Jersey do, mate?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.

The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.

We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.

On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.

What a screamer.

And how we screamed.

GET IN!

What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.

Blur on the PA.

“Woo hoo!”

I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.

Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.

On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.

I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”

But I sang alone.

I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.

Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.

“Oh…shite.”

Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.

Phew.

On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.

Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.

At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.

I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.

I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.

In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.

On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.

Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.

Ecstasy in New Jersey.

There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.

The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.

On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.

Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.

Twenty minutes remained.

Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.

We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.

I whispered to Leigh :

“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”

On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.

Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.

Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.

The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.

On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.

Two very late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.

The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.

From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.

As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.

I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.

What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.

As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.

I yelled out.

“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”

He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.

What a funny, crazy, small world.

I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.

This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.

We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.

It had been another long day, but one of the greats.

And yes, my gamble had paid off.

I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.

BADGERS HILL, FROME.

LARANJEIRAS, RIO DE JANEIRO.

MARACANA, RIO DE JANEIRO.

METLIFE STADIUM, NEW JERSEY.

Tales From Somerset And Dorset

Posted on September 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 14 September 2024.

Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.

My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.

Games on!

And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.

I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.

Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.

I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”

Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.

Thanks mate.

I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.

Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.

Or maybe not, eh?

Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.

First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.

“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”

Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.

On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.

In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.

During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.

I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.

Fackinell.

Back to 2024.

Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.

We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.

Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.

We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.

I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.

There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.

Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.

…little did we know.

The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.

“Is that a professional camera?”

“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”

“OK.”

I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.

I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.

Kick-off soon approached.

Flames, flags, smoke.

“Make some noise for the boys.”

Pah.

Us?

Sanchez

Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Veiga

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

First thoughts?

“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”

Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.

The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.

The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.

We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.

It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.

Sigh.

Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.

“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.

Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.

The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.

A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.

On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.

Penalty.

One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.

“Yeah, right.”

Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.

It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.

Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.

We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.

On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.

Tosin for Disasi.

Joao Felix for Madueke.

The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.

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

Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.

Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.

Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.

Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.

The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.

On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”

The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.

“Thank God there is no Game Three.”

Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.

Goal.

We exploded.

Talk about a “fox in the box.”

What a finish.

Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.

“Need to get a photo of this.”

I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.

I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.

Snap.

Phew.

I took the money shot.

There was still time for another Sanchez save.

The Sanchez and Sancho Show.

At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.

But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.

“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”

Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.

I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.

Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.

The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.

Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.

“Chim-chimeny, chim-chimeny, chim, chim, cher-oo.”

See you then, see you there.

Tales From The Hot Corner

Posted on May 12, 2024 by Chris Axon

Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

Warning : there is a lot of red in this match report.

The Arsenal shellacking was only just two-and-a-half weeks ago, but such has been the sea change in our performances and the collective confidence in our team, that as we approached the final three games of the season, my thoughts could be summed up in just three words.

Three more wins.

If we could win the final two away games at Nottingham Forest and Brighton, plus the final match of the season at home to Bournemouth, then European football would be a strong possibility at Chelsea next season. And, whisper it quietly, but the current campaign would be marked as a success.

With my usual match day companions PD and Parky out in Spain for PD’s eldest son Scott’s Stag Party, this was a very rare solo trip for me. The kick-off in Nottingham was scheduled for 5.30pm and so I had lots of time on my hands. I decided to call in at Bicester en route for a little retail therapy, and as I left my Somerset village at 10.30am, my route to Nottingham was hardly the most direct. My car set off east, past Stonehenge and then up the A34 past Oxford, to Bicester, and beyond. As I drove past the signs for the Kassam Stadium to the south of Oxford, my mind flew back to the summer of 2004, almost twenty years ago, for Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea game of note. It’s hard to believe that the 2004/5 title season is so long ago.

My companions throughout my day’s driving would be Tracey, Elizabeth and Beth; I had lined up a few CDs to play in the car and I decided to keep it clean and simple.

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

The weather was fine, football was on my mind, and it drifted.

I went back to the drive-home from the West Ham game last Sunday. Up at Wembley, my mate Alan was watching his non-league team Bromley take on Solihull Moors to gain promotion to the Football League. Bromley had gone 1-0 up while the West Ham game was being played out, but the game had ended 2-2. We listened to the commentary of the extra-time period as we drove back along the M4. There were no more goals. It would go to penalties. Bromley missed an early effort, but went on to win 4-3. As the winning penalty went in, I punched the air. At the Hungerford exit, I pulled into a lay-by and texted Alan my congratulations. Exit 14 on the M4 will now forever be known as the Bromley exit.

All of these roads, all of these footballing memories, criss-crossing England and criss-crossing in our minds.

On my way under the M4, my mind drifted further and it was no surprise that it flowed back to Bank Holiday Monday when my local team Frome Town played Bristol Manor Farm in the Southern League South Play-Off Final. In the semi-final, we had easily dispatched Mousehole 3-0, and as I made trips to Stamford Bridge for the Tottenham and West Ham games in quick succession, my mind was otherwise full of Frome.

I met up with a few friends for a drink in a couple of establishments before the game. The anticipation was huge. On-line tickets sales had reached 1,000, then 1,400. Originally, I had expected over 1,500 but as the day dawned it appeared that a ridiculous gate of 2,000 might be reached. We got in at 2.30pm, and a quick look up at the Clubhouse End revealed an already buzzing pre-game atmosphere. The sight made me purr.

I watched the red shirts of my home town team in the first-half all alone having lost the other friends in the tumultuous crowd. I positioned myself next to the Ultras in the seated stand behind the eastern goal. Unfortunately, the visitors went ahead on just eleven minutes when Jayden Nielsen, a tormentor from two years ago when Manor Farm won 3-1 at Frome in that year’s semi-final, played in a ball for Ben Bament to tap in. Thankfully, on twenty minutes Matt Smith swung in a perfect corner for captain Sam Teale to head home. The rest of the first-half was a scrappy affair with few chances as the heavens opened.

In the second-half, I met up with my mates under the roof of The Cowshed and Frome turned the screw. Kane Simpson hit the post, James Ollis headed over. Then, Teale was fouled but Zak Drew saw his effort saved by former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. Thankfully, two close-in pokes from Simpson on seventy and seventy-six minutes saw the home team romp to a 3-1 triumph. The gate? An immensely impressive 2,235.

It had been a perfect afternoon. The pre-match nerves gave way to satisfaction, pride and relief. It was my thirty-fifth Frome game of the season, easily my most involved season, and one that I have enjoyed so much. It has provided a lovely alternative to the often cynical brand of football that is played at the top level in England. Non-league football is on the up, and I can’t wait to embark on another season in August when we will re-join the Southern League Premier and meet old foes such as AFC Totton, Dorchester Town, Swindon Supermarine and Winchester City again. We were last at this level in 2019.

Chelsea fans of a certain vintage often cite 1983/84 as our greatest-ever season. From a Frome perspective, 2023/24 will be hard to beat.

One extra story from Bank Holiday Monday. In the other Southern League Play-Off Final, the Central lot, Bedford Town defeated Waltham Abbey 2-1 in front of 2,052. Bedford are supported by my old Chelsea mate Glenn, aka Leggo, and it was perfect that three lads from the Chelsea Benches in 1983/84 were now celebrating promotions from their three “other” teams forty years later.

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

After stopping at Bicester for an hour, I made my way up past Silverstone to join the M1 at Northampton. At Leicester Forest Services, I bumped into three good Chelsea mates Rob, Rob and Martin.

Very soon, I had turned towards Nottingham and those eight monstrous cooling towers at Ratcliffe-On-Sour. Their curves were catching the sun perfectly. I drove in over Trent Bridge, past the cricket ground, the floodlights visible, then the stands and lights of the City Ground and Meadow Lane. I was parked up at 4.15pm. Perfect.

On the short walk to the City Ground, I heard a loud roar, so much so that I stupidly wondered if there was a Notts County game taking place. I soon realised that West Ham had equalised Luton’s early goal. The shouts of relief were from Forest fans in various locales near the stadium. I took a few photos; scene setters. Further shouts told of further West Ham goals.

Forest were safe.

By the way, they like their replica shirts at Nottingham Forest. There was bloody red everywhere.

I made my way to the away turnstiles and said hello to a few friends; JD from Ascot, Darren from Crewe, DJ from London, Aroha and Luke from The Eight Bells, Ricky from London, Dave and Colin from South London, Liz and Pete from Camberley, Pam, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, and Stuart from Kilmersdon, just four miles away from me. Dave and Glenn sidled past.

At the security check, my SLR was waved in and I met Jason to collect a spare for Brighton on Wednesday. I was soon inside, in the sun-bleached hot corner, alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Wish that sun would disappear behind that stand or some clouds, this is going to be a tough watch.”

Despite wearing sunglasses, I would be forever cupping my hand over my eyes at this game.

The team? It was the same one as against West Ham United last Sunday.

Petrovic, Chalobah, Cucarella, Silva, Badiashile, Caicedo, Gallagher, Madueke, Palmer, Mudryk, Jackson.

The home team contained Ola Aina and Callum Hudson-Odoi, former Chelsea youngsters.

The home support – I easily remembered how loud it was last season on New Year’s Day – was booming, especially in the corner of the main stand next to us. This was going to be a rocky game, this.

The teams walked onto the pitch.

Forest in red, white, red, their “Garibaldi” shirts mirrored in the stands. Chelsea in Eton blue.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

This was a warm evening by the banks of the Trent, and that sun made viewing difficult. We were low down too, with a difficult view of the pitch. Yes, a tough watch.

The home team began well and Djordje Petrovic needed to be alert to race out to pluck a lobbed effort from Chris Wood from the air.

On eight minutes, away on the far side, Cole Palmer sent through a ridiculously perfect through-ball for Mykhailo Mudryk to run onto. It was so well played, so delicious, that he did not have to break stride to strike. The ball was tucked in, low, at the far post. I roared but simultaneously chastised myself for not having my camera on hand to snap the goal. I made up for it with a shot of Mudryk’s leap of joy.

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Both teams had spells on the ball. On fifteen minutes, Benoit Badiashile attempted to nibble a Forest player as he broke into our half. A free-kick and a booking for Badiashile. Gary was livid. Sadly, we were all livid as the free-kick was floated in and Willie Boly ran through and met the ball with an easy header at the back stick.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

The first-half was an odd forty-five minutes. We enjoyed much of the ball, but did not cause many problems at all. I felt that Thiago Silva reverted to type and hovered with the ball at his feet on too many occasions, and we rarely played the ball quickly. Moises Caicedo found it hard to get going too. His thrust was gone. Too often we passed and passed. Marc Cucarella joined the midfield but the result was that he just helped to clog things up.

The two wingers were frustrating to watch. Mudryk often stood alone on the far side and we often chose not to use him. He needed to be further up field, on the last man, on the lip of the offside trap. With Cucarella off the wing, venturing inside, was he told to resist bombing up the flank? I don’t know. On the right, the left-footed Noni Madueke, was not greatly-used either.

Wingers can be so frustrating to watch. And their role has changed over the years. We are now in the purple period of inverted wingers. I suppose Arjen Robben was our first inverted all those years ago. How he used to love to cut in. Now, we have wingers cutting in to shoot, no longer always aiming a deep cross to hit the leap of a big man in the box. I miss those days.

I used to play as a right-winger in my school days and the idea was always to get around the outside to cross. Coming inside was never an option. I was decent for a few years, and I made my school debut as a ten-year-old in a team of twelve and thirteen years in the Spring of 1976, and played as a right winger for a few seasons. Sometimes I played as a second striker alongside a lad who went on to play one game for Bristol City. But I was happier as a wide player.

I was proud to make the first starting XI of the first team in our inaugural year at Frome College in the 1978/79 season. However, I can remember my report card at the end of that season when I played mainly in the first team but then slid out into the second team at the end for a couple of games. The PE teacher wrote that I had the ability to beat a man and put in a cross, but had virtually no confidence in my ability. I was mortified. I just wished that he had taken me to one side to explain all this to me rather than hanging me out to dry at the end of the school year. After that, I drifted along in the second team, my confidence shot to pieces.

I guess I was the world’s first introverted winger.

The first-half pottered along, and the home fans were still in good voice. They chose to make their feelings known about the rumours of the club moving to a new 50,000 stadium on the city outskirts.

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

“Toton’s a shithole, I want to stay here.”

There were only a few efforts on goal from us. Nicolas Jackson was set up by Palmer but was thwarted. A long range effort was tipped over by the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sells. It felt like Forest had more shots on goal than us in that warm – but tepid – first half. Gallagher was booked for a “nothing” challenge on Hudson-Odoi.

It honestly felt a little like a training game. To our right, a few red and white beach balls had been tossed around during the first-half and it often felt that the players would rather be in Benidorm with PD and Parky. Well, not Benidorm per se, but you get my point. I was a little underwhelmed by it all to be honest.

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

Forest clipped the outside of Petrovic’ post with a long range effort but we rallied and seemed more intent to break quickly. Palmer was played in by Caicedo, looking much more involved now, but volleyed high.

Hudson-Odoi, keen to impress no doubt, had looked lively in the first-half, and his cross allowed Morgan Gibbs-White’s header to hit the post. Unbelievably, the rebound was smacked over from beneath the bar by Wood.

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

Now it was our turn to hit the woodwork, a free-kick from Palmer and a glancing header from Silva.

So close.

Then, Hudson-Odoi cut in from the left and dropped a fine effort goal wards. It dipped drastically and clunked on top of the bar.

Fackinell.

Not so long after, on seventy-five minutes, the former Chelsea starlet moved inside again onto his right foot – “get closer to him!” – and dinked a really fine effort in at the bottom right-hand corner.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

The home hordes boomed again. These fans were the loudest that we had encountered all season.

Time was running out and those three wins were looking rather optimistic. However, we had played better, faster, more intelligently as the second-half developed with Palmer showing that he is the main orchestrator. At the back, Silva was his cool self.

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

My immediate thoughts : “why bring on Reece with just two games left this season? Let the bugger have a complete rest until August.”

On eighty minutes, the ball was played in to Sterling, who had looked keen and animated since his arrival. A touch to take the ball away from his marker and then a shot – another dink – and the ball hit the net.

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

There were no celebrations from the scorer. Time was running out.

Just two minutes later, Caicedo splayed a first time ball out to the right where James was free. His clipped and inch perfect cross was headed home with aplomb by Jackson – old school cross, old style header, old school bosh – and the Chelsea end exploded.

GET IN.

Before I knew what was happening, the scorer copied Axel Disasi’s run into the crowd at Crystal Palace. Chelsea fans ran down to the front, limbs were flying, I rather pathetically pointed my camera in the general direction of the melee while boiling over with joy at our ridiculous turnaround.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

As the supporters returned to their seats and as the players slowly walked away, Jackson was yellow-carded, the latest in a long line of silly bookings. I can forgive him that one though.

What a buzz.

The home fans above us and to our right were stunned.

The chances still came as the last few minutes, then injury time, was played out. These chances for both teams gave the game a ridiculously frantic ending.

But we were safe.

Despite the promise of a lap of honour from the Forest players after the game, many home supporters made their way to the exits.

“That’s right. Fuck off home to watch Eurovision” chirped Gary.

On the walk out of the away end, the Chelsea swagger was back. There were laughs with many mates. It had been an odd game, one that had gathered momentum as it wore on, but those scenes down below us in the hot corner when we got the winner will be talked about for ages.

All of a sudden, this difficult season is becoming a lot more palatable. Earlier, supporters complained of feeling distanced from our players.

But bridges are being built.

This feels more and more like our team, our club.

I got back to the waiting car at 8pm after walking alongside hundreds of red-shirted locals muttering away to themselves. I was soon heading towards those large cooling towers.

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

“Feet Like Fins” boomed out as I drove over the bough of a long hill, the evening view ahead, the M1 in the distance, these roads criss-crossing with memories. A car with a “CFC” number plate drove past. I smiled to myself.

God, I love these football trips.

I was on the M1 at 8.30pm. The Sat Nav even took me down the Fosse Way, skirting Coventry, rather than the ultra-boring M42. I decided to extend the evening and so indulged in an hour long stop at “The Bell Inn” at Moreton-In-Marsh for a very very rare pint of lager as I reviewed the day’s activity and post-game reactions on my ’phone.

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From A Golden Anniversary

Posted on March 14, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 11 March 2024.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. It stemmed from the interactions between myself and the other children at my village school in Somerset in the immediate aftermath of that iconic game. Perhaps I had heard that Chelsea were a good team or maybe I just liked the sound of the name. Whatever the reason, it soon became clear to my parents that I was a keen supporter of the “Pensioners” or the “Blues” in those early years.

Chelsea were my team. I suspect that my early devotion shocked my parents, who were not really into football at all. I can remember the horror when my paternal grandfather brought me back a Liverpool duffle bag from a coach trip to North Wales in the summer of 1971, not long before he passed away, and how he received the ire of both my parents and myself.

“But I like Chelsea.”

“Well, your mother told me to buy you something to do with football.”

I am sure that I didn’t reply with the expression “fackinell” at the age of six years old but I probably thought something along those lines.

I have no memory of the loss to Stoke City at Wembley in the League Cup Final at Wembley in 1972, but I remember the season-opener against Leeds United in the August of that year and I well remember the FA Cup tie with Arsenal in March 1973. My fanaticism grew with each year, each month, each game. I was given a Chelsea kit in around 1973. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling over fifty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on 16 March against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother had written to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest, to this day. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived, priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still being built on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team?

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins.
Micky Droy.
David Webb.
Chris Garland ( sub – Ken Swain.)
Peter Houseman.
Steve Kember.
Ian Hutchinson.
Charlie Cooke.

The gate was 24,207.

What do I remember of that afternoon? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minute; a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there were to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. A second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed. I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a second-half substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped that I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West Stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final, in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final, and also at the 2015 League Cup Final just a few days after my mother’s passing.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) on Fulham Broadway. Even to this day, I always look over at the site of it as I walk to Stamford Bridge. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

And here we all are, almost fifty years later and another match against the black and whites from Tyneside. I have explained before how annoyed I was that the exact fiftieth anniversary of my first ever game against Newcastle United narrowly missed an exact hit. There was, then, a hope that we would get them at home in the FA Cup on Saturday 16 March. But that missed too.

On the exact fiftieth anniversary, I will hopefully be watching a game at Frome Town against Yate Town. That’s not a bad place to be. I saw my first-ever “proper” game at Frome Town in the early part of the 1970/71 season.

1970 was evidently a big year in my life.

Talking of Frome Town, on the Saturday before this year’s game with Newcastle United, I drove down to Bideford on the North Devon coast. It was a long old drive – almost two and a half hours – but very enjoyable. Just me and my thoughts, a little music, the Saturday all to myself. I paid a quick visit to “The Appledore Inn” just a few hundred yards away from the ground. In October 2020, I drove to Bideford for a Wednesday evening game but later that night in a nearby B&B I had a mild heart attack, to be followed by another a few days later. By the Saturday, I was in hospital in Bath awaiting surgery. On the Monday, two stents were fitted. So this trip to Bideford was always going to be an emotional one for me. I had visited the same pub in 2020 and I made a point of sitting in the same seat in the pub as in that previous visit. A few Frome friends arrived – Mark, Sumo, Steve, Stuey – and I told them this story. They asked why I was sat in the same seat. I suspect they thought it was tempting fate.

It was my way of saying “I am still here” and I lightly tapped the table.

The game was a scrappy affair, but a headed goal from James Ollis after Jon Davies dug out a deep cross from the goal-line gave Frome a huge three points. I watched the game from the impressive main stand, high above the action, with my old school mate Steve – our friendship really fired up in the Lower Sixth when we both realised that our football knowledge put us in a class of our own – and we chatted about all aspects of the sport.

The second-half had its share of hairy moments and I even invoked a heated exchange with two locals as their ‘keeper re-enacted a Schumacher / Battiston assault – from the 1982 World Cup – on substitute Sam Meakes. The ‘keeper was duly sent off and Frome held on. It was a hugely enjoyable afternoon in the North Devon drizzle. Around sixty Frome fans travelled. I loved it.

Back to Chelsea.

On match day, I collected my fellow passengers at 2pm in the pub car park opposite work and by 4.30pm all three had been deposited in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. I met up with PD and Parky in “The Elephant & Barrel”, formerly “The Rylston”, alongside Salisbury Steve and two lads from Boston in Massachusetts. I have known Ben, the Chapter Head of the Boston Blues, since around 2011, but this was my first meeting with Danny, who was at Stamford Bridge for a game for the very first time. It seemed right that on this occasion there was a Chelsea debutant in the party.

There was a nice mix of old and new; old pub, new pub, old friends, a new friend, old memories and new ones.

We raised pints.

Chris : “Friendship and football.”

Ben : “Mates not millionaires.”

Chris : “Bates not billionaires.”

Danny wanted to hear a few stories, so I shared a few. I have several to choose from, cough, cough. We spoke about Newcastle’s awful record at Stamford Bridge in the league.

“Apart from the Papiss Cisse masterclass in 2012, they have not won here in the league since 1986.”

I was at that game in 1986, a 1-3 loss, and Ben was at that 0-2 game in 2012. I shuffled in my seat a little.

I devoured a chicken and gooseberry curry with coconut rice and the others supped some ales. It was a lovely pre-match. At around 7.15pm, we made our way down to the ground.

It is one of my biggest regrets that there is no photographic evidence of my first-ever Chelsea game. This is particularly surprising since my parents took hundreds of snaps of my childhood, yet somehow the camera was forgotten on that most momentous of occasions. I made sure that Ben took one of me outside the main gates to mark the – almost – anniversary of that match fifty years ago. The obligatory one of Danny at his first game soon followed.

As in 1974, I walked towards the West Stand.

I was inside, in The Sleepy Hollow, at 7.45pm.

The Chelsea team?

28. Djordje Petrovic.

27. Malo Gusto.

3. Marc Cucarella.

2. Axel Disasi.

14. Trevoh Chalobah.

8. Enzo Fernandez.

25. Moises Cacedo.

20. Cole Palmer.

23. Conor Gallagher.

7. Raheem Sterling.

15. Nicolas Jackson.

A simple 1 to 11 is much better, isn’t it?

Yet again, the usual pre-match routine : The Clash, Blur, The Harry J. Allstars, the dimming of the lights, electronic pulses, flashes, flames, all culminating in “what the fookin’ ‘ell was that?” from the Geordies.

It wasn’t like this in 1974.

There was a quick chant of “We are the Geordie, the Geordie boot boys” and the game began. I quickly spotted a post by Ben on my ‘phone featuring his view of the game and it was clear that they were just below me in the MHL. There was a miss-hit from Djordje Petrovic in the first fleeting moments and the ball sliced away for a throw-in. We all grimaced.

In 1974, I had to wait ten minutes for my first-ever Chelsea goal. In 2024, Danny did not have to wait as long. After just six minutes, Cole Palmer flicked his brush towards the right wing, painting a lovely ball out to Malo Gusto, who advanced. His low cross was kicked away but it could only reach Palmer. I felt that he didn’t really fancy a shot at goal with his right foot, but he smacked the ball goal wards. Nicolas Jackson was in the line of fire, but a nimble adjustment meant that his slight flick of a leg allowed the ball to slip past Martin Dubravka in The Shed goal.

As in 1974, Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

It is not known how Danny celebrated the goal.

The first-half summed up much of our season. It was good in parts, yet frustrating too.

Our blind determination to play it out from the back wound most fans up, and there was a cheer when Petrovic went long on one occasion. Much has been written about this “playing out from the goal line” this season, but we have not remotely perfected it. It annoys me, as it did in this game, to see Jackson with just one man close to him, in yards of space, yet a quick punt up field is hardly ever chosen as an alternative way to attack. On the occasions when Petrovic decided to go long, he annoyingly waited until the Newcastle defence was set. The art of a quick break seems to be lost in 2024.

We enjoyed most of the chances, however fleeting. A shot from Jackson was claimed by Dubravka. A run from Palmer picked out Enzo in a decent central position but his effort curled over the bar.

The visitors’ efforts were rare. However, on forty-three minutes, the Chelsea defence went into circus mode. The otherwise impressive Gusto attempted keepie-uppy and lost control. Trevoh Chalobah then lost the ball too and it was not cleared. The ball was flicked to Alexander Isak, who danced inside and smacked a fine shot past Petrovic at the far post. They celebrated down below us.

1-1.

Just after, an early ball – at last – to Jackson who did ever so well to dribble past Dubravka and slot home. Alas, he had not beaten the offside trap. No goal.

In the last move of the half, nice interplay between Palmer and Gusto resulted in a deep cross to the far post. A fine header back from Conor Gallagher set up Raheem Sterling and as he took a touch and closed in on goal I could only think of one thing –

“Hit one of the corners.”

He didn’t. His shot was right at Dubravka.

I was relatively happy with the performance at half-time. I had seen a lot worse this season. There had been, as always “glimpses” of decent play. In the programme – some really decent articles at the moment – there were lovely pieces on Hughie Gallacher and Colin Lee.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding. However, it was the visitors attacking The Shed who engineered the first chance. Chalobah cheaply surrendered the ball, and it was moved out to the left. Miguel Almiron raced away but his angled riser was pushed over by Petrovic.

Phew.

A teasing run from the fleet-footed Palmer took him deep into the Newcastle box but his low cross evaded everyone. Sterling was on the end of a swift break but he seemed to lack conviction and was forced wide. His weak shot missed the goal frame.

On sixty-three minutes, an incisive ball from Enzo found Palmer. Before we knew it, he had touched the ball on and then swept a low shot effortlessly towards goal. The ‘keeper was beaten. It was a lovely finish and the place erupted. To my joy, the scorer raced over to our corner to say hello.

Snap, snap, snap, snap.

Nice one.

2-1.

Palmer has certainly made this season a lot more palatable. Imagine 2023/24 without him. Shudder.

A long ball out of defence by the redoubtable Gusto was superbly headed on by Jackson. Sterling raced through and was clear, one on one with Dubravka. My camera was poised. Alas, he dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, and lost his way. Eventually, his shot was cleared off the line.

Dan Burn had a rare chance for the visitors. The towering defender headed wide.

On sixty-nine minutes, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling. There was an odd mixture of applause and mild booing. Answers on a postcard.

On seventy-six minutes, Jackson broke with a flash of speed out on the left. My camera tracked his fine run. The ball was played square towards Gallagher, but Mudryk arrived on the scene like a runaway train and took the ball on. His momentum carried him forward. A slight shimmy and Dubravka was sent sprawling. He rounded the ‘keeper and slotted in from an angle, with a defender unable to hack away.

What a goal.

3-1.

I screamed and screeched as I held my camera close and snapped. Who says geezers can’t multitask?

Mudryk was on fire, full of confidence, and mesmerized us all with another burst of speed but was unable to finish. We all want him to succeed so much.

Two late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for the magnificent Palmer.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Jackson.

Sadly, the otherwise solid Marc Cucarella lunged in and allowed a blast from distance from Jacob Murphy. It arrowed into the Shed End goal. It was some strike.

3-2.

Blimey.

Thankfully, the six minutes of extra-time soon passed and we held on.

At the end of the game, just before “Blue Is The Colour” segued into “Freed From Desire”, I spotted Ben and Danny down below. Their smiles were wide.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

I enjoyed the evening. It wasn’t perfect, but we showed enough to warrant the win. I wasn’t that impressed with the visitors. It had been 4-1 to them in November and it was 3-2 to us in March. We edged the League Cup tie in December. There might even be another game yet, in the FA Cup, later this season.

Talking of which, the FA Cup follows on Sunday with a game against Leicester City at Stamford Bridge. See you there.

Tales From 1970 And All That

Posted on March 1, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 28 February 2024.

After the defeat at Wembley on Sunday, we reconvened down at “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham – via a pint at “The Sawyers Arms” at Paddington – and although our spirits were low, a decent evening ensued. We spent three hours or so in the company of Johnny Twelve from California and also Rob and Karl from Hersham. Suffice to say, the drinks flowed and the smiles returned. However, on waking in the Premier Inn opposite the pub the next morning, I could not stifle a brief “I hate football” from flitting into my head.

But these were a busy few days for Chelsea Football Club.

Next up was our first FA Cup tie against Leeds United since the 1970 FA Cup Final and subsequent replay. It was a busy time for me too. As Monday passed and as I toiled over the Wembley blog late into Tuesday, I managed to “let go” of the result on Sunday and I tried my best to look forward to the game on Wednesday.

I was in early at work on the day of the game, but I could not get something out of my head. Back in 1986, Chelsea exited both domestic cups within the space of four days; we lost at home to Liverpool in the FA Cup on Sunday 26 January and at home to QPR on Wednesday 29 January. I sincerely hoped that there would be no repeat thirty-eight years later.

PD and Parky had enjoyed a pub lunch and PD had then picked-up Ron Harris at 1.45pm. At just after 2pm, in the car park of “The Milk Churn” pub in Melksham, I stood with Ron as PD took a photo of the two of us. It seemed right that on the occasion of the first Chelsea vs. Leeds United FA Cup game in fifty-four years, we should mark the start of the drive to Chelsea in this manner.

As I pulled out of the car park, I realised once again how absolutely lucky I am to be able to drive our captain from those glory years up to Stamford Bridge.

1970, eh?

While Ron was busy leading the team to those two classic games, I was just starting out on a football life of my own.

I began my school days at the age of for years and nine months, probably just before the Wembley Cup Final on Saturday 11 April. In the ensuing few months, I would choose Chelsea as my team, although the exact reason or reasons are not crystal clear. In my memory, it’s down to a list of a few motives. It has to be said that until school, my parents told me that I wasn’t particularly interested in football.

Maybe I liked the name “Chelsea”. Maybe, after the replay at Old Trafford on 29 April, some school pals told me that “Chelsea had won the cup” (there is no recollection at all of me watching it, sadly) or maybe I had worked out that Chelsea were a good team. In a nutshell, Chelsea were the talk of the town, or at least the school playground, in the April and May of 1970 and I became a fan.

I’ve had quite a journey, eh?

And here I was, aged fifty-eight and seven months, driving the captain of that team to a game against Leeds United so many years later.

As I approached London, I could not resist asking Ron a question.

“Ron. Of the two games at Wembley and Old Trafford in 1970, what is your one stand out memory?”

“After the first game, Dave Sexton told me that I would swap positions with Webby, who had been given the biggest run-around I had ever seen by Eddie Gray, and in the second-game he never got a kick.”

The response did not surprise me at all. It is the classic moment from both games aside from the goals.

The 1970 FA Cup Final is so iconic, so fantastic, and so important to the history of the competition and to Chelsea Football Club alike. But it is, undoubtedly, so important for me too, although I did not even watch the games at the time.

It was a game-changer.

I knew that Chelsea were issuing a programme for the game that would feature a cover photograph of the jubilant Chelsea players at Old Trafford, with Chopper holding the trophy alongside a few team mates, and I liked that. Sometimes Chelsea get it right.

As time moves on, though, it has been sad to see so many players from both teams pass away over the years. Of the twenty-two starters at Old Trafford, only ten remain.

Chelsea.

Peter Bonetti : 20 April 2020, aged 78.
Ron Harris – aged 79
Eddie McCreadie – aged 83.
John Hollins : 14 June 2023, aged 76.
John Dempsey – aged 77.
David Webb – aged 77.
Tommy Baldwin : 22 January 2024, aged 78.
Charlie Cooke – aged 81.
Peter Osgood : 1 March 2006, aged 59.
Ian Hutchinson : 19 September 2002, aged 54.
Peter Houseman : 20 March 1977, aged 31.

Leeds United.

David Harvey – aged 76.
Paul Madeley : 23 July 2018, aged 73.
Terry Cooper : 31 July 2021, aged 77.
Billy Bremner : 7 December 1997, aged 54.
Jack Charlton : 10 July 2020, aged 85.
Norman Hunter : 20 April 2020, aged 76.
Peter Lorimer : 20 March 2021, aged 74.
Alan Clarke – aged 77.
Mick Jones – aged 78.
Johnny Giles – aged 83.
Eddie Gray – aged 76.

I dropped off PD and Parky at the bottom of the North End Road and I dropped off Ron outside the main gates. As I slowly retraced my steps back to my usual parking place, police sirens were wailing.

Leeds were in town.

At about 5.15pm, I popped into an Italian restaurant on the Lillee Road – “Pizza@Home” – for the first time and I enjoyed some lovely food. I then dipped into “Café Ole” at the bottom of the North End Road once more for a large cappuccino. It was all about staying out of the rain for as long as I could. Funnily enough, there was a bundle of friends at “Café Ole” – Pete, Liz, Mark, Scott, Paul, Gerry, Tom, Leigh, Darren – probably all with the same need to keep dry.

I had a nice talk with Tom, the first one for ages.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at about 7pm. PD told me that, should we beat Leeds, we would play host to Leicester City in the Quarter-Finals.

Mixed blessings.

I was angling for a dream draw of Newcastle United at home on Saturday 16 March as it would mark the fiftieth anniversary of my very first game against the same opposition. But I was relatively happy with a home draw. I hoped that the game would be played on the Saturday though. Outside of a home draw, we all wanted Coventry City. Ah well, it was not to be.

PD ran through the team.

“We’re playing with three wingers. Sterling, Madueke, Mudryk.”

I had swapped out with Parky to allow him a seat next to PD in The Sleepy Hollow. There were around six-thousand noisy Leeds fans in The Shed, their largest away following at Stamford Bridge in over fifty-years, maybe ever.

At about 7.15pm, Ron Harris was interviewed pitch side with club historian Rick Glanvil as they spoke about the 1970 FA Cup Final and its place in football folklore. Amazingly, the replay was watched by 28.49 million people. It is at number six in the list of the highest-ever TV audiences in the UK, alongside royal weddings, royal funerals and England games. Apart from the “Matthews Final” of 1953, it is probably the most famous FA Cup Final of them all.

The usual dimming of lights and fireworks, but then the shock of Leeds in an all pink kit, albeit one with a shirt that resembled a polyester outfit from the ‘seventies that Mrs. Slocombe might wear at a Grace Brothers night out.

Hideous.

Time to sort the team out. I had a look.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Gilchrist

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Mudryk – Sterling

Jackson

I had forgotten that Ethan Ampadu was now full-time at Leeds United after three relegations on loan to Sheffield United, Venezia and Spezia. Eddie Gray’s great-nephew Archie was playing for the visitors. He is the son of Andy Gray, who I remember at Leeds, and the grandson of Frank Gray who I also remember at Leeds.

Conclusion : I am getting old.

The visitors in The Shed noisily shouted “We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds” and Enzo kicked the ball back to a team mate.

We were off.

The pink visitors attacked us in the Matthew Harding. Mudryk was in the “Number 10” slot, the space recently occupied by Cole Palmer. We began on top.

I noted many empty seats during the first few minutes but most filled. There were, however a few hundred unused seats in the top corners of Westview all game.

I was just getting settled, making a mental note of all the songs that the visitors were singing at us, when a lumped ball from deep released Daniel James who had lost the back-tracking Alfie Gilchrist. The Leeds player lobbed the ball just wide of the goal frame.

From the goal-kick following this miss, a typical Chelsea disaster of 2023/24 occurred right in front of me. Sanchez played the ball to Axel Disasi who he chose not to clear his lines, no doubt under instruction from the management. He played the ball into the feet of Moises Caicedo, even though there were three opponents close by. Possession was lost, Jaidon Anthony pushed the ball square to Mateo Joseph who slammed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

The away hordes roared.

After just eight minutes we were one-nil down.

The away end went through a few favourites.

“Should I be Chelsea, should I be Leeds, here’s what she said to me.”

“Let’s go fucking mental, let’s go fucking mental.”

“Marching on together.”

We tried to retaliate immediately, with Sterling setting up Enzo but his low effort flew past Ilian Meslier’s post.

On fifteen minutes, we constructed a really fine move down the right, with a smattering of one-touch passes. Jackson back to Disasi, to Gusto, inside to Jackson, to Madueke, to Caicedo and a killer pass to Jackson, who carefully guided the ball home.

Lovely goal.

It was back to 1-1.

Another shot from Enzo, but easily stopped by Meslier.

“Come on Chelsea, Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

A slashed effort from an angle by Madueke that only hit the side-netting. Another shot from Madueke was so high and wide that it almost defied description. Mudryk went close at an angle. At a corner, Mudryk took Shedloads of abuse from the Leeds fans.

“You’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit.”

Leeds countered occasionally. For some reason, their right-winger James (he scored against us in his first game for Manchester United in August 2019) reminded me of Eddie Gray, his build and his running style.

On thirty-seven minutes, another fine move down our right. The ball was worked centrally at first, Caicedo to Chalobah to Madueke. As so often happens, he chose to dribble laterally, but in doing so encountered some space. He pushed the ball between defenders to Gusto on the right. A touch, a prod into Sterling, and a cutback to Mudryk, and a first-time finish, sweeping it low past the ‘keeper. Another great goal.

He stood in front of his detractors.

“Ви казали?”

We were 2-1 up.

The visitors were not impressed.

“2-1 and you still don’t sing.”

Leeds came again and James fired over from a free-kick. Jaidon Anthony ghosted in from the left and thumped one that just missed the far post.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

At the break, it was time to reflect on the first-half. We had scored two nice goals, but some of our build-up play was just too slow. Moises Caicedo was the best of our bunch, strong in the tackle, decent passing, holding it all together. We had done just enough.

Alas, in the second-half, we didn’t do much at all.

Leeds began the stronger and after a while it dawned on me that we had hardly strung more than two passes together. On fifty-eight minutes, with the Chelsea crowd not involved and docile, Ampadu swung a long cross over to Anthony. I was dismayed that Gusto did not make a stab at the ball, allowing a long cross towards the far post where Joseph was able to leap, totally unmarked, and head down and in.

It was now 2-2.

On sixty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Conor Gallagher for Madueke.

Ben Chilwell for Gusto.

Chilwell to left-back, Gilchrist to right-back, Gallagher to the middle, Mudryk to the left, Sterling to the right.

Our play went to pieces.

“We’re second-best here.”

A shot from Anthony was deflected but its trajectory stayed close to Sanchez.

Our passing was off, our intensity had slowed, we had stopped doing the small things. We looked so tired.

Mudryk crossed high but Jackson was always underneath it.

On seventy-four minutes, more changes.

Levi Colwill for Gilchrist.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Disasi to right-back, Colwill in the middle, Palmer on the left.

We still struggled. We all began to wonder about extra-time and penalties, another late night.

On the ninetieth minute, there was really fine play from Enzo who fought to retain possession on the left and he scurried forward. He spotted the run of Gallagher and slotted a beautiful pass into him. Gallagher’s touch was exquisite and despite being squeezed by two Leeds defenders, he lifted the ball over Meslier.

Get in you beauty.

Now it was our turn to scream and shout.

Stamford Bridge roared, but how I wished that it had been roaring all night.

In injury-time, a debut was given to Jimi Tauriainen, whose first moment of action was to foul a Leeds defender; obviously he had read the script.

Chelsea 3 Leeds United 2.

At the end, “Freed From Desire “ and “One Step Beyond”

We can’t really grumble about getting home draws all of the way through the two domestic cups this season can we? Eight out of eight.

Wimbledon.

Brighton.

Blackburn Rovers.

Newcastle United.

Preston North End.

Aston Villa.

Leeds United.

Leicester City.

During the day, I had joked to a few people about the game against Leeds.

“Yeah, looking forward to it. But what’s the end goal? Get to another Cup Final at Wembley and lose that one too?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Outside, mobs of Leeds made their way back to waiting cars and coaches. I had not seen so many police at Chelsea in years.

On the walk back to the car, Ron Harris explained that Eddie Gray was with the Leeds board at Stamford Bridge and had asked to be linked up with his old adversary from 1970. The two former players spent thirty minutes in each other’s company. In fact, Eddie Gray did the exact same thing on his last visit to Chelsea last season. I admired that. These old warriors must love to meet up and share stories of that game and others.

“How old is Eddie Gray, Ron? Same age as you?”

“Couple years younger, I think.”

“Right.”

We walked on.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. When he played against you in 1970 he was younger. But after the replay, I heard that he aged significantly.”

Ron smiled.

I soon escaped from London and for the first time that I can remember I didn’t stop once until I pulled up at “The Milk Churn” at about midnight. I was home by 12.40am, a relatively early night.

Right then, back to the league now. Brentford on Saturday. See you there.

Tales From The Eton Blues

Posted on September 20, 2023 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 17 September 2023.

The Chelsea website would call this an entertaining game.

I beg to differ.

Here’s my take on the match at the Vitality Stadium, plus a few other football-related anecdotes thrown in for good measure.

Our home loss against Nottingham Forest – that match feels like it took place ages ago – was followed by a period of inactivity for Chelsea as the increasingly despised international break took over the football calendar. It took over my calendar too; I buggered off for an international break of my own in Italy and France.

I flew to Genoa and then took a train to Diano Marina on the Italian Riviera, a town where I have enjoyed many visits – and football-related incidents – since I first visited it in 1975. On the Friday, I caught a train to Nice, passing through Monaco, the scene of our first UEFA Super Cup win against Real Madrid, a fine trip that one. I met up with my good Chelsea friend Dave, who I had not seen since Sheffield United at home in 2019. We first met up in Los Angeles while on tour with CFC in 2007 and he has lived in the South of France since around 2016. We updated each other with our recent histories while enjoying a few lagers in a couple of bars. It was a joy.

On the Saturday and Sunday, my work colleague Lorenzo from Milan, and his wife Marina, met up with me in Diano Marina, and we had a lovely time walking west to Imperia and then east to Cervo along the site of the old Roman road the Via Aurelia. There were beers, fine food and tons of laughs. That I was staying in the same hotel that my parents visited during their first holiday to the town made my stay even sweeter.

On the Monday, before my flight home, I even managed to pack in a three-hour walking tour of Genoa; such an historic, cramped and photogenic city. It left me yearning for more. As fate would have it, I used the services of the same taxi driver on two separate occasions, quite by chance. He was a Samp fan, and also favoured Chelsea as his English team. As I left his cab, we toasted the memory of Gianluca Vialli. They idolise him in Genoa.

Incidentally, on the Thursday, as I darted in and out of a couple of bars near the city’s Piazza Principe train station, I spotted many folk wearing Genoa colours. I panicked a little and wondered if I had made an error and that they were playing that night, a chance to see a game at the Luigi Ferraris Stadium missed due to poor planning. I was to find out that the fans were instead off out to celebrate the club’s birthday, formed one hundred and thirty years ago to the day. It made me think; do any British fans celebrate their clubs’ birthdays with such a show of public affection? I think not. Maybe Genoa are a special case; Genoa Cricket And Football Club, as they are officially known, are Italy’s oldest club after all.

One last comment about my mini visit to the twin Rivieras of Italy and France. Over the five days of my stay, the most popular replica shirt that I saw?

Not Juventus. Not PSG. Not Milan. Not Inter.

Real Madrid.

I hate modern football.

As the following weekend approached, I had the English Riviera in sight.

Kinda.

On the Saturday, Frome Town were playing an FA Cup tie at Plymouth Parkway. This naval city is not exactly on the English Riviera, which the tourist boards of Torquay, Paignton and Brixham have chosen as their own moniker, but not too far away. On the Sunday, I had the Chelsea game in Bournemouth. The Dorset Riviera anyone?

The FA Cup game, a keenly-contested 2-2 draw in front of almost 400, was very enjoyable. Frome Town twice led through Owen Humphries and then James Ollis, only to conceded a late equaliser. The two teams would meet again the following Tuesday at Badgers Hill in a replay. This really pleased me; two Canadian relatives were to visit my local area during the week and had been keen to see a football match, any football match, in person during their short stay in Somerset. With the draw, they now had a game to watch.

Another North American tourist came into my plans, like a last-minute substitution, when I awoke on Saturday morning before my flit down to Plymouth. Tom, from Orange County in California, was staying at a hotel only two miles from my house and was angling for a place in The Chuckle Bus for the short trip to Bournemouth on the Sunday. Some strategic logistical planning quickly took place and everything was sorted. One Chuckle Bus became two, parking was arranged outside the Vitality Stadium, and everyone was happy.

Sunday soon arrived. I picked Tom up at the hotel at eight o’clock, but before we headed down to join up with Glenn, PD, Parky and Sir Les in Bournemouth, I treated Tom to a whistle-stop tour of both my home village of Mells and my home town of Frome.

I darted around Mells, quickly combining facts about the village – “fifteenth century church”, “Manor House”, “my mother was born in that house”, “I spotted Robert Plant outside that house last year”, “Fussell’s Ironworks”, “Little Jack Horner”– with a few football-related things too – “here’s where I kicked a tennis ball against the wall opposite my house, breaking many windows in the process”, “this is the school where I first became a Chelsea fan”, “I played for my village the first time here” before then heading into Frome.

We even had time to stop off – and step inside – Badgers Hill, the home ground of Frome Town, where I watched my first real football game in 1970.

I zoomed down to Bournemouth and we joined up with the chaps in “The Moon On The Square” at around 10.20am. It was wet outside. So much for the Riviera.

A few other friends drifted in as I ordered a light breakfast, and Tom ordered his second breakfast of the morning. Glenn said he’d attend the Frome game on Tuesday. There wasn’t too much talk about the Chelsea game. It had been such an underwhelming start to the season.

And not just at our club.

In many ways, I have been struggling further with football in general. In a rare and lucid moment before a Depeche Mode concert with my mate Dennis from DC, at a pub on the River Thames in Richmond in June, I stumbled across a phrase that summed it all up.

With a nod to my deepening alienation from top level players, my dislike of VAR, of UEFA, of FIFA, even the FA, the deadening of the atmosphere at games at Stamford Bridge, the entitlement of many fans, players’ obscene wags, late changes to kick-off times, blah, blah, blah, I summed it all up.

“I am not a fan of football, but I love being a football fan.”

I love the planning of travel to games, the sorting out of tickets, the driving, the endless driving, the drink-ups in the pubs, meeting new Chelsea friends from various places, the away days, the clobber, the laughs, the piss-taking, the banter, the memories…and I like being at games, live-games, taking in all in, the architecture of stadia, the history, the terrace humour…and I’d like to think I am a good supporter too, singing and cheering as much as I can, being there for the team…then there is the photography and the words in this blog.

I enjoy it all.

I love being a fan.

The football?

Not so sure.

We got drenched – absolutely soaked – on the short walk to the multi-story car-park. The two Chuckle Busses set off :

Glenn, PD, Parky, Sir Les, Daz in Glenn’s van.

Tom, two of Daz’ mates and me in my car.

We arrived at the same “JustPark” location – a large space outside a house on Littledown Avenue – at around 1.20pm. The rain still fell.

I was soon inside, evading the eyes of the tedious “bag gestapo” at the away turnstiles.

Made it.

A few “hellos” and a few handshakes in the away concourse…before I knew it “bloody hell, it’s ten to.”

Into the away seats we went.

The floodlights were on, the sky was dull grey, the rain still fell.

The teams appeared and Chelsea were to wear the newly-confirmed third kit of Eton Blue. For once, I approve; a nice nod to our inaugural colours of 1905. Typically, I was amazed how many of our new fans were blissfully unaware of the light blue racing colours of the Earl Cadogan. It’s such a subtle shade. I think it looks fantastic.

Our team?

Definitely a back four, right kids?

Sanchez

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Uguchukwu – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

There was the usual “make some noise – for the boys” bollocks from the PA, plus some social deviant yelling out “Red Army!” on the TV screens.

Oh aye.

Conor was captain.

Before the game, a minute of silence for those that perished recently in Libya and Morocco.

The game began, and it began ever so brightly as the Eton Blues attacked the goal to our right. A move down the right and some deft interplay between Mykhailo Mudryk and Nicolas Jackson set up Gallagher but he could not fully connect.

“Big game for Mudryk, Gal.”

Jackson then thumped an effort against a post after being set up by Mudryk.

We had a decent start, but the play was tending to by-pass Enzo. Both Sterling and Gallagher were combining well and creating a few solid advances into the opponents’ half. The game then struggled along, and Bournemouth slowly got back into the game. A low reaching cross towards the far post was met by Dango Quattara but Robert Sanchez made a fantastic block, spreading himself out, and the chance was fluffed.

There were songs for Frank Lampard and Dennis Wise?

Why – oh, why the fuck why?

Then, an odd moment. Sanchez was in possession just in front of his goal and as he ran through his options, we were treated to the bizarre sight of all four defenders lined up along the goal line. It was football, but not as I knew it.

The problem was that the home team weren’t necessarily taking the bait and pushing up. They stayed back. This was just hideously sterile football.

On the half-hour mark, more Bournemouth possession. They enjoyed a little spell.

But then a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played in to Conor in a central position. He shimmied himself. The world seemed to stop. He took aim. His shot was saved, damn it.

Damn you, Neto.

A Bournemouth effort was smashed so high into the air, and so wide of the goal – it went out for a throw-in – that I immediately Christened it the worst shot that I had seen in almost fifty years of football.

It was one of those games.

As the first-half neared completion, the noise levels had dwindled.

“You can cut the atmosphere with a shovel, Gal.”

Sigh.

There was a lack of cohesion and urgency after the initial flourish, and only Sterling and Gallagher could take much comfort from the first-half. However, Sterling’s fine touches in tight areas and purposeful spins into space just seemed to peter out as he reached the final third. He – and we – lacked a cutting edge.

Sound familiar?

Soon into the second-half, that man Sterling sized up his options at a free-kick. He struck a spectacular curler at goal, but it ping’d the underside of the bar and bounced down and across the goal. Levi Colwill was on hand to knock the rebound in, but the goal was immediately chalked off for offside.

Bollocks.

“Will be 0-0 this, Gal.”

The sun came out, and it got uncomfortably hot in the away section.

Jackson was in on goal but slashed an effort ludicrously wide. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We came close after a scramble that followed a Jackson effort. However, the Bournemouth ‘keeper managed to get a strong hand to a goal bound prod while lying on his back.

At the other end, Richard Billing drilled a shot just wide of our goal from a central free-kick.

Both teams struggled.

“Their final ball is worse than ours, Gal.”

Nearing the end of the game, the home team broke down our left and engineered a chance for our former striker Dominic Solanke. Again, Sanchez saved well.

I noticed that Jackson was too easily out-muscled in many of his his one-to-ones with his marker. But we have to give him time.

There was a plethora of substitutions :

Cole Palmer for Mudryk.

He hadn’t had that good game that he needed.

Ben Chilwell for Colwell.

We all moaned when he had passed, obliquely, after a fine run, the goal at his mercy.

Ian Maatsen for Enzo.

I disliked Enzo’s slow walk off the pitch as he was substituted.

Our last chance came from a rampaging Palmer – “keen Gal, but no options” – chose to pass to Sterling rather than shoot himself. Sterling then crossed to Palmer, whose snapshot was saved well by Netto. A follow-up shot by Maatsen was blocked.

It was all pretty woeful.

“I enjoyed Plymouth yesterday more, Gal.”

It was so dull that I sighed when eight extra minutes were announced.

I just wanted to go home.

It ended 0-0.

Next up, Plymouth Parkway on Tuesday, Bemerton Heath on Saturday and Aston Villa on Sunday.

This football life, eh?

Tales From The Hollins Suite

Posted on August 18, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 13 August 2023.

Within the final match report of last season, there were a few references to my first ever Chelsea game. Sadly, during the summer, the Chelsea family lost two players from the team that played Newcastle United on that day back in 1974. The then captain John Hollins passed away on 14 June and Chris Garland passed away on 13 July.

I often used to see John Hollins in the Millennium Hotel on match days at Chelsea as he joined up with some his former team mates before commencing their hospitality roles. He was always very pleasant, always smiling, and I easily imagined his enthusiasm in the dressing room of that fabled Chelsea team in the early ‘seventies, and then when he took over the captaincy from Ron Harris a little later. In that Chelsea team of yore, Hollins was an integral part, alongside perhaps more vaunted names such as Osgood, Hudson, Cooke and Bonetti. I remembered him as a busy midfielder who weighed in with a fair share of goals. In the second ever game that I saw, at home to Tottenham later in 1974, it was his penalty that gave us a narrow 1-0 win.

After relegation in 1975, Holly joined QPR and then Arsenal. It was a big surprise when he returned, aged thirty-seven, in 1983 to add experience to a re-vamped Chelsea team seeking improvement after a dicey flirtation with relegation in 1982/83. His professionalism and personality surely helped that team gain promotion. The 1983/84 is still my favourite ever season and it needs no further explanation nor qualification.

If you were there, like me, you’ll know.

Taking over from John Neal as manager in 1985, Hollins was in charge for the next two-and-a-half seasons, but his skills as manager, rather than as a coach to Neal, were exposed. He was unceremoniously sacked in March 1988.

His one solitary England cap seems unfair and ridiculous. He was an engine in our 1970 and 1971 cup-winning teams and he was a bloody nice man to boot. John Hollins had been in poor health for a few years but still occasionally made trips to Chelsea on match days. He is fifth on the all-time list of appearances and he will always be a legend in my eyes.

Chris Garland joined Chelsea in 1971 just after the Real Madrid cup win and he was an integral part of the first Chelsea team that I can remember watching on TV, alongside a few of the newer signings such as Steve Kember and Bill Garner. It would be easy to say that these were lesser players compared to the golden era, but that would be doing them all a disservice. Garland in particular was an honest and hard-working player, mainly deployed as a wide attacker. As a young boy falling in love with my team, they were all heroes to me. He was transferred on to Leicester City in late 1974 so his part of my Chelsea story was relatively fleeting. He would return, latterly, to Bristol City – a local team to me, my closest league team in fact – and he would go down in City folklore as one of the “Ashton Gate Eight” who tore up their contracts to save the club in 1982. He had been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease for such a long time.

Of that team from 16 March 1974, five players have now sadly passed away; John Phillips, John Hollins, Chris Garland, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson.

May God bless them all.

That gap between the last game of 2022/23 against Newcastle United and the first game of 2023/24 against Liverpool was just eleven weeks. It was almost a “football-free” time for me. There was no trip abroad to watch Chelsea in the US this year. I used to enjoy those expeditions a while ago, but they’re not for me anymore. I only really saw a few bits from the first game – the ludicrous match against Wrexham – and that just about turned my stomach; everybody sat, no singing, a flat atmosphere, and what seemed to be thousands of American couples out on some sort of bizarre “date night.”

Strangely, on a birthday flit up to the North-East in early July, I had been out drinking with my Everton mate Chris – a lovely long session of us putting the footballing world to rights – when we were joined at the last minute by Skoot, the singer from Declan Swans, a Wrexham-based band who regularly appeared in the Wrexham TV Show.

The “Wrexham TV Show”? Yeah, I know. It would never have happened in 1983.

For days after I had “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” invading my brain.

“Less than a mile from the centre of town a famous old stadium crumbling down.”

There were two Frome Town friendlies – live football is my drug – to pass the time; a keenly-contested 1-1 draw at Dorchester Town, a narrow 0-1 loss at home to Weston-Super-Mare.

My Frome Town mate Fordy, who now works opposite me in the same transport office, reported back on an evening match involving his team Arsenal against AS Monaco at The Emirates. The whole shooting match left him bitterly disappointed and underwhelmed with the whole modern-day football experience.

As the game began, the youth next to him uttered the immortal words : “it’s just like watching FIFA, innit?”

God only knows what I would have said if I had been there.

Fordy was just repulsed by everyone slagging off the Arsenal players and offering virtually no encouragement.

“I know mate. Everyone is a fucking critic these days.”

As the opening game of the new season approached, I found it difficult to keep up with the ins and outs at our beloved club. The “Supermarket Sweep” of the winter transfer window had continued, but with the added fascination of waving goodbye to a host of players who had been – mainly – underperforming for months.

Mason Mount – off you go, you little twerp.

Kai Havertz – thanks for Porto, yeah I know you’re not a false nine, but I grew tired of your lack of effort and your bleak and unsmiling high-cheek boned expression.

N’Golo Kante – I loved you then, I loved you now, safe travels you absolute treasure.

Kalidou Koulibaly – off you go.

Christian Pulisic – Captain America, my arse.

Mateo Kovacic – I liked you until I didn’t, good luck on the City bench.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – ah, so much potential, but it never worked out after that injury, good luck.

Edouard Mendy – you were like a curate’s egg, my friend, but thanks for Porto and Abu Dhabi. On you go.

Piere-Emerick Aubameyang – who?

Cesar Azpilicueta – Dave, we loved you, and you will always be one of us.

As for the incoming players, time will tell. I have never heard of most of them. But I’ll get to know them over time. I wish them all well.

The overhaul, in fact, reminded me so much of the summer of 1983. I am not so sure that the spending spree of 2023 will be remembered so fondly, but we live in hope.

During the last week of the close-season, my plans for the opener against Liverpool dramatically changed.

Garrett’s Story.

A friend from Tennessee – Garrett – was coming over for his first-ever game at HQ. He had asked me during the summer if I could get him a ticket, but – as it was going to be his first match – I didn’t want to take the risk. I would have felt awful if I couldn’t conjure up a ticket from somewhere. Unfortunately, the US supporter groups’ deadline had come and gone so Garrett was forced to go down the hospitality route.

“Oh bloody hell. Please don’t tell me how much you paid for a ticket.”

We made plans on meeting up. I have never met Garrett in person but he was a fan of the blog and was looking forward immensely to meeting up with the lads that he reads about each week.

Then, a horrible twist. Garrett was hit with a nasty medical condition and couldn’t travel. He immediately cancelled his flight and hotel, but decided to give me his ticket. I was dumbfounded. My mate Glenn – previously unable to find himself a ticket – would have mine and I would watch the game from the middle tier of the West Stand.

On the Saturday, I watched the first Frome Town league game of the season, a dour 0-0 with newly promoted side Cribbs from Bristol; it was red versus blue, the Frome Bloods versus the Bristol Cribbs, boom boom.

Later that day, Garrett was re-admitted to hospital and I wished him well.

The new season was now breathtakingly close.

On the day of the game, I picked-up Parky at PD’s house and then Glenn; all three had been to see a ska band at a local venue the night before. The last of the passengers – he played in that first-ever game in 1974 – was collected at 8am and we were on our way. During the close season, there had been an internet campaign to get a flag for Chopper in The Shed, and the game against Liverpool would mark its debut. T-shirts were produced using the same design and Glenn was sporting it.

It was a perfect trip to London.

The pre-match was typical; a few photos of a waiting Stamford Bridge, then a short hop to Putney Bridge tube and a couple of hours with the usual suspects; The Chuckle Brothers, Salisbury Steve, the Kent Lot, and a guest appearance from the Three Amigos.

All was good with the world.

Almost.

Stephen’s Story.

“Stephen had not enjoyed most of his school year. He had struggled in the autumn and then spring term. He did not know why, but he had been the target for a few of the school bullies. His school work suffered. His parents, Dale and Jane, were so worried about him. Stephen was fourteen, and was on the often troublesome journey through the early teenage years. He was a quiet kid, well-behaved at home, but a little bit of a loner at school. Mac was his best friend, and a fellow Chelsea supporter too. They were like brothers.

At Easter, Stephen’s parents sought some independent counselling for their son, and during the summer term, everyone was elated to see Stephen’s schoolwork improve. In the exams in June, Stephen did well, better than expected.

Dale, decided to reward Stephen with something that he knew that his son would appreciate. One evening when Mac was visiting, Dale sat them both down and talked of a nice surprise. Dale knew how much the two boys loved Chelsea Football Club. By an odd twist, both of the boys’ birthdays were in the same week. Dale explained how proud he was of Stephen’s progress over the past few months, and thanked Mac for his support and friendship too. He had looked ahead to check what Chelsea game was being played around the time of the lads’ fifteenth birthdays in October. Dale was going to buy the lads a ticket apiece for the Chelsea vs. Brentford game.

It would be their first games at Stamford Bridge. Dale had quietly observed the two of them over the past few months and had been impressed with their behaviour. They seemed, to his eyes, more grown up than their peers. Living in Croydon, Dale was sure that they could make their own way in to London by train. He remembered how he used to love going in to London to see bands at around the same age in his youth.

Stephen was overjoyed and gave his father a hug. Mac was lost for words.”

Unfortunately, there will be no Chelsea game for Stephen and Mac. The club took the ludicrous decision over the summer to limit those under sixteen to only be allowed inside Stamford Bridge if they are accompanied by adults over the age of eighteen. We chatted about this in the pub. It’s a horrible, cynical decision.

“When you are in your early teens, you are so keen to dip your toe in the adult world, to test yourself, to grow as a person, be independent. Or at least we did. When I was in my early teens, it was all about football, all about trying to get to a game, either with parents or by yourself, or with mates. It’s one of our rights of passage in Britain. That visceral thrill of doing something a little outside your comfort zone. To join in with something. To be part of it all. To feel like you belong.”

Have I ever mentioned before how I hate modern football?

Glenn spoke of his first game that he saw by himself. It was early September 1981. Chelsea versus Watford. He was just fourteen. I think he travelled up by train from Frome. I remember where I was that afternoon; at an aunt’s wedding, and I remember darting out to my Dad’s car at 4.40pm to hear we had lost 1-3.

The first game I attended alone? August 1981, aged sixteen, a 2-0 win versus Bolton Wanderers.

You remember these things.

You – and Chelsea – against the world.

Priceless memories.

At 2pm, I set off from the pub and took the tube back to Fulham Broadway. By 2.30pm, I was sat at table 44 in the Hollins Suite in the West Stand at Stamford Bridge. How utterly appropriate that I should be in the Hollins Suite. It felt just right.

On the same table as me was Jeff, an Australian from Melbourne, with his two young sons, both wearing half-and-half scarves. They were all Liverpool fans. Alongside me were three quietly spoken people who were clearly of far-Eastern descent. I smiled and I tentatively leaned in.

“Hi, I’m Chris. Where are you from?”

“Colchester.”

They were Chelsea fans.

Completing the table was Dave from King’s Langley, a Watford season ticket holder, who had won the match ticket in a raffle at a London train station. I kept them entertained with a few Chelsea stories. Bizarrely, Dave mentioned that John Barnes’ full debut for Watford was at the game Glenn saw in 1981.

The food was proper poncy stuff. It tasted lovely but didn’t fill me up. I include the photos almost ironically.

There were a few nice “never-seen-before” photos of John Hollins, and a section remembering his stewardship of our 1986 Full Members’ Cup win against Manchester City.

[…new fans Googling “Full Members’ Cup…NOW]

It was, I have to admit, all very pleasant, but absolutely not worth the price.

[…everyone Googling “Chelsea Corporate Hospitality”…NOW]

I checked the programme; up from £3.50 to £4 but down from 84 pages to 52.

Righty-oh.

At least my copy was free.

At about 2.10pm, I made my way into the – padded – seats. I was at the very back row, around eight seats from the wall abutting the Matthew Harding. As the crow flies, Glenn, Clive, Alan and PD were around twenty yards away but I could not see them, nor them me.

My view was a little odd, with the overhang of the next tier cutting out the sky. I couldn’t even see the new signage atop the East Stand nor ol’ Gatling Gun himself.

But this was fine. This was a decent experience. I spotted my lunchtime companions a few rows in front. I had been sharing photos with Garrett throughout the day. I wanted to keep him involved.

I needed to focus now. The view was superb. I ran through the team that Mauricio Pochettino – I am not comfortable with “Poch” just yet, in the same way I was never happy with “Mou” – had selected for his first game :

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

James – Gallagher – Enzo – Chilwell

Chukwuemeka

Sterling – Jackson

…or something like that.

I was probably the only person in the ground, or the entire fucking world, who spotted three members of the Scottish “Wembley Wizards” team who defeated England 5-1 in 1928.

Hughie Gallacher / Conor Gallagher

Alex Jackson / Nicolas Jackson

Alex James / Reece James

[…everyone Googling “Wembley Wizards”…nah, maybe not]

At the Derby game in 1983, we had four debutants; Kerry Dixon, Joe McLaughlin, Eddie Niedzwiecki, Nigel Spackman.

On opening day forty years later, we also had four; Robert Sanchez, Axel Disasi, Levi Colwill, Nicolas Jackson.

As the build-up was turned up a notch, a few bars of “A Town Called Malice” were heard. This is the pre-match song at Frome Town. I liked the synchronicity.

“…better stop dreaming of the quiet life.”

Indeed. When were things last quiet at Chelsea? Around 1992 I reckon.

The teams entered the pitch.

Flames on the pitch. OK, stop that now. It’s getting tedious.

The floodlights were on. In August. Why?

There has been a change in the positioning of the Chelsea bench since the back end of the last season, and one that I absolutely endorse.

Way back in January 2021 – the Luton Town cup tie, Frank Lampard’s last game – I posted this on Facebook :

“Often thought it odd that the away bench has the best view of the pitch at Stamford Bridge…nearer the half-way line, better sightlines. Also with the home dressing room being on the north side of the tunnel. And what with the northern end being the home end now. Makes no sense to me.”

I was pleased to hear that the new manager spotted this flaw too and switched things over. Top marks.

However, I am not quite so sure about the twenty or so ultra-expensive seats – from £480 – in the new “dugout club” that allows some fans – presumably those with more money than sense – to watch the game from just behind both dugouts. It reeks of baseball and the need for spectators in the US to boast about “great seats” ad nauseam. Twats.

I remember watching one game – only one – from behind a dugout. Back in 1994, our first European game since 1971…I left getting tickets to the last minute, I know not why. Glenn and I watched right behind the Chelsea bench…it was a shocking view. I always remember that the God-fearing Glenn Hoddle saw a Chelsea near-miss, swung around towards the bench and said “Jesus wept.”

Tut tut.

At the centre circle, a minute of applause for John Hollins MBE.

Bless him. And bless Chris Garland too.

Game 1 – 1974.

Game 1,401 – 2023.

Let’s go to work.

Liverpool undoubtedly had the best of the opening spell, of the first twenty and then thirty minutes perhaps. Shots from Jota and Szoboszlai – who? – were pinged towards Robert Sanchez, newly obtained from Brighton, who must now be truly trained in the Chelsea negotiation process, and an effort from Salah smashed against the bar. These were worrying times and I thought Levi Colwill struggled in the first part of the match.

The atmosphere wasn’t great.

“Fields Of Anfield Road” could be heard from the away section opposite me.

The new kit looked decent. I was initially worried when I saw the release on social media; the blue looked too light, too washed out, anaemic. But this looked fine. I really wished that the white stripe under the arms was replicated on the shorts though. That would have completed the look in my mind. I don’t like the bizarre panel on the rear beneath the collar though.

One last gripe. If this shirt was meant to celebrate the silver anniversary of the ECWC triumph of 1997/98, it’s surely a season too late.

Should we not have worn this kit in 2022/23?

I think so.

On eighteen minutes, Salah pushed a ball through our back line and Luis Diaz finished from close in.

Bollocks.

A female Liverpool in front of me shrieked and stood up. Her bloke soon told her to sit down. To be honest, I was pleasantly surprised how involved the “corporate lot” were in our section. There was plenty of clapping and cheering throughout.

Chelsea began to grow into the game. Nicolas Jackson started to get involved, often emerging with the ball from deep, and after good work by Levi Colwill, he fired a “sighter” wide.

Not sure how he wears his shorts, though; like a “Reeves & Mortimer” character maybe.

A “Carefree” sounded in our section.

Things looked over for us when Terence Trent-Alexander-Arnold-D’arby slipped a ball in to that man Salah.

Pre-match, with so many new signings, I secretly thought we might lose heavily.

I texted some mates in the US : “knew we’d get humped.”

Thankfully, VAR came to our rescue; no goal.

I still don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour though. Why would I? I loathe it.

On thirty-two minutes, applause in memory of Josh Hillier, a very distant Chelsea acquaintance, but who was well-loved at Chelsea. He sadly lost his lengthy and hugely brave fight with leukaemia over the summer.

RIP Josh.

Raheem Sterling was – sadly – involved a lot, but usually unable to add to the game. He shot from close in but the effort was thumped away.

After a corner, the ball was eventually crossed in by Colwill and new boy Axel Disasi prodded it in past Alisson Becker.

We were level.

Get in.

The West Stand celebrated wildly.

Axel – great name, great first two letters especially – ran and jumped right in front of Parky and Ludo and Steve in the Shed Lower.

A mere few seconds later, a ball was pushed through to Ben Chilwell who steered himself and the ball around the ‘keeper to score…throughout the move though, I wondered if the scorer was offside. Sadly, after the usual ridiculous wait, the goal as cancelled. A photo that I took of the premature celebrations contained the words “goal and no” – oh the irony.

In the closing minutes, shots were traded. A fine move that slid effortlessly through the red ranks ended with a shot from Nicolas Jackson that just cleared the bar.

I had enjoyed it. Back inside for the smallest meat pie ever. Jeff commented that the momentum had changed in the last part of the first period.

We were, of course, attacking our end in the second-half.

The second period surprised me. Liverpool seemed content to sit back as Chelsea grew and grew. It became a deeply pleasurable experience, watching this new team – the latest in a long line of new teams at Chelsea – push the ball around and work for each other. I was especially pleased to see Enzo Fernandez, in the totemic number eight shirt, skipping past challenges, clipping balls to runners, controlling our forward momentum.

It was a joy.

The Argentinian tandem of Pochettino and Enzo will hopefully evolve further.

Chilwell was having a super game, and the visitors were gifting him so much space down below me. A superb ball from Enzo set Chilwell up but Alisson blocked well at the near stick.

A shot from the strong and surging Jackson. Another save from Alisson.

Some substitutions.

75 minutes : Malo Gusto for James.

Malo Gusto.

My mind deviated. I could not stop thinking of the Morrissey song “Maladjusted” – and as per the introduction to this blog, I can’t resist this…

“I want to start from
Before the beginning
Loot wine, “Be mine, and
Then let’s stay out for the night”
Ride via Parkside
Semi-perilous lives
Jeer the lights in the windows
Of all safe and stable homes
(But wondering then, well what
Could peace of mind be like?)
Anyway do you want to hear
Our story, or not?
As the Fulham Road lights
Stretch and invite into the night.”

80 minutes : Ian Maatsen for Chukwuemeka.

80 minutes : Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling.

Mudryk wearing number ten, but a winger. Memories of Clive Walker dancing away. I liked the look of Mudryk when he came on. Personally I would play him over Sterling. Mind you, I’d play Parky over Sterling, stick and all.

89 minutes : Ugo Ugochukwu for Chilwell.

I long for the day when Carney and Ugo are on the pitch at the same time.

The Chukle Brothers?

Oh yes. I wonder if Morrissey has a song for them.

I feared the absolute worst when Darwin Nunez shot from distance and a wicked deflection saw the ball spinning towards the goal, scene of many a late winner over the years. Thankfully it dropped just wide of the far post. No Iniesta moment this time.

A chance for Mudryk but he dallied. A last chance for Maatsen but no real contact.

It ended 1-1.

I think everyone was really warmed by this rounded performance by Chelsea against a formidable opponent. This was our seventh draw in a row against Liverpool.

Before the season began, I conservatively predicted a top eight finish.

Maybe we can aim a little higher.

Next up, three away games.

Bemerton Heath Harlequins in Salisbury on Tuesday, Falmouth in the FA Cup on Saturday and West Ham on Sunday.

Oh – and Johnny Fucking Marr in Frome on Wednesday.

2023/24 – let’s have you.

Tales From One Over The Eight

Posted on November 5, 2022 by Chris Axon

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

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

Brighton is a fair old stretch from Somerset.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“News Of The World.”

“That’s Entertainment.”

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

“That’s Entertainment.”

Talk about continuity.

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

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

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

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

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

We spoke about our first experiences of live football.

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

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

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

Ah, football, you beautiful thing.

You beautiful game.

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I was in.

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

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

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

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Cucarella

Pulisic – Kovacic – Loftus- Cheek – Sterling

Mount – Gallagher

Havertz

Or something like that.

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

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

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

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

The game began.

And how.

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

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

Fackinell.

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

The home stands were roaring again.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

We had nowhere to hide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brighton hit a post.

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

“Is Mount playing” I asked Gary.

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

Fackinell.

Absolute gloom at the break.

Gary : “I’ll take 3-0 now.”

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

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

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

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

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

Bosh.

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

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

Just after the hour, two changes.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for the utterly woeful Sterling.

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

A Havertz shot was skied in front of us.

In the last ten minutes, two more changes.

Armando Broja for Pulisic.

Hakim Ziyech for Gallagher.

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

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

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

Brighton 4 Chelsea 1.

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

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

We slumped off home.

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

Paulton Rovers 3 Frome Town 2.

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

I reached home at about 9.30pm.

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

Into November we go.

LEWES

FALMER

Tales From Now And Then

Posted on October 21, 2022 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 19 October 2022.

I took a turn to drive for this Wednesday evening game at Brentford. I had worked another early shift – up at 4.45am, ah the joy – and met PD, Lord Parky and Sir Les in the pub car-park outside work just after 2pm.

It was a stunning afternoon. Oh that autumnal sun. I had booked a car-park space about half-a-mile from the stadium from 5pm so I needed to crack on and get up to London.

Here we all were, two-thirds of-our way through our nine game marathon in the month of October. Five down, this was number six, with three to go.

And, thus far, unbeaten too.

Stopping briefly on the A303 for a re-fuel of myself, the road was kind to me. Only in the very last segment, heading towards Kew Bridge from the south – a new way in – was there congestion. Not to worry, I was parked up a few minutes early.

Outside, a breeze.

The trip up had been a breeze too, but outside the wind was blowing and the trees were being whipped into shape. We set off, not for the stadium, but the “Bell & Crown” pub on the northern bank of the River Thames, just slightly downstream from Kew Bridge. Here, in the same pub where we had enjoyed an hour or so before Christmas in the League Cup, there was to be a gathering of the clans.

We made our way through the pub to the river terrace. Already waiting for us was a face from the past. Clive – or to give him his cherished nickname from his youth “Trotsky” – was waiting for us with his teenage son Frankie. Trotsky first came to my attention when I used to go and watch Frome Town in around 1980. He was at many games. And I knew that he was a Brentford fan. He moved away from Frome around twenty years ago and now lives in Launceston in Cornwall. I have met him at a couple of Frome Town games over the past few seasons. And, inevitably, we became friends on “Facebook” as is often the case. Trotsky and his son are Brentford season ticket holders and we arranged to meet up for a natter.

Soon into the evening, he pulled out a Frome Town scarf and the four Frome lads – himself, Frankie, PD and yours truly – posed for a photo.

I then back-tracked even further. I recently remembered that we must have first met in around 1976 on a caravan site in the shadow of The Mendips. Caravans were never the trendiest thing were they? When my father bought one in 1975, I was rather embarrassed by it all. Nevertheless, during the summer of 1976 we journeyed the short distance to Rodney Stoke and it soon became apparent that a chap that my father knew, a fellow Frome shopkeeper and probably a fellow member of the town’s Chamber of Commerce, was parked close by. Ken Secker would later become Frome mayor. He was Trotsky’s father. And I have some very feint memory of chatting to Trotsky, but it is no further than that; a vague shadow of a memory, nothing more. Even with my shyness at that age, I am sure we must have shared a few words.

Five decades on, we were chatting for sure on a fine autumn evening in West London.

Next to arrive was my pal Ben from Boston in Massachusetts, who arrived with a lad that I had not met before, Mike, who was proudly sporting a New York Yankee cap, and was originally from New York, but now lives on the outskirts of Boston. I had swapped tickets around so that I could sit next to Ben, the lucky beneficiary of a ticket that a friend could not use. Mike, sadly, was without a ticket for this game but at least he had one for the upcoming Manchester United game.

Three New York Blues visited us too, and I am not sure if they all had tickets.

Tickets for away games. It’s a shady subject isn’t it? It often grates among established – local, or at least from the UK – fans that an admittedly miniscule proportion of our away games get shared out among overseas supporters’ clubs. But that’s the way the club decides to allocate tickets, so there is little that can be done. I know there have been lengthy discussions about ticket distribution at fans’ forum meetings over the years.

Emotions often run high. Nothing is perfect. Everyone has an opinion though. How to reward loyalty? What a tough subject.

I remember, so very well, our first away game at Bournemouth in 2016. I know for a fact that not one ticket from the 1,200 that we were allotted went to any overseas club. But I do remember only too well that around ten people in the row behind me fucked off at half-time. I was seething at the sight of those empty seats.

I guess the lure of a couple of pints was too hard to resist.

Sigh.

I often try to help friends from the US obtain home tickets and it was a major struggle when the sanctions were brought in at the end of last season, but I was very happy to help. But away tickets are by definition so difficult to obtain. However, I will assist if I think it is deserved. If someone I don’t know from Badgercrack Nebraska asks me to get them an away ticket, especially if it is a first away game, or worse, a first-ever Chelsea game, I will politely decline.

Next to arrive were Nick and Kimberley from Fresno in California.

By now, Trotsky’s mind was blown.

“Wait. You have come all this way to see Brentford?”

We laughed.

It was true. Nick and Kimberley, who I first met in “The Pensioner” five seasons ago, almost to the day, were over for the football, but obviously Chelsea first and foremost. Sadly, their trip was to be curtailed as Nick’s mother had been taken ill. They would therefore, sadly, miss the United game on Saturday.

Trotsky was generally overwhelmed by our overseas support. I guess it is normal, now, in these modern times for foreign fans to latch on to Europe’s most successful teams. However, I told the story of how several of my US-based Chelsea mates helped support a lower-level team a decade or so ago. A few friends helped Frome Town raise £25,000 for a new stand to enable the club to remain in the Southern League. So, it’s not just top level teams that attract foreign fans. It’s level eight teams too.

Ben and Mike shot off early to try to rustle up a spare.

The pre-match chat continued. This was a very pleasant evening. If anything, the area south of Brentford’s new pad is even more swish than the Kings Road and parts of Chelsea.

It was time to walk the short distance to the snug stadium.

Outside, Paul from Swindon shouted over to me. He was with another long-distance acquaintance, who I quickly introduced to Kimberley and Nick.

“You two think California is a long way from London? Bank is from Bangkok.”

There was no bag search on entering the stadium. Myself and my notorious camera were in.

Last season, I watched from nearer the corner flag, along the side. This time I was further behind the goal and higher up. Excellent. It was lovely to see so many familiar faces before kick-off. We had two thousand seats for this one. Everyone would be used. Sadly, Mike was not one of those in attendance.

Graham Potter chose this side.

Kepa

Dave – Trevoh – Kalidou

Ruben – Jorginho – Conor – Marc

Kai – Mase

Armando

The lights dimmed, the stadium then pulsed with flashing strobes.

The teams entered.

“Hey Jude” was played and we soon hi-jacked it.

Brentford gave us three difficult games last season. We rode our luck in the two away games, then got mullered at Stamford Bridge. This one was a test for us no doubt.

The game began with Chelsea on top, but that soon changed.

Kepa made a fine early save down to our left from the always dangerous Ivan Toney. His central header was thankfully aimed straight at our in-form ‘keeper. The effort was tipped over.

Our chances were few and far between in that first part of the game. The home team, however, were looking to stretch us open with some incisive passing and intelligent running. On more than one occasion, it was our defensive acumen that was exposed.

Conor had begun brighter than most but he was sadly substituted by Mateo on fifteen minutes.

There was a shout from the home areas when Ruben tangled with Mbeumo. No penalty.

Not long after, Ruben got himself caught between two players as he attempted to clear the ball away up the line to safety.

“Ruben got sandwiched.”

Ben groaned.

“Corny, right?”

Not always dominant in the box, it was good to see Kepa come and punch a tantalising cross from the Brentford right. The ‘keeper, a hero in Milan and Witton, was again called into action. A long free-kick that was taken by the Brentford ‘keeper David Raya and the ball was inadvertently headed towards goal by Ruben. Frank Onyeka was lurking, but Kepa palmed his effort over. Rapturous applause again.

“He’s better than fucking Thibaut.”

But things weren’t great.

I turned to Ben.

“No threat up our right. No threat up our left. No threat in the middle.”

Kai was at his perplexing best, or worst, failing on a few occasions to be physical enough, nor as determined as he needed to be.

A shot from distance from Dave forced Raya to scramble down to his right.

I did like the look of young Armando on his first start. He kept running channels, chasing lost causes, an irritant to the defenders in the Brentford team. One determined run, with the striker out-chasing a marker and showing grim determination to push forward, ended up with a ball being flashed across the box. Kai was a yard short of reaching it.

“After Porto, I am not saying Kai had the world at his feet, but he hasn’t pushed on, has he?”

On this mild evening in West London, Mason was ridiculously quiet.

Just before the interval, a relatively quick break that was instigated by Armando’s harrying of a defender found Marc loitering on the edge of the box.

I screamed at him :

“Shoot. Shoot! SHOOT. SHOOT!”

He didn’t shoot.

Fackinell.

The ball was played out to Ruben whose shot was high and wide.

Sigh.

At the break, Brentford had enjoyed the better chances. I hoped for an improvement.

Soon into the second period, a tame header from Mbeumo – completely bloody unmarked – was gathered by Kepa.

The game stumbled along.

For some unfathomable reason, the “Dennis Wise” song was aired.

Why? Was he playing?

Seriously, let’s sing this when we are winning 6-0 but not at 0-0. Even worse was to follow. For a few minutes, the “that’s why we love Salomon Kakou” chant was sung, and it was probably the loudest chant all night.

Answers on a postcard.

On the hour, three substitutions.

Carney Chuklebrother for a poor Mason Mount.

Christian Pulisic for Marc Cucarella.

Raheem Sterling for Armando Broja.

I was amazed that Kai was still on the pitch. And a little annoyed that Armando had been replaced. He was one of our plus points.

Carney soon had a pacey run into the box down below us.

As the game continued, the three new players started to inject much-needed urgency. Space was at an absolute premium in the middle but Christian twisted and toiled with skill in search of an opening. A shot from Kai forced a point blank save from Raya.

At the other end, we warmed to intelligent play from Kepa who forced Toney wide and blocked the subsequent shot.

With ten to go, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang replaced Kai Havertz.

This game was wide open now. An optimistic shot from virtually the half-way line thankfully didn’t have the legs to beat Kepa. Brentford then hit the side netting with another shot.

Shots from Pierre-Emerick, Christian and even another blaster from Dave put the pressure on the Brentford ‘keeper. But I wasn’t convinced that we would get a winner, as blatantly undeserved as it would have been.

One last chance fell to Carney but his shot at the near post was saved well by Raya.

It ended 0-0.

Another clean sheet, if nothing else, but a far from “joined up” performance.

With this being a 7.30pm kick-off, I was away just before 10pm and I made very good time to get back to Melksham for midnight. I dropped the lads off and made my way home, getting home at 12.30am. I eventually made it to bed at 1.45am. I can never ever fall asleep as soon as I get home after these midweek flits to London.

4.45am to 1.45am.

Bloody hell.

“What?” I hear you ask, “no mention of 1982/83?”

There is no football to report from forty years ago but I was always going to mention a Stiff Little Fingers gig that I saw with a mate in Bristol on Sunday 17 October 1982, if only for the reason that I saw the same band in Frome on Monday 11 July 2022.

The show took place at the now defunct and demolished “Studio” and was the second time that I had seen the band in 1982. This latter gig was during the “Out Of Our Skulls” tour to promote their final album “Now Then.”

And I wondered how I could shoe-horn it in to this report, without it sticking out like a, er, stiff little finger. Then, after the game had ended, out in the concourse, a Chelsea supporter who I did not recognise approached me.

I looked a bit vague.

“Stiff Little Fingers.”

My mind whirled and it soon clicked. It was Richard, a friend on “Facebook” who I had not previously met. He was a big SLF fan too. And we briefly spoke about the band. It made me chuckle that so often I have bumped into someone and, seeing my look of befuddlement, they have uttered the word “Chelsea.” Yet here I was, at a Chelsea game, yet someone who I was unfamiliar with chose to say a band name rather than a football club name.

Thanks Richard. You helped create a far-more worthy final paragraph.

Well, almost a final paragraph.

Driving home, while the other three intermittently slept, I briefly thought about Stiff Little Fingers and their current line-up. Only two of the original four members remain – Jake Burns and Ali McMordie – but they are certainly still going strong. And I had a little chuckle about them being their own tribute act, maybe in the way that I see this current Chelsea team – not one of my favourites I have to be honest, not one that I feel a strong connection with – being a tribute act to the sides that I still adorn with love and admiration; the 1983/84 team, the 1996/97 team, the 2004/5 team, maybe the 2011/12 team.

Is that what I really feel?

Is this the phase that I am at?

God knows, it had been a long day.

See you against United.

Tales From My San Siro Odyssey

Posted on October 15, 2022 by Chris Axon

Milan vs. Chelsea : 11 October 2022.

My San Siro odyssey began in August 1986.

Whereas my 1985 Inter-Rail jaunt around Europe took in many countries, from Italy in the south to Sweden in the north, the 1986 version – another solo-trip, another dose of me finding confidence through travel – was focussed on Spain, France, Italy and the Greek Island of Corfu. It was all about exploring the southern parts of Europe and the first fortnight or so encompassed Biarritz, Madrid, Barcelona, the Italian Riviera for a week, Pisa and Rome before I then spent around ten relaxing days in three locations on Corfu. After that had all finished, and on the return trip north, I wanted to stop off in Milan. In the three weeks or so that I had been away from Blighty, I had already visited Camp Nou in Barcelona and Stadio Olimpico in Rome. To miss out on the San Siro – or the Giuseppe Meazza as it is sometimes known – would have been foolhardy.

I caught the long overnight train – fourteen hours, the longest of the whole month – from Brindisi to Milano Centrale, arriving at 9am on a Thursday morning in early August.

Ah, Milano Centrale.

It brought back memories of my very first taste of Italy.

In 1975, on my first European holiday, my parents and I caught a train from London Victoria to Milan, another overnighter, on the way to Diano Marina in the Italian Riviera, and so the immense interior of this incredible station – Mussolini must have liked marble – thus witnessed my first ever steps on Italian soil.

A year later, another Italian holiday – this time to Lido di Jesolo near Venice – and another train to Milano Centrale. On this occasion, our onward leg was by coach and so we walked outside the station to pick up the connection. I was therefore able to witness the three huge halls that made up the station frontage. These were equally as impressive as the three semi-circular roof spans covering all of the train tracks.

By 1976, I had already chosen Juventus as my Italian and my sole European team but was of course aware of the two Milan teams who, in those days, were known in England as AC Milan and Inter Milan.

An Italian family had settled in my home village after the war and although they didn’t seem to be particularly into football, one of the brothers had a son, Adriano, who occasionally visited and he once told me that he favoured Milan. Incidentally, the mother in this family lived to a very grand age of 109. There must be something in that Italian diet.

My parents, on a whistle-stop visit to Milan on an Italian holiday in the ‘fifties had called in to see this family’s relations and my father often told the story of being given a few shots of the infamous grappa.

On a few visits to Italy, back to Diano Marina again and again to see my pal Mario, I became acquainted with more and more aspects of the Italian game. At that time, Inter were bigger than Milan – in terms of fan base – and the two clubs’ support tended to be split along socio-political lines.

Inter : middle class, to the right.

Milan : working class, to the left.

Oh, and I soon learned that “Inter Milan” was wrong, very wrong…either Inter or Internazionale and nothing else. At the time, Juventus were the dominant team but the two Milanese had sporadic success. Milan won a scudetto in 1978/79 but were then relegated to Serie B in 1979/80 due to a betting scandal and again in 1981/82 due to being, er, shite.

Which brings us nicely to 1982/83 again.

As I have mentioned previously, the visit of Leeds United to Stamford Bridge on Saturday 9 October 1982 absolutely captivated me. It stirred so much emotion. And it engendered such a sense of anticipation.

Chelsea versus Leeds.

Bloody fantastic.

Growing up, Leeds were a massive name. Just as I was getting into football, the big teams were Leeds United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Tottenham and Chelsea. Derby County were champions in 1972 but never really had the same clout as the others. Manchester United? No, a joke of a club on the decline. Manchester City? Off the radar.

With Leeds getting unceremoniously dumped into the old Second Division at the end of the 1981/82 season, throughout that summer I was kept buoyed with the thought that I would be – hopefully – able to see them play my beloved Chelsea at Stamford Bridge for the very first time.

The fixtures were announced. I would not have to wait too long. Unlike the Leicester City game in September when I travelled up by train, for the Leeds game I went up by National Express coach from Bath. This was a tiresome journey and I remember being relatively miserable about the whole experience. I think it was a bit cheaper than the train – my diary mentions the coach costing £5.50 – and it was all about saving money for football in those days.

I remember that some long lost Canadian cousins had recently dropped in on us – my father’s cousin from Vancouver – and I had been gifted an oversized Vancouver Whitecaps shirt as a present. I know I decided to wear it up to the Leeds United game. What do I remember of the day? I remember arriving at Victoria Coach Station and catching a tube to Fulham Broadway.

I distinctly remember this :

I was stood in the central aisle, and I noted a young lad in front of me. Maybe the same age, seventeen. He was smartly dressed. He was wearing some sportswear. Maybe some Adidas trainers. Actually, maybe some desert boots. Maybe a Slazenger pullover. Perhaps an Adidas rain jacket. Definitely some tight jeans. And I certainly remember thinking “mmm, that’s a new look, something different, bit like a mod but with a football twist.” I was certain that he was going to Chelsea. I don’t remember a pin badge though. And I remember him looking at me in my Vancouver Whitecaps shirt, and the thought went through my head that he was trying to suss out who I was, which team.

At that time, living in rural Somerset, I was blissfully unaware of the dress code that had enveloped urban cities such as Liverpool, Leeds, Birmingham, Manchester and London but which had originated on the football terraces. There were skinheads, punks, headbangers, mods, but that was it as far as I was concerned.

Looking back, I am positive that my first ever sighting of a casual took place on the tube on the way to Chelsea and Leeds that day. I would later learn that on that very day, the warring factions – I am not sure if I had heard of the Leeds Service Crew in 1982 but it is quite possible – were chasing each other around Piccadilly Circus that lunchtime.

The programme memorably had this message emblazoned on the cover :

“Welcome to all Leeds United fans present today. Chelsea FC extend a warm welcome to the supporters of our distinguished visitors Leeds United. We hope you witness an exciting match and have a message for you – don’t be a mug, don’t be a thug – and help your club achieve greatness once again.”

I remember having a chuckle at this. There was no mention of a warning to Chelsea fans here. It would seem that we were an innocent party. I can just imagine Ken Bates mouthing the “don’t be a mug, don’t be a thug” to the programme editor.

“Yeah, that scans well. Put that in.”

I don’t remember much of the actual game and sadly I didn’t take my camera to games in those days. I absolutely remember the malevolent atmosphere though. I watched from my usual spot in The Shed, under the roof – just – and towards the tea bar. Leeds, I suppose, had around three thousand fans and the size of the gate really warmed me. It was 25,358, much more than I had expected and the third biggest of the day in the Football League. I remember Leeds in two central pens, nobody else on the bleak north terrace. But I remember that the northern segments of The Benches and the East Lower – what I would later learn to be the infamous Gate 13 – were absolutely rammed. It was as if the stadium had been tilted north and everyone had been squashed up against the north terrace. This gave me, an excitable youngster, the impression that the Chelsea fans just wanted to have a go at the Leeds lot.

There was one chant from The Shed that made me grimace :

“Did the Ripper, did the Ripper, did the Ripper get your Mum? Did the Ripper get your Mum?”

This was the Yorkshire version, not Jack of old London town.

The teams that day?

Chelsea : Steve Francis, Gary Locke, Chris Hutchings, Micky Droy, Colin Pates, John Bumstead, Tony McAndrew, Mike Fillery, Pop Robson, David Speedie, Clive Walker.

Leeds United : John Lukic, Trevor Cherry, Eddie Gray, Kenny Burns, Paul Hart, Gwynn Thomas, Kevin Hird, Aiden Butterworth, Frank Worthington, Frank Gray, Arthur Graham.

This would be my first sighting of David Speedie. There are some names in that Leeds team. The Gray brothers. Kenny Burns. I must admit that I have no recollection of seeing Frank Worthington but I am glad that I evidently did. He was one of football’s great mavericks. Please Google his goal for Bolton against Ipswich Town in 1979.

Sadly, the game ended 0-0 and was memorable for the outbreaks of fighting in the East Stand than the quality on show on the pitch.

I sloped off and ended up waiting at Victoria for an hour or so to catch a coach home. Some Tottenham fans had been at their game at home to Coventry City and we got talking. Once they heard I was Chelsea, they told me to watch out for Leeds fans as they were “nasty buggers” and I remember one of them eying up what I was wearing.

“Don’t worry, I think that you will be safe with that on.”

Let’s move on four years to 1986 and my short stopover in Milan. I bought a map at the station and walked down past La Scala Opera House to the grand cathedral – Il Duomo – in the city centre before walking to Cairoli and catching a tube to Lotto. The weather was super-hot and the walk to San Siro was tough going. I first thought that I wouldn’t be able to get in, but thankfully I soon found an open gate so sneaked inside. In those days, the stadium was just two-tiered, a huge concrete edifice. Childhood hero Ray Wilkins was playing for Milan at the time. Another couple of tourists were inside too. One of them took a photo of me looking ridiculously tanned after my stay on Corfu. San Siro was undergoing a transformation over the summer; plastic seats were being bolted onto the once bare concrete, at least on the steps of the lower deck. I took photos inside and out. It was a joy to be inside one of the palaces of European football. My diary tells me that I scrawled “Chelsea FC” on one of the green seats at the northern end. That doesn’t surprise me. I had scrawled the same on a fence at the stadium in Rome too.

I didn’t leave Milan that day until I took a train to Paris at around 7pm. There is no doubt that I would have spent a fair few hours at Milano Centrale, an activity that I would repeat many times over the next four years as I repeatedly returned to Italy. My diary noted that Milan was “not a fantastic place really” but I enjoyed being in this famous city, this famous football city, and of course the home of Italian fashion and the birthplace of the “paninari” a few years earlier.

Earlier in 1986, I had bought the Pet Shop Boys’ mini-album “Disco” and absolutely loved the song “Paninaro” :

“Passion and love and sex and money.
Violence, religion, injustice and death.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Girls, boys, art, pleasure.
Girls, boys, art, pleasure.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Food, cars, travel.
Food, cars, travel, travel.
New York, New York, New York.
New York.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Armani, Armani, ah-ah-Armani.
Versace, cinque.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.

Armani, Armani, ah-ah-Armani.
Versace, cinque.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.

I don’t like country-and-western.
I don’t like rock music.
I don’t like, I don’t like rockabilly or rock & roll particularly.
Don’t like much really, do I?
But what I do like I love passionately.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.

You, you’re my lover, you’re my hope, you’re my dreams.
My life, my passion, my love, my sex, my money.
Violence, religion, injustice and death.

Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
Don’t like much really, do I?
Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.
But what I do like I love passionately.
Paninaro, Paninaro, oh, oh, oh.

What an anthem. In 1986, the paninaro look was definitely assisting the UK’s casual look to evolve. I had bought some deck shoes, a “Best Company” T-shirt and always had one eye on what was happening in Italy and on the terraces at Chelsea and elsewhere. It was a great time to be young and into football, music and clobber; the time of my life.

At San Siro in 1986, just for the record…red Kappa polo shirt, Adidas shorts and a pair of yellow espadrilles.

There is one more thing to add from my holiday in 1986. At Ipsos on Corfu, I shared a tent with a chap called Rob who owned a record shop in Sacramento in California. Every few months, he would visit London and buy up a ton of obscure music posters, T-shirts, and rare CDs and ship them out to the US to sell at hugely-inflated prices. It got me thinking. I cottoned on to the genius of selling rare items at a nice profit. Thankfully, I didn’t have to think too long. My post-college future was decided during that Inter-Rail trip of 1986. I would buy English football badges – the small, super small, circular ones – and travel out to Europe flip-flopping between games in Germany and Italy to sell them at games. For all of its problems with hooliganism, or being blunt because of it, I just knew that English badges would sell well in Europe.

I was itching to go. Sadly, I had one more year at college to endure.

Tick tock, tick tock.

1986/87 passed with Chelsea finishing in a lowly fourteenth place but I had fared better; I somehow passed my Geography degree with an Upper Second. However, my immediate future didn’t involve job fairs, interviews or further studies. My future was focussed on football.

Fackinell.

That summer I returned to work in a local dairy, as in 1984, to gather some sheccles together for more foreign travel. In September, I set off with two college mates – Ian and Trev, the same course – for another spin around Europe. On a Saturday evening in Rome in early September, after another visit to Stadio Olimpico, I stumbled across a booklet listing the Serie A fixtures for the season.

A quick scan of the fixtures : Inter vs. Empoli.

“Fancy it? Sunday.”

“Too right.”

We were headed up to Venice for an early morning visit, arriving at 6.30am. However, after a whirlwind walking tour, we were away at 9.45am and headed to Milan via a change at Vicenza. I had bought a copy of the famous daily sports paper “La Gazetta Dello Sport” to check some details about the game and tickets were on sale for L.10,000 or about five quid. The fervour being shown by a train full of Brescia fans en route to Padua – a local derby – astonished us. It was a fine pre-curser to our afternoon in Milan. We got in at 1.30pm and the game was to kick-off at 3pm. Perfect. We disappeared underground and took a metro to San Siro which was quite a way out. There was a free bus at Lotto to take us to the stadium. I had time to peruse the various grafters outside.

“No English badges. Great stuff.”

Italian ones were selling for L3,100 or about £1.50.

Our tickets positioned us above a small knot of Empoli fans in the southern end, the “Lions’ Den” section where Milan’s ultras congregated. We had reached our seats by entering near the northern end but the steady slope took us around the outside of the stadium to deposit us in the southern end. To my amazement, we sat on raw concrete. But I was not bothered. I was in football heaven.

The Alps were visible above the Inter fans in the north end. I loved all the banners.

“Boys.”

I think that was their main group.

“Boys San.”

Loved it.

Empoli? I knew little about them apart from that they were newly promoted. On the previous weekend, they had won 2-0 at home to Juventus, a huge shock at the time. On this day in sunny Milan, I watched on with great pleasure. This was my first professional football match outside of England, Scotland and Wales.

The San Siro would always have a place in my heart.

The Inter team that day included some stars; Walter Zenga, Giuseppe Bergomi, Alessandro Altobelli plus the two “stranieri” Daniel Pasarella and Enzo Schifo. It was an utter joy to witness Italian football in the flesh.

Aldo Serena and Altobelli gave Inter a 2-0 win in front of 42,672.

My diary notes “I am sure I can make a killing there with badges.”

Later that year, in November, I sold badges at Juventus’ Stadio Communale before an evening game against Panathinaikos in the UEFA Cup. I only sold 31 but it was a start. I was less fortunate in Mannheim and Munich in Germany. I was stopped by the police in Mannheim and also in Munich where I decided to foolishly chance my luck. I had sold 34 at Munich’s Olympic Stadium – going well – but I did not have a street trader’s licence – “reisegewerbekarte” – so was arrested and fined on the spot. However, a cop let me in to watch the last twenty minutes of the Bayern vs. Uerdingen game for free.

In February 1988, I was at it again.

My first game was at San Siro, and a friendly involving Milan and Steaua Bucharest on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Unbeknown to me, the Serie A games had been cancelled due to an Italy vs. Russia game in Bari on the Saturday but thank goodness Milan had sorted out a friendly. Milan were in full flow at this time with Ruud Gullit and Marco Van Basten leading the team to glory. I did OK at this game. The gate was only 14,000 but I sold 26 badges and 2 scarves. One bloke swapped his “Fossa Dei Leoni” badge for one of mine. There were a few nervous moments as several police cars drove past but I was not spoken to. I had decided to pitch myself near the to where the Lotto busses stopped. It seemed perfect. I was positioned just outside the San Siro “Trotter” arena; horse racing but with the jockeys in little buggies.

It is a mystery why I did not pay the £4 to attend the game. I guess that I was on a limited budget – I certainly ate frugally and infrequently while away for a month – and the whole point of me being in Italy was, firstly, to make some money. I walked away with £40 in my pockets, and a profit of about £25.

Small acorns and all that.

A week later, I was back at San Siro for the Milan vs. Sampdoria game. Here was the real test. Thankfully this went swimmingly well. Again, I didn’t go inside, but for a valid reason; it was a sell-out. At half-time I was stood outside the stadium with a few thousand others. I went on a wander across the vast car park and returned to hear the clamour as Milan’s second goal went in. They were to win 2-1. The attendance was 72,000 and I walked away with £125 and a profit of about £80. I had sold 80 badges and 7 scarves. Not bad for around four hours’ work. I was in heaven with thoughts of returning again. And again.

Before the game, probably against my better wishes, I had bought the monthly magazine “Forza Milan.” As a Juventus fan, it was a bad move, but I just wanted to immerse myself in Italian football. It really was a heady time to be a Milanista. It felt that their time had come. At the end of the 1987/88 season, they were crowned as champions for the first time since 1979. Silvio Berlusconi was in charge, Arrigo Sacchi and his famous “pressing” was getting the best out of his players. And Gullit and Van Basten were soon to be European Champions with The Netherlands in the summer.

Mamma mia.

Later that week, I did even better at Verona, selling 79 badges from a crowd of just 33,000 before and after a UEFA Cup game with Werder Bremen.

In the summer of 1988, I recorded an episode of “Rough Guide – Milan” with Magenta Devine and Sankha Guha (remember them?) and the travel guide totally encapsulated all that was rattling around my brain at the time. There is no doubt that I was deeply infatuated with all things Italian from the mid-‘eighties onwards.

My next trip to Milan, and San Siro, would be my last for thirty-two years. It came in September 1990, right after the momentous Italia’90 World Cup – when many English folk “rediscovered football”, stop sniggering at the back – and I had returned from an equally momentous ten-month holiday in North America. With English football back with a vengeance after some dark days, the time was right for me to head over with a freshly-acquired stash of English – and Scottish, Celtic in particular always sold well in Italy – badges.

It was a heady time for Italian football. The national team had threatened in the World Cup before falling to a Maradona-inspired Argentina in a semi-final. However, I always thought that it was club over country in Italy, even more so than in England.

The Serie A title was certainly shared around in this period.

1985 : Verona.

1986 : Juventus.

1987 : Napoli.

1988 : Milan.

1989 : Inter.

1990 : Napoli.

The second Sunday of the 1990/91 Serie A season saw me return to Milan for the Inter vs. Bologna game.

At the end of the day, I started my daily journal :

Milano Centrale, Sunday 16September 1990.

“Tutto Inglese e Scozzese. Quatro mila lire.”

My sales patter didn’t go on for long, but it certainly did the job. I must have repeated that phrase five hundred times in the six hours before the 4pm kick-off.

My diary reports a “perfect day” and it is certainly one that I look back upon with a great deal of pleasure. It was, simply, one of the best “non-Chelsea” days of my life. I had arrived at Milano Centrale at just before 8am. By 10am I had arrived outside the remodelled San Siro and – oh my goodness – I can well remember the sight of those monstrous red girders floating above the photogenic towers that had been added to the San Siro since my last visit eighteen months earlier.

Within an hour, I had sold 26 badges to a stall-holder, at a slight-knock down price of L.3,500 each. I had decided to up the price to L.4,000 per badge from my L.3,000 price in 1988. I stopped selling at 3.15pm in order to buy a ticket off a tout – I couldn’t miss this game – and I nabbed one for L.25,000 instead of L.20,000.

As it happened, I could afford it.

My one memory of this day is of ascending one of the helix shaped towers behind the South Curv and scrambling to a seat almost at the rear of the very back row of the third level. I stood up and spent what seemed a long time picking L.5,000, L.10,000, L.20,000 notes and even one L.50,000 note out of all four pockets of my jeans and adding them to the pile in my wallet.

That day I sold almost 200 badges. I even sold some on the slow walk back to Lotto without even trying; a lad had remembered me from before the game and stopped me to buy ten. By the time I had pulled the last note from my jeans, I had made £330 which equated to a profit of around £200.

I hope the tax man isn’t reading this.

The game was half decent. Inter had the three World Cup winners Klinsmann, Matheus and Brehme in their team. I noted that Bologna countered well. In the last minute, Alessandro Bianchi scored with a great volley in front of the “Ultras”, “Boys San” and “Vikings” in the home Curva Nord to give Inter a 1-0 win. The noise was utterly incredible even though the gate was only around 50,000. The other lot, Milan, were the bigger draw by far at the time. They were the “buzz” around the city.

On the following Sunday, I paid another visit to San Siro and another fine afternoon followed. This time it was Milan vs. Fiorentina. I didn’t go inside for this one. Outside, I sold just under one hundred badges. My diary notes that I soon sold out of Liverpool, Chelsea and Celtic – by far the best sellers in 1990 for reasons that might well be obvious – and so I did well to sell so many. I was outside the stadium when Milan scored their first goal – they went on to win 2-1 – but I left for the station well before the end as I had developed a bad headache. One thing of note; I had been chatting to an English guy from Rochdale who had stayed over from the World Cup with England. He was interested in selling badges too; he seemed a bit of a chancer, but I gave him the ‘phone number of the bloke in Blackburn who had provided me with the badges. He disappeared off to “blag” some tickets but I later saw him, crestfallen, having been picked up by plain clothes cops, his tickets nicked too.

What a plum.

Alas, my badge-selling days were over before they had really got going.

There is a sad end to all of this in fact. A few days after the greatest days in Milan, I was robbed while on a train from Zurich to Genoa – I was knocked out using CS gas I think, it was all the rage on Italian trains at the time, luckily my Inter-Rail Card and passport were untouched – and so I had to sheepishly make my way to Turin where my friend Tullio’s father lent me some money to get home.

I remember his father answered the doorbell, so surprised to see me.

“Ah Chris! Come va?”

“Cosi cosi.”

It was the biggest understatement of all time.

This story continues on though. In 1995, I met up with Pete, the chap who sold me all those badges at cost price – bless him – before a Chelsea game at Ewood Park. He treated me to a pub lunch and we spoke about our grafting days. He was a Liverpool supporter – he was there in Rome in 1977 and elsewhere too – and when I spoke about Milan, I mentioned the chancer I had met in 1990.

“Oh, Milan John?”

“You know him?”

“Yes. From Rochdale. I always wondered how he got my number.”

“Bloody hell, Pete, I gave it to him.”

It turned out that this bloke had stayed on in Milan and was now living with the woman who was running the newsagents on the platform at Milano Centrale. He often bought badges from Pete. To say I was fed-up was another understatement.

“Bloody hell. That could have been me. Could have met an Italian girl. Could have had badges sent out to me. What a bugger.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Milan : you could have made me.

Vaffanculo.

In February 1997, Chelsea played Milan in a friendly at San Siro and a few hardy souls went over to watch. We lost 2-0 in front of 8,756. I think both teams just needed a game. A few friends attended but there was no way I could go over.

In October 1999, Chelsea played Milan in the San Siro in the Champions League group phase. Unfortunately, I was unable to get time off work and so, sadly, missed it.

In March 2010, Chelsea played Inter in the Champions League quarter-finals. Again, work got in the way. I had just changed companies and I knew my new boss would have struggled without me in the office for three days and so I valiantly – stupidly? – decided that I would forego my chance to see us in Milan.

I have seen Chelsea play seven times in Italy – three against Juve, two against Roma, one against Lazio, one against Napoli, and not a single win – but a visit to San Siro with my beloved Chelsea was evading me like Tottenham’s relationship with silverware.

It was gnawing at me.

There were ongoing rumours, which gathered strength over the years, of both Milan teams moving into a new build which would rise in the car park where I had walked in 1988. This news depressed me. I saw the plans for the new place. They looked super-modern yet so bland. The drama of San Siro’s bulk was missing. Sigh.

Thankfully, our names were drawn in the same group this autumn and I could look forward, at bloody last, to a visit.

ANDIAMO!

The plan was this :

A flight to Turin on the Sunday evening. By the time I had got to looking at flights after returning from Chelsea on a Saturday night, all of the cheap and timely flights to Milan had disappeared. Not to worry, I much prefer Turin to Milan. Three nights in a central apartment with PD and Parky. I would hire a car on the day of the game. A brief spell of sightseeing in central Milan then off to the match. A midnight flit back to Turin and then a flight home from the city’s Caselle airport on Wednesday evening.

I picked up PD at 11am on the Sunday morning and Lord Parky not long after. It was a fine drive to Gatwick. Despite the 4.40pm flight leaving an hour late, the pilot must have known a short cut as he clipped thirty minutes off the flight time. I had a window seat and particularly enjoyed the flight over the English Channel. I pondered how many thousands of articulated lorries I had sent over this small expanse of water since I began at my job in March 2003. From the air, I was able to easily see both coasts; France to the left, England to the right. I thought back to all those solo trips to Europe in my Inter-Railing days. What good times.

We landed at Caselle at 8.10pm. We took a cab to the city. By 9.12pm, I had navigated how to obtain our apartment keys and to enter our pad on Via Fratelli Calandra. Outside, misty rain. But our spirits were lifted when we spotted a small pizza place directly opposite. We sat ourselves inside on some high stools and ordered the first beers of the trip.

“Ichnusa” – from Sardinia – was first spotted by us in Rome in 2017, and here it was again. It was a fine lager. I had a pepperoni pizza – cheap, only eight euros – and all was well with the world. We slept soundly.

Monday was a lovely, lazy day. My two fellow Chuckle Brothers had only visited Italy once before – that Rome trip in 2017 – so Turin was new to them. I took them alongside the River Po, and spoke about the city a little. But I soon found my voice often drifting away to silence when I realised that they weren’t really taking it all in.

I’ll never make a tour guide.

We sat at a few cafes and ordered some cappuccinos. We got the nod that Callum was going to be in town for an hour or so en route to Milan so we caught a cab to Porta Susa train station. This was fine since it enabled me to scope out the Hertz car hire place that I would be utilising on the Tuesday. We all met up in a bar.

We wondered if we had indeed sold all 4,300 tickets. All we knew is that they had gone “off sale” so we hoped so. I spoke to Cal about my Italian pal Tullio who I have known since meeting him in Diano Marina, that town again, in 1981.

“I remember one Saturday morning, ahead of a Napoli game on the Sunday, in 1988…he drove over to meet some school friends after they had gone in to study. They were all labelled-up. Best Company sweatshirts. Timberlands. Sisley coats. Benetton. Lacoste. Jansport duffle bags. Even their school files were adorned with designer labels.”

“I need to up my game here.”

My Joe Bloggs denim shirt looked decidedly downmarket in comparison.

In the afternoon, we slurped a draught Ichnusa apiece in a bar directly opposite one of Turin’s must-see attractions. The National Cinema Museum is housed within the Mole Antonelliana, a building with a domed roof and spear-like tower. Rob and I went up the lift to the viewing gallery in 2009 and I was hoping to do the same this year. Alas, the lift was not working. Not to worry, I visited the film museum while PD and Parky supped on more Ichnusa.

What a joy.

And this was just right for me. During the first nervous months of lockdown in 2020, I really got into Italian films, especially those of the neo-realist school; step forward Rosselini, de Sica, Visconti, Fellini and Antonioni. I always loved “La Dolce Vita” but also really admired “Bicycle Thieves”, “Rome Open City” and the best of the lot “Two Women.” I also fell in love with Sophia Loren. Again.

The museum was stupendous. It was a visual treat. If you ever find yourself in Turin – I call it Italy’s hidden jewel – go. In fact, go now. Tell them I sent you.

That evening, we dropped into two familiar pubs on the main drag, Corso Vittorio Emanuelle II; “Six Nations” and “The Huntsman.” In the second one, we sat at the exact same table that we used on the night before the Juve game last season. Lo and behold, who should walk past but Andy – from the East Midlands I believe – who I last spent time with in Abu Dhabi. He too had flown into Turin.

As I always say : “Chelsea World is a very small world.”

Tullio popped in to see us for an hour or so. It was a joy to see him again. He was, alas, visibly hurting after Juventus’ continued failings under Massimilliano Allegri. I spoke about my previous visits to Turin.

I worked out this was visit number ten.

“No, wait. Eleven. I forgot your wedding.”

We smirked.

1987 : Juve vs. Panathinaikos.

1988 : Juve vs. Inter.

1988 : Juve vs. Napoli.

1989 : Juve vs. Fiorentina.

1990 : the “so so” moment.

1992 : Juve vs. Sampdoria.

1999 : Juve vs. Fiorentina – oh, and the wedding of Tullio and Emanuela.

2009 : Juve vs. Chelsea.

2012 : Juve vs. Chelsea.

2021 : Juve vs. Chelsea.

2022 : Milan vs.Chelsea.

The evening was lovely. We rounded off the night with several shots of “Baileys” and God knows why. It was, as ever, a good night.

On the Tuesday, the day of the game, PD woke me at around 6.45am. We walked to the Porta Nova train station and caught a cab to Porta Susa with blue skies overhead and the city of Turin looking as gorgeous as ever.

Sorting out the car took a few minutes, but I was soon heading east through the rush-hour traffic of Turin. It was slow going during the first half-an-hour. But we were soon on the A4 to Milan. It made me chuckle really. In my childhood, my father used to drive along a section of the A4 – Beckhampton to Hungerford – on numerous trips to Chelsea. On this A4 instead of signs for Fyfield, Marlborough, Savernake, Axford and Hungerford there were signs for Chivasso, Greggio, Vercelli, Novara and Galliate. To our left, the snow-capped peaks of the Alps were stunning.

This was no normal Chelsea away trip.

This was one of the very best.

We stopped briefly at a service station near Novara. I stacked up on coffee and snacks.

There was heavy traffic, again, just after a toll on the western outskirts of Milan. A journey that was due to take two hours was nearing one of three hours. But I knew we were closing in on our goal. My work colleague Lorenzo had highlighted the Lampugnano transport hub as the best place to park for San Siro. I was headed there, but first wanted to park up at San Siro because…well, because…it needs no explanation.

At around 11.30am, I briefly parked my black Toyota outside a stadium car park and took a few shots with my camera. The stadium looked even greater than I had remembered it. It was simply stunning. A dormant beast. Those cylindrical towers. Those slopes of concrete. Those roof beams. Spectacular. I was boiling over with emotion.

After six previous visits I was at last going to see us play here.

It was forever a standing joke about Milan that no matter what year you visited it, the roads were always in a state of upheaval due to metro extensions taking place. I am sure my parents mentioned this from their visit in the ‘fifties. Well, ironically, the lines are all fully extended now and completely finished, but on this day of all days there was a bloody tube strike.

At Lampugnano, we were therefore forced to catch a cab into the city. The taxi driver was a Milanista and resembled Zlatan Ibrahimovic. We were driven in past the striking new skyscrapers to the immediate north-west of the centre. We soon collected our match tickets at the Westin Hotel on Piazza della Repubblica. There were familiar faces outside. It was true; we had sold all 4,300 tickets.

Magnificent. Well done everyone.

We met up with fellow Somerset supporters Charlotte and Paul, Donna and Colby. A little sight-seeing was in order. I suggested a short hop north to Milano Centrale. This edifice did not disappoint. It was as stunning today as in 1975. While PD and Parky retired to the station bar, I gave the others a quick tour. I was reminded of the time – after the Milan game in September 1990 I think – when thousands of Inter fans returned from a game just as I had reached the outer hall. They were full of noise and of course the chanting echoed around the vast chamber to superb effect. I was also reminded, after a hot day walking the streets of Milan, how cool it was inside.

Yeah, Mussolini loved marble.

We walked south then caught a tube, bang on three o’clock when the strike ended, at Turati to Duomo. I had always walked this section, so exiting the metro stop and seeing the myriad towers of the city cathedral for the first time was another stunning moment. I never was a great fan of the city, but its two great cathedrals – Il Duomo and San Siro – are outrageously magnificent.

More photos. A beer in a bar. And a panini. When in Rome.Then a tube down to the area called Navigli, where several canals join and a vibrant bar scene has developed. It was where Chelsea were based on the Monday, and it is where many friends were based pre-match.

The place was mobbed. We didn’t venture too far. Many bars had run dry. Beers were on hold at the first place we queued. This was all a bit of a ball ache. Thankfully, PD and Parky had spotted a quieter bar near the nearest tube station so re-camped there. I waited for some friends – Georg and Petr from Prague, Eliot and Lawson from New York, then Sean from New York – and we had a relaxing natter. One more pint of “Warsteiner.” Just two pints was enough. I had to drive back to Turin after the game after all. Georg and Petr asked of our predictions and a 2-1 Chelsea win was a common response.

We set off for San Siro at around 6.45pm. Plenty of time? Think again.

The tube was rammed. But rather than changing at Cadorna onto the red line – which I was planning to do – everyone didn’t budge. At Cadorna, none of us could leave the compartment. We were therefore forced to stay on to Garibaldi. When a train pulled in, a young woman saw who – or rather what – was waiting to join her carriage and physically ran down the compartment.

Maybe she was a Tottenham supporter.

My route would have been eleven stops. This new route was sixteen stops. What a pain. It got worse. At Domodossola, hundreds of Chelsea fans were singing, chanting, banging the roof, creating havoc. For twenty minutes, we didn’t move. The Milan fans were getting irate.

“Because of you, we miss match.”

Corrective action was needed. It was around 7.45pm. We stepped outside and tried to get a cab. But this was hopeless. Hundreds of Chelsea got off here too. They disappeared into the night. At about eight o’clock, we realised we needed a Plan B.

“Right, back downstairs. Let’s see if the trains are running now.”

Bizarrely, the Milan fan that was so irate with all of us was still on the platform. This was odd. Eventually at around 8pm, a new train arrived. This was full of Milan fans; not a bad sign. They knew the timings. They were absolutely full of song too. And in good spirits. They loved our Cucarella chant and repeated it back to us. Most were wearing Milan colours, as had many that we had seen around the city. The dress-code of the late ‘eighties in Italy of jeans, green bomber jackets, scarves and boots – especially the Inter lot – was clearly no more.

There were many songs lauding the rossoneri and one linking interisti to “vaffanculo.”

Our “Oh Thiago Silva” was met with smiles.

Just as the train rumbled into the San Siro stop – newly built, or at least since my last visit – I turned to the nearest Milanista and said “good luck” and he smiled. We shook hands.

I had always approached San Siro from Lotto to the north so I was a little discombobulated.

We were marched west, right past where my car had been parked earlier, and we began the slow march in to the away section. Our ticket was cross-referenced with our passport. Further in, there was a predictable altercation with a couple of stewards who wanted me to take my pocket camera – I had left my SLR at home, I am no fool – back to “bus.”

Oh Christ. Here we go again.

There was no bus. My car was half-an-hour away.

I pleaded that it was just a “piccolo machina” and they thankfully let me in.

“But – no photo in stadio.”

I replied : “sure, OK!”

I thought : “Yeah, right, sunshine.”

It was about 8.40pm.

PD and Parky, hobbling, were allowed access to the lift. I tried to join them but was not allowed in. Instead, the slow ascent up the helix. It was fine, thank heavens. The old ticker wasn’t grumbling at all.

Inside, our area – the upper third tier, green zone – was near packed to capacity. I could go left into the centre or right to the end where I guessed there would be more empty seats. I chose right. After just five or six steps up, I spotted PD and Parky right next to the aisle.

4,300 Chelsea in one tier and we were together again.

Result.

Georg and Petr were just a few feet away too.

Relax.

This looked a full house; 75,000? Superb. Chelsea fans kept arriving, some way into the game. The stadium was as I remembered it. I looked over at the southern end and imagined myself there in 1987 and 1990.

What would the 1987 me have made of all this? Or the 1986 me for that matter?

1986 Chris : “Wonder if I will ever see Chelsea play here?”

2022 Chris : “Yes. Yes you will.”

1986 Chris : When?”

2022 Chris: “Not until 2022.”

1986 Chris : “2022? I’ll be an old man by then.”

2022 Chris : “Steady now.”

1986 Chris : “So, that must mean in European competition? That must mean we will win something?!”

2022 Chris : “We will win plenty.”

1986 Chris: “Tell me! No wait. Don’t. That will spoil the surprise.”

2022 Chris : “That’s my boy.”

Graham Potter, what a journey he is on, chose this team :

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Koulibaly

James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Chilwell

Mount – Sterling

Aubameyang

There was a mosaic…nothing great, just “Let’s Go Milan”; like something an American high school teacher might say to a basketball team. It hardly referenced Milan’s illustrious European pedigree or used words to inspire.

The lights dimmed a little. Then the anthem, the fluttering of the logo on the centre-circle. The teams lined up. Chelsea were to play in all white. I was just pleased that I couldn’t see the insipid jade green / light blue hoops.

To me, it referenced the all-white that we wore in 1966.

On more than one occasion, a thought fluttered inside me :

“Ron Harris has played here twice.”

The Milan kit looked virtually all black from row 88. It was a poor kit. I much preferred the 1988 version.

Ooh those white shorts and white socks, eh Ruud?

Just before kick-off, I couldn’t resist a short burst of venom.

“MILAN MILAN VAFFANCULO.”

And you Milan John, you can vaffanculo too.

The game began and Milan, attacking us in the North Curv – OK, it’s not a curve, but it’s what the Italians call an end – where the strongest over the first ten minutes or so. Leao danced and shuffled his feet a few times. I had a feeling that if we denied him, we would have a chance.

For all of the singing and chanting in Navigli and on the metro, I didn’t think we were in particularly fine voice.

After some exchanges, the game altered direction irrevocably on twenty minutes. Reece James threaded a fine pass into Mason Mount. Inside the box, the midfielder tried his best to get a shot away but his effort was booted clear by Tatarusanu. I was concentrating on his efforts to shoot so wasn’t looking specifically at Tomori’s rough intervention.

To our joy, the referee signalled a penalty. A huge roar from us. There were protestations from Milan, but the referee was unmoved. Jorginho, to his credit, walked away with the ball and stood yards from the melee of Milan players hounding the referee. Eventually, he approached the spot. Again, a long wait. Jorginho took forever. My camera was poised. Our midfielder took so long that I had visions of my lens retracting.

He approached the ball.

Click.

The ‘keeper went right.

The ball went left.

Shades of Munich.

GET IN.

My dear friend Alan was unable to travel out for this game but I heard his voice from afar.

“THTCAUN.”

“COMLD.”

Wow. We were 1-0 up at the San Siro.

But still one song dominated…

“Oh Dennis Wise…”

I smirked when I remembered another memory in Italy not so long after this Milan moment. In December 1999, I travelled out for the lacklustre 0-0 draw with Lazio. A certain left-back missed a sitter late on and this – admittedly short-lived – chant was sung :

“Babayaro. Missed a fucking great goal. With one minute to go. In the Olimpico.”

Anyone remember that?

I really don’t know how I missed it, but it soon became apparent that Milan were down to ten men. There was a little ripple of acknowledgement in our area; it seemed that I wasn’t the only one that had missed it. I suppose we were all too busy celebrating the penalty decision.

Superb.

Olivier Giroud headed wide down below us and Milan seemed upset and ill-at-ease.

A really fine move carved open the Milan defence on thirty-four minutes. Mateo Kovacic played a ball in to Mount, who flicked it beautifully wide and into space. We had the glorious sight of both Raheem Sterling and Pierre-Emerick Abameyang free and with just the ‘keeper to beat.

Surely?

Aubameyang slotted it low past the Milan ‘keeper.

He ran down into the corner and although I had missed taking a photo of the goal, at least I captured the joyous celebrations.

We were winning 2-0 at the San Siro.

OH MY FUCKING GOODNESS.

This was magnificent stuff.

There was a fine chance for Mount in the closing moments of the first-half. His nimble turn allowed him to poke a low shot goal wards, but the Milan ‘keeper got down low to turn it around the post.

On forty minutes, purely planned to the minute, around fifty huge flags behind the opposite goal were waved and their presence lasted for the rest of the game. It was some sight.

It was a wonderful to see the place packed to the rafters. Bizarrely, two central sections in the middle of both upper tiers were unused though. Maybe there was a problem with egress from these lofty locations. The tiers go on forever at San Siro. And the huge roof hovers over everything. There is hardly a more stunning stadium in the whole of Europe. It is certainly supremely photogenic.

I was in heaven.

I was so far up, I might as well have been.

At the break, disbelief in the North Curv.

Graham Potter made a change at the break.

Conor Gallagher replaced the really excellent Mason Mount. We guessed he was saving Mason for later games. I had liked the energy of Mateo Kovacic and the calming positional play of Jorginho in that first-half. To be fair, all our players had been magnificent.

An early, seemingly easy enough, chance came to Gallagher who rounded the ‘keeper after a fine forward run from Trevoh Chalobah but his effort went wide, striking the side netting amidst groans from the 4,300.

We were easily the more accomplished team as the half progressed. We had a few half-chances.

The manager rang some changes.

Cesar Azpilicueta for James.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Sterling.

Positions were moved around. I tried my best to work it all out.

Our possession football – cheered with many an “olé” – must have tired Milan out. We looked relaxed and purposeful in everything we did.

There was a strong run from Loftus-Cheek, at his best, but his pass to Aubameyang resulted in a miss-cue. But our chances greatly out-weighed those of the home team.

Two late changes.

Kai Havertz for Aubameyang

Marc Cucarella for Chilwell

The Milan fans raised the roof with ten minutes to go with the loudest chant of the night. If I had to choose, I would always go for Inter over Milan, but their fans really impressed me over the two games.

Our fans by now were only chanting sporadically. As far as I can recall, there was not one single moment when the entire tier was singing as one. It was almost as if this was too easy. Especially with Milan playing with only ten men. It was an odd feeling. I thought back to all those great players to have worn the red and black stripes over the past forty years and this current team, despite being the current champions, are surely a pale shadow of the great Milan teams.

Baresi. Costacurta. Baggio. Van Basten. Ronaldinho. Shevchenko. Donadoni. Maldini. Ancelotti. Rijkaard. Papin. Pirlo. Kaka. Nesta. Seedorf. Ibrahimovic. Inzaghi. Gullit.

Mamma mia.

The game ended.

Milan 0 Chelsea 2.

What a fantastic result.

On the drive up to London last week, ahead of the Milan home game, if somebody had said that we would win both games with an aggregate score of Chelsea 5 Milan 0, nobody would have believed it.

Certainly not 1986 Chris.

Fackinell.

We were kept in for about forty-five minutes at the end of the game. We popped into the nearby snack bar which was surprisingly still open and I devoured a lemon iced-tea. I was allowed access to the lift this time.

The three of us slowly made our way back to Lampugnano; it was a thirty-five-minute walk. Halfway back, quite a way from San Siro, two trucks were still selling food.

“A burger, an iced tea and a Red Bull.”

The first two were soon demolished. The third would be consumed on the drive back to Turin.

There was a little chat with a Chelsea fan. I commented that there just didn’t seem to be that wanton euphoria that no doubt was in evidence at the 1999 “Dennis Wise” game. That it was all a bit subdued.

We agreed that the two clubs were at different stages in 1999 and 2022.

1999 : Chelsea as European novices, Milan as European royalty.

2022 : Chelsea as seasoned European competitors, Milan as a faded club.

I made relatively good time on my return to Piedmont from Lombardy. I set off at 1am, I was parked up outside the apartment at 3am.

Wednesday was another relaxing day. I was up early, though, at 7am to return the motor at 8am. It had been a magnificent adventure along the Italian A4. We checked out of the apartment after a light breakfast. There was time for a few beers in the city centre and a magnificent meal to boot. Callum joined us and we shared a cab to Caselle in order to catch the evening flight home.

There was even time to nab a couple of bargains at the Robe di Kappa shop at the airport.

“Paninaro, oh oh oh.”

I thankfully fell asleep for an hour on the flight back to Gatwick.

One young Chelsea fan was full of enthusiasm about the game. There had been a noticeably large contingent of youngsters out there. This is fantastic to see.

“That was my first ever away game.”

“In Europe?”

“No, the first ever. I just can’t get access to tickets for away games.”

This amazed me.

But it amazed 1986 Chris even more.

“My first away game was Bristol Rovers. His is Milan? Mamma mia.”

I eventually got home – the M3 closed, part of the M4 closed – at 1am on Thursday morning.

Next up, Villa away on Sunday. See you there.

1987