I was in early for the match with Newcastle United. I had left the chaps in the pub and fancied a little mooch around the stadium prior to entering. It was a sunny afternoon, with an occasional chill to the air.
As I approached my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, I heard my name being called. I spotted Joe, who is Hersham Bob’s son, and comes to occasional matches at The Bridge. Hersham Bob wasn’t going to be at this one, instead giving his ticket to Joe so that he could bring his Godson along to his very first Chelsea match. Instead, Bob had spent the afternoon watching his local team Walton & Hersham defeat Farnham Town. Joe asked if I could take a few photos of the two of them and I duly obliged.
I explained that I liked the synchronicity of this, since my first-ever Chelsea game was also against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. In fact, for the second time in three seasons, the football calendar almost gave me the perfect date for this game.
Back in 1974, Chelsea played Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge on Saturday 16 March.
Two years ago, approaching the fiftieth anniversary of my debut, Chelsea played Newcastle United at home on Monday 11 March. So near and yet so far from the perfect match.
And here we were, in 2026, closer still.
Prior to this game, I had seen Chelsea play the Geordies forty-three times at Stamford Bridge in the fifty-odd years since that momentous day in my life. Apart from the COVID season of 2020/21, you must go way back to 1985/86 to when I last missed a home league game against them. The appearance of those black and white shirts at Chelsea is always an important moment for me; it reconnects me with my childhood and some of the loveliest memories of going to football over the years.
That first game in 1974, the 6-0 rout in 1980 with Phil Driver on fire, watching as Pat Nevin ran riot in 1983, seeing the emergence of the Kevin Keegan-managed “Toon Army” from 1993 until 1996, and then meeting Keegan in the tunnel before a game in the Spring of 1995, then a hugely enjoyable 1-0 win against them as the league leaders a little later in 1995 and the utter domination of them for many years. In all of the thirty-six league games I had witnessed against them, there were just three Chelsea losses. In 1983, a 0-2 defeat with Kevin Keegan a player, in 1986 and a poor 1-3 defeat, then in 2012, a 0-2 loss and those two Papiss Cisse wonder strikes. There was also a 3-4 loss in a League Cup tie in 2010.
Like us, Newcastle are a strange team this season; they have been underperforming, and have been under Sunderland too, which might be seen as more of a concern to their followers.
While Hersham Bob was watching his hometown team winning in southwest London, my hometown team were winning in the southwest of England. Frome Town stormed to a 4-0 half-time lead at home to Bishops Cleeve – what a quintessentially English name – but there were no further goals to report. The win left Dodge with a mighty fine 27-5-2 record, and with a twelve-point gap at the top of our division. This outstanding record is the highest points-per-game yield in the first nine levels of the football pyramid in England and Wales. If there isn’t a trophy for that, there bloody well should be.
The spectators drifted in. There were still blue skies overhead.
The team?
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella
Reece James – Moises Caicedo
Cole Plamer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho
Joao Pedro
I had watched the PSG game on Wednesday on TV and thought we had been tasty until the Filip Jorgensen error that gifted the home team their third goal. I think this is a commonly held view. However, I couldn’t believe the amount of people who reckoned that we were poor for most of the game. Nah, couldn’t see that.
More than a few people outside the stadium had quizzed me beforehand:
“Can you play in goal?”
So, I returned the favour and asked others.
Alas, none of us could.
Outside on the Fulham Road, I spotted two new Nike advertisements on two billboards involving Estevao. The one on Brittania Road – a prime site – has featured Chelsea players before. I took one photo of Estevao’s image behind the ever-present religious missionary who has been at Stamford Bridge for around two decades (also spotted recently at Arsenal, you have to admire his persistence, I have never ever seen anyone stop and intelligently engage with him in all these years) and so I titled the image “Estevao The Redeemer.”
There were pre-match huddles – no, I didn’t spot the referee Paul Tierney in the middle of ours – after the usual pre-match flag-waving, flames and fireworks. Much was made of Reece James signing a six-year extension by the shouty-shouty match announcer, and his crowd-surfer flag appeared to my left in the MHL.
No Clive, no Alan; just PD and little old me in row D of the Sleepy Hollow for this one.
The lovely royal blue and the famous black-and-white stripes began their battle once again. There were a couple of Geordie staples to set things off :
“We are the Geordies, the Geordie Boot Boys…”
“Oh me lads, you should have seen us gannin…”
It was a pretty decent start, quite lively, and we enjoyed most of the early pressure, with Garnacho racing down the wing on the left. At times his running style is rather odd, like a hyper-active cartoon character. Unfortunately, many of his final decisions appear to be made by Bugs Bunny.
A corner was pinged into the box and Fofana leapt to meet the ball – snap! – but it flew over. Not long after, the ball was played inside to Palmer, but he sliced his shot well wide of the left-hand post. There were efforts from James and Garnacho, forever looking to creep inside and shoot. On the quarter of an hour, a nice break involved Garnacho passing to Enzo but his shot was blocked.
Alas, on eighteen minutes, Newcastle caught us out. They had not really threatened too much but former blue Tino Livramento was afforded too much space, but he also spotted space, a huge tract of land that would be worth millions if it was to be sold at market prices, knocking an early ball through our defensive lines to Joe Willock. I feared the outcome. He advanced and Sanchez rushed out. Instead of shooting, he passed to Anthony Gordon who easily pushed the ball in. The appeals for offside were too pathetic for further comment. We had been undone as simply as it gets. We were caught too square, and nobody was remotely close to Willock. It was shocking defending.
Bollocks.
Buoyed by this goal, the visitors now took command as the frustration grew in the home areas. Unfortunately, this manifested itself in one of my co-supporters calling Moises Caicedo a “C-word” and I inwardly fumed.
The Geordies pieced together a couple of half-chances, but thankfully the danger passed.
On the half-hour, Garnacho advanced and passed to Enzo, who intelligently dummied for Palmer to take aim. Alas, his shot was blocked.
Just after, after a terribly long lull, I heard the first real chant of the day from the home supporters, a half-hearted “Amazing Grace.”
Must do better.
Then, Sanchez did well to claw away an effort from Willock at the near post.
On thirty-six minutes, a strong curling effort from Palmer was turned around his post by Aaron Ramsdale in The Shed goal.
I then heard from the depths of the Sleepy Hollow, someone call Reece James, the club captain, a “C-Word.”
Simmer. Simmer. Simmer.
There was a rather unorthodox save, late on, from Sanchez, and the worry of a VAR check on some pushing-and-shoving by the captain at a corner. Thankfully, no penalty.
There were boos at half-time. I felt like booing our support; we had been as quiet as lambs.
It had been a poor game of football thus far, and I momentarily thought back to that intoxicating game of football that took place in December 1995, forty percent of the way through my history with this lot, and the personalities and players on the pitch and the sidelines. At the time, our manager Glenn Hoddle had begun to use wingbacks and ours were Dan Petrescu and Terry Phelan. Eddie Newton and Dennis Wise were our stalwarts in midfield, while Mark Hughes lead the line. The visitors were managed by Kevin Keegan and his team included Lee Clark, Keith Gillespie, David Ginola, Peter Beardsley and Les Ferdinand. A powerful angled strike from Petrescu gave us the 1-0 win. Over thirty years on, I can vividly remember the thrill of watching a magnificent match at an absolutely rammed Stamford Bridge from the temporary seats at The Shed. The gate was 31,098, and the Geordies lost their first game of the season to us that day. It is a match that is often overlooked in favour of the more high-scoring triumphs – take your pick – against the Tynesiders, but that game and that atmosphere and that victory were huge.
It was a wonderful Chelsea performance, but the best was to come after the game had ended. In 1994, a book called “Blue Is The Colour” was written by Khadija Buckland, a native of West London, who was living close by in Chippenham in Wiltshire. Glenn and I became acquainted with her via her friendship with Ron Harris and, after a while, we arranged to take Khadija up to Chelsea so she could sell her book in the executive areas of the East Stand. Anyway, to cut to the chase, as a reward for taking her up, she had arranged for Glenn, my Geordie mate Pete and me to gain entrance to the players’ bar after the game with Newcastle. We shuffled around by the entrance to the tunnel and waited by a door. I remember that pop star Robbie Williams quickly left the bar and we were then escorted in by Khadija.
Talk about the inner sanctum.
In a small room behind the old changing rooms (which I am sure no longer exists, what with the enlarging of the home dressing room area), we stood at the cosy bar, while Dennis Wise, his girlfriend and mother were chatting in a small group. A few players flitted in and out. I always remember Mark Hughes; arriving quietly, standing at the bar alone, silently sipping a lager. I went over to ask him to sign the programme and I was genuinely awestruck.
Shall we go back to 2026?
Do we have to?
The manager took off Gusto and replaced him with Liam Delap. The shuffle around was easy to work out. James to right-back, Enzo in midfield, Joao Pedro behind Delap. It had a far more attacking feel.
Garnacho was soon involved down below me, but how I wished that he wouldn’t cut back onto his right peg…Every. Single. Time.
Harvey Barnes raced away on a quick break, taking the ball right into the danger area, and I feared danger, but his final pass to Nick Woltemade was heavy, and the chance evaporated.
Delap then looked lively, picking up a loose ball and shooting at goal, but Ramsdale was able to push the ball wide.
At last, some noise from the Matthew Harding.
“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”
For the first fifteen minutes of the half, with the Stamford Bridge crowd now energised a little, and with the volumes at pretty reasonable levels – for 2026, not 1995 – it honestly felt like an equaliser was on its way and we would be in contention for a much-needed win. Chances didn’t really materialise though; a shot from Joao Pedro was blocked – snap – but there was little else. We found it difficult to penetrate Newcastle’s two banks of players. God knows what Kevin Keegan would have made of it all.
There was an odd substitution on sixty-one minutes; arguably our best player Caicedo was replaced by “half-a-game” Romeo Lavia.
On sixty-eight minutes, a really fine save from Sanchez down at The Shed denied Gordon. Just after, a Delap run in the inside-right channel but his shot came to nothing. Just after, a delightful cross from Reece found Cucurella who set up Delap. Alas, his effort from merely yards away was unceremoniously booted over the crossbar.
We screamed in anguish. This was the golden chance.
Damn it.
Then, a corner was cleared, Reece crossed the ball in again, but the ball went wide.
On eighty-two minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.
Four minutes later, Chalobah met a James corner with a high leap at the far post – snap – but the ball sailed high and wide.
Fackinell.
Then, another Delap chance; a header, over.
The narrative is clear here, isn’t it? Half-chance followed half-chance, but our finishing was woeful.
Eight minutes of added time were signalled, and I remained – stupidly, naively, pathetically – optimistic. Two minutes in, a free kick was awarded in a good area. Messrs Palmer and James met in a two-man huddle thirty yards out to discuss who would take the kick. In the end, the captain shot.
There was a roar and I was up celebrating but could then hardly believe that it had not caused the net to ripple and flutter.
Ballbags.
One last chance, a looper from Joao Pedro from a Palmer cross that nestled apologetically on the roof of the net.
Sigh.
We lost 0-1.
Newcastle finally had our number.
There were more boos at the final whistle.
Despite that ridiculous rollcall of chances, did we ever look like scoring?
I bumped into Long Tall Pete on the Fulham Road and he suggested not.
We had been poor. Newcastle were no great shakes either. It was another example, in a long, long list, of games that just failed to entertain us all.
Just after meeting up with Pete, I spotted the world’s most pathetic and useless sign, which was advising pedestrians as they walked along the road to do the following:
“PLEASE KEEP TO YOUR LEFT OR RIGHT.”
And I immediately thought how this had summed up our play not only on this day, but on many others too. Don’t worry about hitting players early with a direct ball up the middle, to keep defences worried about how to defend, nor hit incisive passes forward into the path of breaking midfielders, but just keep passing laterally to your left and to your right, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
If there was one thing that had made the game slightly bearable it was the occasional glimpse of the sublime talent that is Cole Palmer. He wasn’t exceptional, nor even great, but there were moments when he mesmerised both his markers, and me, and this was no mean feat on a day of such poor play.
If this game had been played forty years ago and had not been on TV in every nation that wanted to see it, the result would have not merited much of a debate.
“I see Chelsea lost at home. Did you go?”
“Yeah, never looked like scoring. Just couldn’t put many moves together. Cole Palmer was worth the admission money, mind.”
In 2026, immediately after kick-off, millions of words were exchanged about our inadequacies, and everything seemed magnificently overblown. I am all for debate and appraisal and all, but sometimes I just want to scream at the levels of toxicity. Inside the stadium, we had hardly played our part, leaving it unfashionably late to start to cheer the team on. But such is modern football and the dynamics have changed.
I have written over two million words on this website about Chelsea games and I fully suspect thousands have been written about the decay of the Stamford Bridge atmosphere. Our traditional support has become older and less likely to engage in boisterous singing, while our newer generation of fans have perhaps become spoilt or even blasé, plus there is the view that clueless visitors from foreign fields do not understand the fan culture, nor add to the atmosphere. Crucially, there are real fears that our bedrock support is being priced out. All those factors play a part in the terrible demise of our matchday atmosphere.
There has also been a subtle shift in attitude. As I have said before, we used to go as supporters. Now everyone is a bloody expert.
Among all this doom and gloom, I still think that we are just a decent goalkeeper and an experienced central defender away from competing, but that just might be the naïve and overly optimistic me. Can Clearlake commit to that? It doesn’t match their model – buying young kids for resale – and that is the big problem. But surely if we fixed those two areas, we would increase our chances to make money which is all that they bloody care about.
Right then, who’s going to the second leg against that French lot on Tuesday?
Chelsea were amid a run of away games against Arsenal, Aston Villa, Wrexham and Paris St. Germain; this midweek fixture at Villa Park was being talked about within many Chelsea circles as a “must win” game, bearing in mind Villa’s place in the league – just ahead of us – but also because they were on a run of poor form.
This had been a simple enough flit up the M5 for me – via a curry at “The Vine” in West Bromwich – and I was parked-up on Bragg Road around fifteen minutes from the away turnstiles at 6.30pm. I fastened my coat and walked east. Kick-off was an hour away.
It was the usual scene at Villa Park; the police vans parked on the roundabout where Witton Road meets Aston Lane, the approach along Witton Lane, the bloke with the “God Is Love” placard, the red bricked buildings, the souvenir sellers, the floodlights in the distance. I did notice a new pre-match hospitality area as I got closer, a good use of those old existing buildings. Villa have plans to enlarge the existing North Stand, and they have plenty of space to enlarge the hospitality areas further.
I was sat in the second row alongside John; alas Alan and Gary could not make this one. Parky and PD were down in the lower tier.
The famous old stadium slowly filled, and we were soon treated to the usual pre-match rituals at Villa of “Hi-Ho Aston Villa”, flames, and fireworks, and dear old Ozzy belting out “Crazy Train.” Other clubs – yes, including ours – have gone for the “Flames & Fireworks” as a pre-curser to the match, but Villa have taken it to a different level. If you were to rate their pre-match claret and sky-blue pyrotechnic trickery, it would certainly be top of the pile. In fact, Villa are so desperate for silverware these days that we might soon find this in their honours section of their match programme.
Amid the sulphurous fumes, the teams made their way onto the pitch.
We were dressed in our all-black kit, and I had immediate memories of us in that colour at this venue in other years, most memorably the Frank Lampard game in 2013 when he equalled and then surpassed Bobby Tambling’s 202 goals. I also, and oddly, remembered the black-shirted Alexandre Pato’s penalty kick in a 4-0 win in 2016.
The game began with us attacking the towering Holte End. I spent the first few moments trying to work out who was where on the right side of the field. Was Reece at right back, but able to push into midfield with Malo Gusto as a right-sided attacker – unlikely, I know – or was Gusto at right back, with Reece alongside Caicedo in midfield? The positioning of Enzo and Palmer seemed to confuse me more than help me. I think it was the initial position of Gusto, so high on that far side, that had baffled me. Within those first fleeting moments, we had won a corner but then got caught on a rapid break from the home team. I took a couple of photos of Leon Bailey teasing away down below us. He got the better of Hato and drove a low ball into the box, where Douglas Luiz delicately and deftly touched it past Jorgensen.
Only three minutes had passed, and we were already 0-1 down.
Fackinell.
I was shell-shocked.
The home support was enlivened.
“Holte Enders in the skoy.”
Two minutes later, Garnacho on the left curled a great cross over for Joao Pedro to head down but Emilano Martinez saved well.
Soon after, at a Chelsea corner, we noticed how the Villa team left four players up, and of course it meant we had less numbers in attack. It was a new and novel approach to defending corners, though I seem to remember Jose Mourinho leaving three up in his first stint with us.
Palmer shot weakly at Martinez on a quarter of an hour, and up until now our support was getting increasingly frustrated with the slow approach play from the back. Chalobah must have touched the ball more than anyone else in this period.
“Get it forward!”
I heard that Arsenal were 1-0 up at Brighton and I told John “I hate football.”
On twenty-one minutes, another chance for Palmer inside the box after a great ball into him, but his finish was as weak as before. Then, two minutes later, and with Chelsea picking up the pace and finding some good angles and spaces, a lovely move set up Enzo, but his effort was hit tamely at Martinez. By now, Garnacho was getting more and more involved out wide and giving Matty Cash a real test.
The game was hotting up. We had, also, quietened their crowd, always a good sign.
Out on the far side of the pitch was Ian Maatsen, our former player, and I could not help noticing how short he seemed in comparison to the other players. I had only been commenting to Alan, I think, at a recent home game how we never see short players at football these days. It’s a mark of the modern game; how most players need to be tall and physically strong, and especially fast, in this era. Gone are the days when will o’ the wisp players…cheeky wingers, midfield dynamos…were everywhere…our own Pat Nevin, our own Mickey Thomas, our own Gianfranco Zola spring to mind. All these players – and Maatsen – were 5’6” and it’s an oddity that there seems to be a shortage – sorry! – of these players today.
Maybe I noticed Maatsen because I am 5’6” too.
We continued to be press forward.
Just after the half-hour I turned to John to say “it’s a much better game now.”
We had thrown off our shackles and were now having a real go at Villa. There was a shot from the energetic Garnacho, and the Chelsea choir were now getting behind the men in black. But Villa were still an occasional threat and Ollie Watlkins perhaps should have tested Jorgensen better when one-on-one.
On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful ball from Enzo was sent over the Villa defence to the onrushing Gusto. He spotted the run of Joao Pedro and I sensed a goal. I mouthed “here we go” at the exact moment that he arrived to slide the ball home.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
More Chelsea pressure, Garnacho revelling in the space out wide.
“Go on son, get past him.”
Cash was being run from arsehole to breakfast time.
In the third minute of added time, Hato – who was enjoying a very solid game – dribbled into the Villa box with ease but his shot was blocked.
Then, a rapid Villa break, and I kept an eye on the passage of play, trying to spot if an offside was about to happen. The ball was passed out to Ollie Watkins who struck the ball past Jorgensen. The Villa hordes roared again,
To me, it looked onside. Thankfully, VAR ruled otherwise. Phew.
Then, with five minutes of added time played, Chelsea were again knocking on the door, and Garnacho was involved once more. He found Enzo who wriggled into some space and lifted an exquisite ball into Joao Pedro. He nonchalantly guided the ball past Martinez.
Now it was our turn to roar again.
Then, to our horror, VAR was called in to rule on a potential offside.
Nah. The goal stood.
At the break, we were 2-1 to the good.
“Great recovery that, John.”
I just hoped that we could continue in the same fashion. Sometimes we just can’t seem to play two consecutive halves in the same way, can we?
Joe Cole, with former Chelsea fan Peter Crouch on TV duty, were spotted a few times and Joey walked over to pose for some photos with a few Chelsea supporters in the break.
Before the second period, more “Crazy Train” and another Chelsea huddle on the centre-circle that seemed to irritate the Villa players.
The second half began, and there were two early chances for Garnacho but he spurned them both.
On fifty-five minutes, we broke when Caicedo won a ball inside our half and we moved the ball quickly – no honest, we did, I was there – via Palmer and Joao Pedro and found Reece on the wing. His low cross was punched away by Martinez, but only as far as Palmer. The Palmer of old – er, two seasons ago – would have struck it home easily, whereas the little less confident Palmer of 2026 might struggle. I watched to see which version would prevail.
He struck the ball with venom. Its trajectory was unhindered. The back of the net rippled.
GET IN.
I watched Palmer cup his ear as if to say “what’s that you been saying about me?” and then saw his trademark celebration.
Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
We were 3-1 up.
Beautiful.
We continued to purr, and the Chelsea fans were energised and happy. This was just how I wanted us to play. With more freedom. With more pace. With more style.
Chelsea is all about style.
But this was still an open game – Mourinho would have hated it – and chances for Palmer and Garnacho were matched occasionally by Villa. Watkins was put through, one on one with Jorgensen but he dallied, enabling Chalobah to twist his body and dig out the ball, a fine piece of defending.
On sixty-three minutes, former blues Jadon Sancho and Ross Barkley were among the three substitutions made by Villa.
A minute later, Caicedo – from deep – swept the ball out to Gusto, who touched it to Palmer. His trusted left peg floated the ball out to Garnacho. I photographed his surging run, deep into the box, and watched as he very unselfishly played the ball square to Joao Pedro who guided the ball in, his hat-trick.
The goal immediately reminded me of that Lampard goal from 2013.
The scorer raced over to the Chelsea section, and I was lucky enough to capture his beatific smiles.
4-1.
Fackinell.
Not long after, there was an audacious bicycle kick from Joao Pedro.
On seventy-two minutes, Tammy Abraham came on and so Villa now had four ex-Chelsea players in their eleven.
In the last fifteen minutes, Rosenior rang the changes.
75 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Gusto.
79 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo.
79 minutes : Tosin Adarabioyo for Fofana,
85 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.
85 minutes : Andrey Santos for Palmer.
John and I had a little laugh about Lavia and his unfortunate habit of getting injured. I envisaged a scenario where he is chosen to start a game and lasts the entire match. He comes into the Chelsea dressing room at the end of the game and sits on the bench alongside his teammates.
Liam Rosenior sees him and asks “what the fuck are you doing here?”
With the game won, and the number of changes, it was no surprise that the game drifted towards the end. It was nice to see the former Chelsea players again, and Barkley had a trademark shuffle through the middle and shot.
“I can actually see them scoring” I said to Gary, just as Barkley floated a ball in and Abraham leapt to head the ball on to the top of the bar.
In the stadium, the home fans were drifting away, and the Chelsea crowd aired the “fire drill” chant.
The game finished and the men in black had triumphed. This was a lovely surprise, a great Chelsea performance – admittedly against an increasingly disheartened Villa team – and a perfect response to the doom mongers after Arsenal. The plaudits must got to Joao Pedro and his sublime touch, and his ability to drift in and score, but Garnacho was a revelation, his best game for us by a country mile. A special mention for Hato, too; what a polished performance.
I was able to take a selection of photographs at the end as the Chelsea players celebrated down below. I loved the way Enzo was serenaded. He has many admirers at Chelsea. And I loved how we sang Tammy’s name as he walked, slightly, towards us. The photo of him with Trevoh is my favourite of the whole night.
And so that was that. A great away win in a “must-win” game, and a nice fillip before trips to Wales and France.
Oh, there were three extra bits of drama that I won’t bore you with that took place during the afternoon and evening involving Parky’s ‘phone, my SLR camera and my wallet.
“I still can’t download the ticket. I reckon I’m knackered.”
“You can’t bring that camera in. There’s a “drop-off” place just over there.”
“The team are doing a sweep of the stadium; it’s going to be an hour mate. Will you wait here to see if we can find it?”
Back in December, we experienced the nightmare of away games; an 8.15pm kick-off at Elland Road, a shambolic 1-3 defeat and a return trip home that didn’t finish for me until 4am.
This time, the boots were on the other feet, so to speak. The travelling hordes from Yorkshire, at least, were presented with a slightly better – 7.30pm – kick-off time for this midweek game.
After the wet conditions at both Arsenal and at Wolves, we were met with another day of rain for this match at Stamford Bridge. On the journey east on the M4, I had encountered horrible driving conditions for virtually all the trip. The worst of the season? Undoubtedly. After an early rise at 4.45am, and an eight-hour shift at work, it was the last thing that I wanted. However, I knew how to cope; doped with some coffees before and during the three-hour drive, I made it.
I spent my pre-match traipsing down the North End Road, getting increasingly soaked with each step, and I carried out my usual two visits to “Koka” – bruschetta, chicken kebabs, one day I will complete the entire menu – and “Café Ole” – a decaf cappuccino.
When it was time to make a dash for Stamford Bridge, I noticed that nobody was obeying orders that were being barked out by the first set of stewards to display match tickets. It was simply too wet to bother. I brushed past them and immediately realised that their role on this sodden evening was becoming increasingly redundant.
I was inside, out of the rain, at 7pm.
Chelsea vs. Leeds, then, a rivalry from the ‘sixties and ‘seventies that still exists today. The first game at Stamford Bridge took place in 1928 – a Leeds win – but we then went on a run of only losing one game in twenty-four matches at home. This took us up to early in 1970 when Don Revie’s team won 5-2 at Stamford Bridge. However, we would have the final laugh that season. Since then, the Chelsea vs. Leeds United game at Stamford Bridge has been “streaky”,
In fifteen matches from 1970 to 1995, Leeds won seven, including four in a row. Within that stretch of games, though, were the wonderful days in 1984 and 1989 when home wins over the Yorkshire visitors resulted in promotion from the old Second Division.
Since 1996, Leeds have won just one in fourteen games at Stamford Bridge.
After the defeat in December, this seemed like a night of revenge to me.
I had a look at the team that Liam Rosenior had chosen.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella
Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos
Estevao Willian – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer
Joao Pedro
I had successfully smuggled my SLR into this game and hoped to capture some decent moments on film.
The game began with the teams in exact opposites of each other’s kits.
Us : blue / blue / white.
Then : white / white / blue.
In the first few glimpses, it looked like Enzo was drifting to the left, and Palmer was coming inside. I guessed there would be some fluidity throughout the evening.
It was a lively start from both teams, and Leeds surprised me with their early attacking intent. A couple of free kicks were headed away by Chelsea defenders.
There was an early airing of an off-putting chant from the Leeds’ support for Ethan Ampadu, the former blue, to the tune of “Agadoo.”
On eighteen minutes, we roared Young Josh on as he made a very old-fashioned run from deep down the right, taking four Leeds defenders with him, but the run petered out and the ball was lost. I wondered how much money he would be fined for that free-spirited run.
The foul count was increasing and there definitely seemed to be a lot more “niggle” in this game than in others. Two Chelsea players were booked, to be followed by two others from Leeds. There were memories of a 0-0 draw in 1997 when Leeds had two sent off.
On twenty minutes, I captured the moment when Joao Pedro controlled a beautiful flick from Enzo. Alas his finish was awry.
Just after, a poor free kick from Enzo.
However, on twenty-four minutes we won the ball via Acheampong, and some tight passing allowed Palmer to play a delightful ball to the on-rushing Joao Pedro. His exquisite lob over the Leeds ‘keeper Karl Darlow was to perfection.
Chelsea 1 Leeds United 0
Alan, alongside me : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris, beside myself : “Come on my little diamonds.”
There is no doubt in my mind that the relationship between Palmer and Joao Pedro will be a huge part of any success that we might enjoy in the next few precious years; let’s hope they get to play together for an extended spell.
The reaction from the Leeds fans was not a surprise.
…“and shoot the Chelsea scum. Shoot the Chelsea scum.”
There was a lovely break from us, but a shot from Palmer at the end of it was surprisingly weak, and too close to their goalie. We enjoyed a nice period of play in the closing fifteen minutes of the half; some intricate and tricky stuff in the final third that lead to a mate, a Frome Town supporter, watching at home, to message me and say, “you are a lovely team to watch my friend.”
Are we? His synopsis surprised me and I probably concluded that I, like others, are sometimes reticent to praise our play which, at times, can look attractive and worthy of our name.
We continued on, looking to prise gaps in a resolute defence.
However, I did note a yawning chasm of space in the left-side of the Leeds midfield and defence that a central defender – I forget who – chose to ignore. A run into that space by Joao Pedro and a simple pass forward would have put Leeds under threat. But such is football these days that the central defender passed square, eating up time, and the chance was lost.
It is this lack of awareness of openings that sometimes present themselves that make my brain hurt. I yearned for a player to push that ball through. A free-thinker. A maverick.
Maybe next time.
A mesmerizing run by Estevao that I was happy to capture on film got us all salivating, but his shot was wildly off target.
The first half ended and I struggled to remember a genuine Sanchez save. We had played some pretty decent stuff and the feeling at the break was “more to follow.”
Among all this positivity, I was sad to hear Stamford Bridge so quiet. In all these match reports that I have been penning since 2008 – this is number nine-hundred-and-eight – me lamenting the lack of atmosphere at Stamford Bridge is a constant, and probably boring, feature.
Sigh.
Towards the end of the break, a couple of surreal moments to report. I spotted the match mascots Stamford and Bridget – I prefer the ‘eighties Stamford when he had a full mane and was a bit more of a rascal – grooving along to some dance music down below me in front of the West Lower, throwing some shapes, grooving.
They’ve come a long way, baby.
Then, I heard a voice that I immediately recognised. I asked Alan to listen to a sample during a track that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
“Listen, mate…Elizabeth Fraser.”
It had taken forty-three years, but I had at last heard the Cocteau Twins chanteuse at Stamford Bridge.
Elizabeth Fraser.
The voice.
At a Chelsea game.
Oh my.
It was a feint few bars, but my ears had somehow spotted it.
The sample was from “Teardop” by Massive Attack, from 1998, which featured the singer on vocals. And I was loving it.
It was a beautiful moment and seemed to crystalise the whole Chelsea and Leeds 1984 vibe into a present-day scenario. I became a fan of the Cocteau Twins in 1983/84 – their “Head Over Heels” album became the sondtrack of that greatest-ever season – and the 5-0 win over Leeds in April 1984, which included a Kerry Dixon hat-trick, was a defining moment.
It helped that Alan is a massive Cocteau Twins fan too, and Clive, alongside Alan, is also an admirer. Alan reminded me of the time that he had attended the Bromley vs. Solihull Moors Play-Off Final at Wembley in 2024 and just before the penalty shoot-out, “Teardrop” was played.
“Talk about emotion.”
Alan said that he knew at that moment that his team would win.
I enjoyed a similar Depeche Mode moment at Porto in 2021.
Music and football, eh?
At the break, Cucurella was replaced by Jorrel Hato.
Soon into the second half, Estevao slammed a low shot wide of the near post. We continued to dominate the game. Ten minutes into the second half a ball was sent forward into the inside right channel for Joao Pedro to chase. I took a photo of this but also happened to take one of a needless push on him by Jaka Bijol. It was an unnerving copy of the push on the same player by Verson Mosquera of Wolves in the last match. It was even in the same portion of the penalty box. The referee Robert Jones pointed to the spot.
Beautiful.
It took Palmer a while to be allowed to take the kick, but his shot was clean.
Chelsea 2 Leeds United 0.
My SLR whizzed into action after I had yelled an initial roar of approval.
This was going well.
Elizabeth Fraser’s voice and Chelsea 2-0 up.
I briefly thought about a repeat of the 5-0 in 1984.
On the hour, Chelsea were camped in the Leeds box as shots pinballed in and around the six-yard box, but the Leeds goal lead a charmed life, and they escaped without another goal being scored.
Pedro Neto replaced Estevao, a shame.
Some friends in the US and I had been quietly “WhatsApping” each other, and one mate joined in after being engaged in a work meeting.
“How are we looking?”
“Comfortable.”
And we were. At this point in time, with half an hour still to go, I was hoping for more goals.
Alas, alas, alas…on sixty-four minutes, a ridiculously clumsy tackle by Caicedo on the wonderfully named Jayden Bogle, and a penalty was signalled.
Lukas Nmecha slotted past Sanchez.
Fackinell.
Chelsea 1 Leeds United 2.
The atmosphere was a bit riper now and Chelsea were coerced into replying to a few Leeds chants.
“We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds.”
“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”
“We’re Yorkshire’s Republican Army, we’re barmy, wherever we go.”
“Carefree, wherever you may be.”
“Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh.”
“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds, Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”
On seventy-three minutes, there was sadly another calamity in our box. Young Josh lost the ball, Leeds put pressure on us and despite what looked like several chances to swipe the ball away, nobody did. This was hard to watch.
“Clear it!”
Somehow, Noah Okafor pounced to push the ball home.
Bollocks.
Chelsea 2 Leeds United 2.
The Leeds support now roared.
“Marching on together.”
On seventy-eight minutes, two substitutions.
Wesley Fofana for Acheampong.
Liam Delap for Santos.
I lost count of the number of times that Pedro Neto cut back onto his left foot out on the far touchline and attempted to connect with a target man. But there was no Kerry Dixon leading the line here, and I was never ever convinced that either Delap or Joao Pedro would connect. On one occasion his cross evaded everybody and just dropped past the far post. However, as the crosses were pumped in from both Neto on the right and Palmer on the left, more often than not they were headed out by Leeds defenders and Chelsea strikers alike.
But we kept trying.
On eighty-seven minutes, an amazing piece of close skill by Palmer resulted in a low cross but Delap touched it just wide.
Joao Pedro then hit the bar with a header from a Hato cross; he was stretching from the start and just could not get over the ball.
We were howling in pain by now.
But I kept hearing one voice behind me being overly obnoxious and using the “C” word as if it was going out of fashion. It seemed to me that this one fan was singling out individual players too.
Modern fans, eh?
In injury time, an impudent backheel from Gusto set up Caicedo who flashed the ball low into the box. We saw Palmer arrive.
This was it then?
Teardrops of joy at the end of this crazy game?
No.
The ball was slammed over the bar from just two yards.
Howls again.
I took a photo of a disbelieving Palmer who had ended up in the net, unlike the ball.
And then I heard it again.
“You cnut.”
That was it. I turned around and glowered at the bloke.
I decided that I had to say something.
Or rather, I barked at him.
“Hey, that’s Cole Palmer. Don’t call him a cnut.”
There was a stare down.
Eyeballs.
I don’t often get into it with fellow supporters, but I felt my words were vindicated.
Just after, the whistle went. We could hardly believe what we had just witnessed. The Leeds recovery – gifted to them by us – was bad enough, but that Palmer miss was difficult to comprehend.
A teardop at half-time and dropped points at full time.
How frustrating.
I exited the stadium – it was still raining of course – and I bumped into Huddersfield Mick along the Fulham Road.
He was fuming.
He scowled as he said, “bloody Northerners.”
I had to laugh.
“Yeah, Yorkshire bastards.”
He smiled.
“That’s five points we’ve dropped against them this season, Mick.”
“I’m off for a pint in The Cock.”
“Wish I could join you.”
Thankfully there was little traffic delay, and I was back home at 12.30am, which was far better than 2.20am the preceding Tuesday on the way back from Arsenal.
There’s no trip to Hull and back for me, so my next game is at home to Burnley on Saturday 21 February.
Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2026.
I am happy to report that Parky was able to travel to our game at Wolves after missing the trip to Arsenal during the week. The signs were good; here was a match against the worst Premier League team by a mile, and we surely had to win this one. I collected PD and then Parky and we breakfasted en route before slipping on to the M4 at Chippenham. There was rain in the air, and it didn’t really stop for too many minutes during the whole of my three-hour drive north. Thankfully, from my home in Somerset, a trip to Molineux is one of my easiest away journeys of the season
Knowing that the chance to grab a drink in Wolverhampton city centre is very restricted, I drove to a pub around four miles to the south in a large village called Wombourne. “The Vine” was our base for a couple of hours. We settled next to a roaring log fire, and I kept peering out of the window to check the weather. Sadly, the rain kept falling throughout our stay.
Towards the end of our spell in the lovely boozer, we chatted to a West Brom fan about all sorts of topics related to football, and it was a nice way to seal off an enjoyable pre-match.
With the rain now falling heavily, I drove into the centre of Wolverhampton and aimed for our usual parking place at Broad Street. Molineux appeared down to our left and I was soon parked up. It was 2pm, just right for the 3pm kick-off. We, unfortunately, became drenched on the fifteen-minute walk to the away turnstiles. I had made the decision to leave my SLR camera in the car and use just my mobile phone for the day’s photographs. I knew that my ticket was for a seat at the front of the stand in Row B, so I played the percentage game and decided not to risk my camera becoming wet and possibly damaged.
It felt like a relief not having to go through the usual stresses involved in a potential camera search at the turnstiles. A quick “pat down” and I was in. I soon spotted Alan and Gary with a couple of mates, and we chatted for a while in the roomy concourse, all of us not particularly keen to reach the possibly wet area inside.
Once I reached my seat at about 2.45pm, I was pleasantly surprised. The roof of the Steve Bull Stand extended well over the seats and I was immediately impressed. This was a much-maligned stand when it opened way back in 1980, as it stood so far away from the pitch, prior to an eventual realignment. But it was doing a fine job on this day; plenty of room in the concourse to drink and chat, while a roof that – shock, horror – kept us dry pitch side.
As kick-off approached, there were many areas of empty seats in the home areas, though not as many as at our League Cup game – that crazy 4-3 win – in late October. However, three thousand Chelsea loyalists packed the lower tier alongside the pitch.
The skies were dark, the rain still fell, and I had to feel sorry for the several hundred home supporters perched on the open-air section between the home end and the main stand. At least they had been provided with ponchos. Back in the day, they could have huddled together on a terrace, like penguins possibly, to keep a little drier. Seeing them all sat out in the open just seemed like the worst football experience yet.
With ten minutes to go, club president Robert Plant belted out “Whole Lotta Love” and the teams were announced by the overly keen announcer. Like our team, the Wolves’ starting line-up was dominated by exotic-sounding foreign names. I wondered if their two defenders Hugo Bueno and Santiago Bueno were to be joined at some stage by a less-talented chap called Non Bueno, and I was soon to spot that their lone talisman upfront Tolu Arokodare possessed the body mass of the rest of his teammates combined.
Us?
We were back to the tried-and-tested 4-2-3-1.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevor Chalobah – Marc Cucurella
Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos
Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer
Joao Pedro
“Hi Ho Silver Lining” was played and this energised the home support. Fair play, for a team destined to be relegated, they made a bloody racket.
“Hi Ho Wolverhampton.”
Wolves, of course, were in their brilliant old gold kit; it’s lovely, isn’t it? Gary, alongside me, admitted that he had a Wolves shirt as a very young child – though he didn’t explain why – and I remembered that my Frome Town mate Steve used to like them as a young lad before he got fully engaged with Bristol City a few years later. I also remember two Wolves supporters in the 1982/83 sixth form. My next-door neighbour follows Wolves. Maybe it’s something about those colours. I can’t think of another team, anywhere, that uses old gold as its main colour. In the UK, I can think of Hull City, Newport County and Albion Rovers who have worn amber and black, but not old gold.
We were in our much admired “off-white” away kit.
The home team, playing left to right for me, probably began the better of the two teams, and it took a while for us to get into the match. After just two minutes, there was a proper scramble in Sanchez’ six-yard box, and I was relieved when an unknown Chelsea defender lumped the ball away.
On ten minutes, in one of our first real attacks, I loved the way that Joao Pedro brought the ball down and then took a touch away from the defenders. There was a lunge by Matt Doherty and our nimble striker fell. A shout went up. After a slight pause, the referee Jarred Gillett pointed at the spot.
Palmer slotted home past Jose Sa.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.
Alan : “They’ll have to Cum On Feel The Noize.”
Chris : “Come on My Friend Stan.”
Our play improved from then, and Wolves became the secondary team. I liked the way we moved the ball quicker than under Maresca, and I loved how Palmer was carrying out his own brand of football alchemy only a few yards away.
A shot from distance for Enzo rattled in but was blocked.
On twenty-four minutes, we enjoyed three efforts in quick succession. First an effort from Cucurella was blocked by Doherty, Caicedo followed up with a shot and then a rabona from Enzo was saved by Sa.
Just after, I again marvelled at how Joao Pedro brought the ball down beautifully, before a quick turn and a blast at goal from an angle that Sa pushed over for a corner. Then a sublime dribble at pace from Joao Pedro – the kind of run you just don’t see much of these days – that took him past opponents with consummate ease.
Then, Gusto ran deep into the box on the far side and smashed a shot goalwards when perhaps a cross might have been the better option. Sa was the equal of it at the near post.
This was nice stuff. We were playing well.
On thirty-five minutes, Joao Pedro attacked the inside-right channel. I didn’t see the ridiculous hands-on push by Yerson Mosquera, I just saw our striker fall.
Another penalty.
Another Palmer strike, this time the other way.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
As he ran again towards the Chelsea contingent, I snapped away with my mobile camera, but the results were horrific.
At around this point, the rain temporarily stopped, as if to rub it in.
A third goal soon followed. And this was a lovely move, so pure and simple. Neto to Fernandez, then out to Cucurella, with me willing him on. He reached the goal-line, spotted Palmer advancing and cut a great ball back into the path of our Number Ten. Palmer dispatched his shot high into the Wolves net. It was struck with such venom. It was a beautiful goal.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.
“Palmer again, ole, ole.”
Game over, surely?
The home fans must have thought the same. The South Bank met their predicament with gallows humour.
“How shit must you be? It’s only three-nil.”
The afternoon had turned against them, and they were increasingly vociferous in their booing of the referee’s decisions and felt aggrieved at every call given against them. I must admit, the 50-50’s did appear to be mainly going our way.
When Wolves eventually won a free-kick, Gary chortled alongside me.
“Come on ref, you’ve given us nuffing.”
That raised a smile from me.
As the referee blew for half-time, there were massive boos, but all for the referee no doubt.
Half-time came and went, and although – deep-down – I was hopeful for further attacks and further goals, I knew that we had a game on Tuesday and that we just needed to be sensible. There was an early chance for Enzo in the first few moments of the second period as the rain began again. His shot was blocked.
In the same way that we let Wolves back into the game during that crazy second-half in October, I did wonder if we might be in for a slightly rough ride as the second half continued.
I turned to Gary and said “you know what will happen? They will score and it will get shaky.”
Sometimes I hate my footballing sixth sense.
A shot from Mateus Mane was touched onto a post. Then, from a low corner on the Wolves’ left from Mane, the ball was flicked on and Arokodare was able to turn and slot home from mere yards away.
Bollocks. Here we go.
Fifty-four minutes were on the clock.
“Bloody hell, over half-an-hour to go…”
The home team improved throughout the second period, whereas we lost a lot of key battles. Throughout it all, the home fans were still feeling that they were being victimised.
“Premier League. Corrupt as fuck.”
On the hour, Palmer set off on a little run but then stopped and played the ball safely back. He then walked gingerly for a few steps and stretched both legs, and it looked to me that he wasn’t happy with his fitness. Soon after he was substituted by Alejandro Garnacho who took up residence on the left as Neto swapped over.
Wolves probably edged possession in the second period, and I was never at ease. I turned to the bloke behind me and admitted “only Chelsea could be 3-1 up and we are wanting the ref to blow up.”
Young Ernie, to my left in the front row, got the crowd going with a couple of lovely “Zigger Zaggers”. He is soon becoming one of our most famous fans, bless him.
A header from Mosquera bothered the souls in the South Bank rather than Sanchez.
On seventy-one minutes, Arakodare had a pacey run, but Fofana did just enough to put him off. His shot was a weak one, and straight at Sanchez.
With fifteen minutes to go, a double substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Gusto.
Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.
On eighty-four minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Santos.
Just after, Neto was free and unmarked but misfired horribly with a header. He then hit the side netting with a shot and Delap struck a shot at Sa.
Despite seven long minutes of injury time, we held on.
We “held on?” Yes, it seemed like it.
The Chelsea crowd were full of “Palmer again” bravado as we all exited the concourse into the rain, and I met up with the two lads outside. PD and I devoured a bacon cheeseburger with onions as we sheltered under the entrance to a building and we then slowly headed back to the car. Luckily, a lot of the traffic had already vacated the area, and the route back to the M6 at Walsall was quicker than usual.
This had been my twelfth ever visit to Molineux. In the last three visits we have scored thirteen goals, and I have to say I will miss it next season,
PD, Parky and I were heading to the capital once again. The league game at home to Brentford would be our fourth of eight consecutive matches in London.
On the drive east, we spoke about the two domestic cup competitions.
The tickets for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final at Arsenal will go on sale from Tuesday 20 January, and I fancied the idea of watching from the upper tier at The Emirates for the first time. We have an allocation of 5,975. The last time that we went to Arsenal for a semi-final, we were all in the lower tier. The only problem with this game will be the time we get back home in Somerset. I am guessing it will be around 2.30am. Oh the joys.
Sadly, none of us will be attending the FA Cup tie at Hull City on Friday 13 February, and the main reason is that I can’t afford to give up a whole day’s holiday for another domestic game when I might have to use my last few days for the Champions League. It’s a shame, because we don’t mind visiting Hull. We have good memories of our visit in the FA Cup in 2020. The hotel that cost us £7.50 each still gets a smile six years on.
Brentford were one of the form teams in the Premier League and were one place above us – fifth – in the table ahead of our encounter at Stamford Bridge. We knew we would be in for a tough game. All eyes would be on their free-scoring Brazilian Igor Thiago. At work on Friday, I predicted a 2-2 draw when a Brentford-supporting colleague enquired of my thoughts.
I was forced to park way out, by Queens Club, and it took me a full twenty-five minutes to reach Stamford Bridge by foot.
I met up with some friends from the US at Stamford Bridge at 11am.
Ben, from Baton Rouge in Louisiana has been a mate since 2012. I last saw him in Wroclaw in May. Matt from DC has been a friend for only a few years, and I last saw him in Philly in June. I have known Josh, though, since around 2008, and we first met at a game in Baltimore in 2009. This was Josh’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge, and it was fantastic to see him. I saw him in Philly in June too. Josh hails from Louisville in Kentucky and was with two fellow Chelsea supporters Roger and Andy. We were able to chat to a few of the former players who take part in the hospitality at Stamford Bridge. John Boyle was especially entertaining as he reminisced on a visit to Los Angeles with Chelsea when Tommy Docherty was the manager, and how he was captain of the Tampa Bay Rowdies team that won the “Soccer Bowl” against the Portland Timbers in San Jose in 1975.
We then decamped to “The Eight Bells”, no big surprises there, eh?
We met up with the usual crowd and chatted about a million things at once.
This was the day of the protest against Clearlake, and we had been tipped off to arrive at the turnstiles a little earlier than usual. To that end, we caught the tube back to Fulham Broadway at around 1.30pm. I took the lads over to meet Mark at his stall.
“I always say the same thing to first time visitors, Marco…if we lose today, Josh isn’t coming back.”
Josh replied “well, I have three games to get that win.”
I replied “you might need four.”
The so-called protest did not amount to anything much. I am all for demonstrations and free-speech, but I was never sure what would be accomplished by a protest out on the Fulham Road (it was outside the “Kona Kai” – or “Vloggers Corner” as I call it) and by the time I reached it, just random Chelsea songs were being chanted, and I walked away when a young kid of around fourteen was singing about “bugle”.
It was time to get inside.
At 2pm, I was in, and it allowed me time to relax before the game. I spotted a couple of tourist-types (replica shirts, scarves) taking selfies in the gangway behind my seat and I volunteered to take their photos in front of the empty pitch and stadium. We got chatting and they were from Iceland, just outside Reykjavik, and of course Eidur Gudjohnsen’s name soon came up.
“He is why I am a Chelsea fan.”
The stadium filled. I checked the team.
Sanchez
James – Chalobah – Tosin – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Garnacho
Joao Pedro
The three Kentuckians would be watching from the Matthew Harding Lower. Ben, who was with his father, would be watching in a hospitality area, while Matt would be watching a few yards away from me in the Matthew Harding Upper. Now then, dear reader – for those of a nervous disposition, you might want to skip over this next sentence or two – Matt is a lovely bloke and I have met his wife, and she is lovely too. But – and it’s a big but, I can’t deny it – she is a Tottenham supporter and was in fact watching their game with West Ham in the bleak Badlands of North London while were in salubrious SW6. It just so happened that as I saw Matt walking over to see me at about five minutes to three, “The Liquidator” was playing and, with perfect timing, Matt arrived just as we both belted out “We Hate Tott’num.”
We cracked some smiles, and I wondered, worryingly, if that just might be the highlight of the day.
As the teams took to the field, I took to my seat, and the Icelandic couple took their seats right in front of me.
The game began, with us attacking The Shed.
Within the first minute of play, Brentford registered a shot on target via Kevin Schade, but Robert Sanchez was able to save.
On ten minutes, a lovely swivel from Enzo in a central position and he surged on and released a ball for Joao Pedron to use. He ran into the box but couldn’t seem to get the ball out of his feet. He fell to the floor after contact with a Brentford defender but there was no penalty.
On nineteen minutes, a nice break, initiated by a long ball from Sanchez to Pedro Neto on the right. He set up Cole Palmer, but his shot was sent curling over.
Just after, Brentford advanced and Thiago set up Schade, who then looked free and about to cause problems. Surprisingly, he returned the ball square to Thiago. Tosin deflected the ball towards the goal, but Sanchez reacted well to block. Reece James then booted the ball clear.
“Save of the season, that” uttered Clive.
At this point in the game, I was warmed by a few pieces of decent attacking play from us and optimistically hoped that the Rosenior era would blossom. But I then thought again and wondered if my standards had dropped and I was being too kind to the fare that was being played out in front of me.
On twenty-six minutes, Chelsea were trying to win the ball on the edge of the Brentford box, and Enzo was the main protagonist. Luckily a clearance from a defender conveniently rebounded off him into the path of Joao Pedro. His quick shot was blasted high past the Brentford ‘keeper Caiomhin Kelleher.
Get in.
We were up and celebrating, but then VAR took control of proceedings. After the usual wait – it’s always too long – the goal stood.
The home crowd roared and “Chelsea Dagger” was aired. I turned to anyone that might be listening and shouted, “I’m not cheering a VAR goal and I am not singing along to this shit.”
I believe the phrase that describes this is “shouting into the abyss.”
I do a lot of that at football.
The play continued and Brentford enjoyed a very good spell. On thirty-five minutes, a header from a corner whistled past the post. Just after, a long ball out to their left was turned into the box, and after a clever flick-on, the ball fell to Mikkel Damsgaard but his volley shaved the far post. Then, an effort from Damsgaard was saved by Sanchez.
Accompanying all these Brentford near misses were a variety of shrieks and yells from the female Icelandic visitor in front, and it reminded me of some of Bjork’s best efforts.
She was certainly living every second of her visit.
On forty-three minutes, a strong tackle from Enzo instigated a break down our right and Pedro Neto raced on before slotting a brilliant low ball across the six-yard box. We saw the blonde mop of Garnacho arrive, level with a defender, but his effort flew wide.
Garnacho pulled his Edvard Munch face and we screamed our displeasure.
Fackinell, and whatever that is in Icelandic.
It had been deathly quiet all game, and it drains the life out of me, it really does. Every season it gets worse. Before we know it, we will be able to hear the reversing beepers of London buses in Oxford Street and the shuffle of papers inside the British Museum during games at Stamford Bridge.
Brentford were lively on the break, and we needed to thank Moises Caicedo to block an effort from Yehor Yarmolik just before half-time.
The second half began with a shot that was blasted high and wide by Pedro Neto. Soon after, another Brentford break set up that man Schade and he raced on to a ball, before steadying himself to shoot. He attempted to curl an effort towards the far post but miraculously Sanchez stuck out his left leg and the ball went wide.
Superb stuff.
On fifty-seven minutes, a double substitution.
Wesley Fofana for Tosin.
Andrey Santos for Garnacho.
Brentford then dominated the game and we struggled to compete. Brentford created some half-chances. We did not.
On sixty-six minutes, my frustration rose as we were awarded a free-kick wide right and chose to work the ball inside not once but on three separate occasions, and this just about summed it all up. Each time the ball went back to a central defender. This systematic “playing by numbers” is ruining my love of the game.
Fackinell.
On seventy-two minutes, Thiago’s towering header went wide.
After seventy-four minutes, Liam Delap took over from Joao Pedro.
Just after, Palmer put Nathan Collins under pressure, and the defender was forced into playing the ball to his ‘keeper. Kelleher’s touch was poor, and the substitute Delap tried to reach the ball. Kelleher bundled him over.
I saw the referee bring the whistle to his mouth, then point to the spot and I roared.
Phew.
All eyes on Palmer.
Snap.
A cool finish.
Get in.
But no usual celebration.
Chelsea 2 Brentford 0.
At last the Matthew Harding sang.
“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea – Chelsea.”
Two late substitutions for Rosenior.
Josh Acheampong for James.
Jorrel Hato for Enzo.
I rated Enzo as our best performer on this day in SW6. He impressed me with both his defensive and offensive qualities and was the engine that kept the gears turning. I liked Trevoh Chalobah in this game too; strong tackles, good headers away, a decent performance. Robert Sanchez, of course, made a couple of fantastic stops. More power to him.
The game dwindled on, and many left before the end.
At the final whistle, relief for the points if not for the overall performance. This had undoubtedly been a lucky win, this one. Brentford deserved at least a point.
My takeaway from the game?
A saveloy and chips from “The Anchor on Lillee Road”, just the job on a long cold walk back to the car.
After the collapse against Aston Villa, we were heading back to Stamford Bridge for the second home league game in four days. This time, the visitors were Bournemouth, or AFC Bournemouth to give them their full, rather pretentious, title.
What version of Chelsea would show up for this game? I am not sure anyone was sure.
Unfortunately, Lord Parsnips – to give him his festive title – was unable to make it, so after picking up PD and Glenn at 11am in Frome, I sped off towards London via our old route which included a short-cut across Salisbury Plain from the A36 to the A303.
Blue skies above, a clear road ahead, a glorious day. We were on the road.
“Jack Kerouac” as I used to say in the first few years of these match reports.
I enjoy coming in on this “southern route” and for those not familiar with this drive to London, it takes me right past Stonehenge – the sun was hitting those stone slabs perfectly as we drove past – and then up towards London’s well-heeled South-Western suburbs and we came in past Twickenham Stadium, a smattering of other rugby stadia, Richmond-upon-Thames, then Barnes – past the Marc Bolan memorial site – and over Putney Bridge.
I know it’s a hackneyed cliché that the days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day form a weird zone of confusion, but I was a victim of this peculiar time of the year as I drove towards London.
“Wait a minute. It’s a Tuesday. Free parking starts from 5pm on weekdays. Bollocks. I’ll have to pay for a few hours of parking.”
Not to worry. I hoped it wouldn’t be too much.
The “southern route” is considerably quicker than the “northern route” and I dropped Ebeneezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim off outside “The Temperance” in deepest Fulham bang on 1.30pm. They then made the brief walk towards “The Eight Bells” to set up a base camp for the afternoon.
Meanwhile, I – Bob Cratchit – set off through Fulham to find a parking space and ended up just off Rylston Road. The parking was £4 per half-hour…
I then wandered down towards Stamford Bridge and took a few photographs of the area. I probably know this part of Fulham just as well as my hometown, and of course there are many memories from these streets of SW6. I seemed rather obsessed with incorporating the moon in as many photos as possible. The time was only around 4pm. Maybe I was surprised to see it so clear, so early in the evening.
There was a bite to eat on The North End Road, then a quick visit to Stamford Bridge again, and a few photos. As I walked towards the West Stand forecourt, I heard a young lad shout out.
“There’s no Cucurella.”
Had the team news been announced already? It was only three o’clock. The quick thought about our esteemed left-back missing the match saddened me.
I then heard “Bob The T-Shirt” reply.
“Get him out!”
And I realised that this brief conversation concerned scarves on Bob’s matchday stall and not the starting eleven.
At 3.30pm, I walked into “The Eight Bells” and walked up to the chaps.
“Right, where were we?”
It seemed only five minutes ago that we had all been crowded around the same table pre-Villa. Just behind me, and undoubtedly on the same tube train, was Aleksey from Houston – but originally Moscow – and he quickly joined in. Dave from Northampton dropped in for a pint too; a mate from 1983/84. It’s fantastic to think we met as twenty-year-olds and now we are in our ‘sixties but still in contact.
Salisbury Steve was with his son Leigh, two other Steves were in attendance, as was Jimmy The Greek.
Ten of us in total. Bob Cratchit even inched into one of the photos.
Aleksey has been bitten hard with the Chelsea bug over the years but is also one of a growing band of mates from the US who have become interested in the non-league scene in the United Kingdom. Suffice to say, in addition to this Bournemouth game, plus aways at Manchester City and across the park at Craven Cottage, Aleksey is heading down to the West Country for two nights so that he can watch the Frome Town vs. Westbury United match at the weekend.
A feisty local derby on a Saturday at three o’clock, with a few drinks before and after, and a gate of more than one thousand. Fantastic.
It’s the future.
Dear reader : I can’t deny it. I have been looking forward to this Frome game more than any other match over the Christmas period. More so than Villa at home, more so than Bournemouth at home, and certainly more so than City away. I am bloody dreading that last one.
Aleksey was down in the West Country for our game with Winchester City last season. And I know he is relishing Saturday’s game.
Frome’s “Chelsea” visitors from the US to Badgers Hill now stands at five.
Bob – California.
Josh – Minnesota.
Courtney – Illinois.
Phil – Iowa.
Aleksey – Texas.
Only another forty-five states to go. Who is next?
Aleksey seemed to be on a mission to try every draught beer available – from a dark porter to a crisp light cider – but Bob Cratchit was on the Diet Cokes. Tiny Tim chatted to Aleksey about our trip to New York in the summer, while the others got temporarily sidetracked into talking about the current mess at the club. For a few moments, it all got a bit heavy and depressing.
On Saturday, my mate Clive had to leave early against Villa as he got the call that his dog, Norm, had taken a turn for the worst. He wasn’t at this game. In fact, Tiny Tim had his ticket.
I messaged Clive to find out how Norm was doing.
“Definitely on the mend. He’s back shagging my leg. Are you having a good time?”
I replied.
“Not as good as you.”
There’s always a good soundtrack to our drinking and our chit-chat and laughter in “The Eight Bells” and I liked it that “A Town Called Malice” was played not once but twice. I reminded Aleksey that Frome will come out to this song against Westbury.
We bellowed along.
“A whole street’s belief in Sunday’s roast beef. Gets dashed against the co-op. To either cut down on beer or the kids’ new gear. It’s a big decision in a town called Malice.”
We set off for Stamford Bridge, and there was the usual group selfie from Jimmy, then a group photo of us all, taken by a random stranger, and I include it here.
In a quiet moment, Jimmy said he fancied coming down to see a Frome Town match too.
“You might get a game, mate.”
I was in at 7pm.
I spoke to a few people around me.
“Who knows what we’ll do today. You never know, we might turn it round. Today might be the day that we can…be shite in both halves.”
Oh that gallows humour.
The team?
Well, Bob’s helper was indeed right; no Cucurella.
I didn’t like it that we attacked the Matthew Harding Stand as the game began. I liked it that we clapped Djordje Petrovic, though.
Inside the first minute, a rampaging run by Liam Delap and he forced a corner, but Estevao’s floater amounted to nothing.
Over in the far corner, the folk from Pokesdown, Christchurch, Poole, Mudeford, Boscombe, Southbourne, Hamworthy, Parkstone and Ferndown rustled up a chant.
“AFCB – Red And Black Army.”
To be fair, three thousand of their fans at an away game is a mighty fine figure when you consider they only have 9,000 home fans each game at the Vitality. Their expansion plans are ongoing. I wonder what figure the Poole and Bournemouth conurbation could reliably support. Maybe 25,000? Perhaps 20,000.
We countered with a half-hearted “CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
With five minutes gone, the away team had already created a couple of chances. On six minutes, a long throw-in from in front of the West Stand. The ball was flicked on by a Bournemouth player despite three – yes three – Chelsea defenders jumping with him. David Brooks headed the ball at Sanchez, whose reflex save was impressive, but Brooks then slotted home the rebound from close range.
Here we bloody go again.
Wait.
VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…the goal stood.
From the away end.
“How shit must you be? We’re winning away.”
On ten minutes, the ball was pushed out to Estevao who wriggled past the left-back and came inside. He ran on confidently. Inside the box, after a challenge by Antoine Semenyo, he fell.
VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…zzz…oh boy…I didn’t hear what the referee Sam Barrot said, but of course by then we knew it was a penalty.
I still haven’t remotely cheered a VAR decision that has gone our way, since it has vastly helped to rot football’s soul.
Cole Palmer slotted the ball in at the corner.
No celebrations from him, nor his teammates.
Good – I liked that.
“We have a job to do.”
A quarter of an hour had passed.
Soon after, a mistake by young Josh Acheampong let in the away team who passed around our defenders and played in Brooks. I admired a fantastic “strong wrists” parry from Robert Sanchez. He is becoming a noticeably excellent shot-stopper, especially from close-in.
Then, Delap forced his way past his marker, but his low cross was just not close enough to Alejandro Garnacho’s lunge.
Garnacho, soon after, then took a heavy touch and a good chance went begging.
On twenty-three minutes, I loved the way Young Josh won the ball on our right. Moises Caicedo to Enzo to Garnacho. He played the ball back to Enzo, who feinted a touch to create space, then shot high into the net.
YES!
What a bloody fantastic strike.
A slide from the scorer.
Snap, snap, snap.
I hoped that my pub camera was up to the task.
The Matthew Harding decided to sing.
“How shit must you be? We’re winning at home.”
I am all for gallows humour, but I was not a fan of this. I turned around to see if Lee – we share basic Chelsea fundamentals – was as annoyed as me.
He was.
PD chirped “this game could be 4-4 or 5-5.”
Well, the goals continued. On twenty-seven minutes, a throw-in from Semenyo in front of the East Lower was aimed at the near post. Trevoh Chalobah rose but got the angles and his timing wrong and only helped the Bournemouth cause by heading the ball fortuitously on for Justin Kluivert to stab the ball home.
If only we had deployed a player to stand on the rear post.
Basics.
It was 2-2 with not half-an-hour played; so, was this a fine game played with players on form or a low-quality match with defensive lapses and the inevitable goals to boot?
I think we all know.
On thirty minutes, Malo Gusto booted wildly over. Just after, a good cross from them but Sanchez got something on it at the near post. On thirty-five minutes, a high Garnacho cross to Estevao, of all people, on the far post but the headed effort bounced wide.
Seven minutes of injury / VAR time, but that was that.
Soon into the half, James headed a pass – for that’s what it was – towards Cole who set up Estevao but his shot was blocked.
We witnessed a finely timed and finely executed tackle by Wesley Fofana. Such is our lack of defensive prowess these days that this simple act now seems like it needs to be heralded.
Gusto headed a cross out for a corner, but…
VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…no handball.
On fifty-four minutes, Delap headed over at the end of a decent break.
The noise in the stadium was – of course – poor, but Stamford Bridge reverberated with boos when Palmer was replaced by Joao Pedro. Cole began a long walk around the pitch to the bench, while on the pitch there was a low shot from Estevao that Petrovic tipped around the post for a corner.
It made me chuckle when the subbed Palmer rescued the match ball and placed it on the corner spot and motioned to look for a player.
For all the substitutions, it wasn’t working and we struggled to create too much. Pedro Neto was frustrating me with his need to take an extra touch, while I would have preferred for Delap to be a central target rather than making runs to the near post.
On seventy minutes, Estevao snaked into the box with an excellent dribble, but his effort only resulted in a corner. Our corners were predictably poor, and I expected more quality from Reece on the left and Neto on the right.
Sigh.
On seventy-six minutes, Enzo lashed over.
On eighty-two minutes, Joao Pedro tried an optimistic (ie: bloody stupid) lob from inside his own half.
Oh boy.
His deflected shot then went off for a corner.
Amazingly, Bournemouth should have won it in the first minute of the four that were added on for injuries / VAR. A cross from the left down below us from Adrien Truffert, a first-time touch at the far post by Armine Adli and the ball was played back to Enes Unal. Thankfully his first-time volley from eighteen yards flew over the bar.
Phew.
Just after, with just two minutes remaining, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao and we all wondered why, oh why?
This was another meek performance from us, and it’s obvious that many of the rank-and-file are losing patience with this current regime.
At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.
The three matches that had preceded our home game with Everton had been highly disappointing; a distressing 1-3 loss at Leeds United, an inconceivably dour 0-0 at Bournemouth and a depressing 1-2 defeat at Atalanta.
Disappointing, distressing, dour and depressing.
That’s some indictment, eh?
In such circumstances, I might be forgiven for feeling down before the Everton match.
Not one bit of it. In the latter stages of my day at work on Friday, I suddenly realised that the fatigue of the previous three weeks had evaporated and I suddenly felt energised.
I was, to use one of my favourite sayings, chomping at the bit for the chance to drive to London with a clear head and the opportunity to enjoy a typical Chelsea Saturday.
The three of us were away early. I collected PD at 7am and LP at 7.30am.
The first section of the two-and-a-half-hour drive to London involved Parky regaling us with tales from Turin, Milan and Bergamo. He had attended our match in Italy with Salisbury Steve and Jimmy The Greek and – the football apart – had really enjoyed himself. There were, however, long days involved. On the outbound trip, he stayed awake for thirty-six hours. On the return trip, delays at Turin airport meant he had to sleep at Gatwick on his return.
We also spoke briefly about the 2026 FIFA World Cup, and that is all it deserved. The price of match tickets is obscene, a clear indication of FIFA’s mission to make money from supporters with not a hint of a moral compass. Like the Qatar World Cup of 2022, I strongly suspect that I will not watch a single match. We also spoke about the ridiculous number of games. During that colossal first phase, there will be no edge and no jeopardy. I am getting bored just thinking about all those pointless matches.
As I have said before, FIFA’s mantra is “more is more”.
Well, I shan’t be part of it. If most of the stadia are half-empty, I shan’t be bothered.
I dropped PD and LP near the pub, and they slid off for a quick breakfast at “The River Café” while I backtracked across Fulham to eat at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road.
Two bacon, two sausage, two fried eggs, two hash browns, two black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea.
£11.
I’d include a photo, but you’d only be jealous.
I parked up and caught the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the lads were already getting into a decent sesh. On the short journey from West Brompton to Putney Bridge, with the sun shining gloriously, I had to admit that there is no greater place than London on a crisp Winter Day.
I strode into the boozer at about 11.15am and was happy to see the Normandy Division of Ollie and Jerome sitting alongside the usual suspects. On this day, our ranks would be joined by several from the US.
First up, Michelle from Nashville, who had also visited Italy and met up with the lads in Bergamo. Michelle entertained me with snippets of her post-match stay in Milan; a few days of opera and art, all very agreeable.
Next up was Tom from Laguna Beach in California, a friend of mine since meeting on the old Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2007, and at an away game at West Ham a couple of years later.
Lastly, my friend Natalie from Kansas City arrived with her long-time friend Amy – her first visit to London, and hence Stamford Bridge – and Amy’s two parents Ash and Julie. Natalie’s first-ever match at Stamford Bridge was alongside me to witness that unforgettable 6-0 thumping of Arsenal in 2014. I last saw Natalie at a home game against Southampton in January 2019. We enjoyed a great catch up, and I enjoyed talking to Amy and her parents before their first-ever Chelsea game. I had a few stories to keep them occupied. They absolutely adored the cosiness of “The Eight Bells.”
The five of us said our goodbyes and left for Stamford Bridge at 1.45pm. I took one last photo of Nat, Amy, Julie and Ash on the busy Fulham Road before going our separate ways. I would, however, be seeing Nat at Cardiff the following Tuesday.
I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 2.15pm.
Those in the Dugout Club had been given blue Father Christmas hats, and some of them were wearing them as they watched the players warming up.
I suppose for £5,000 a ticket, a Santa hat as part of the deal works out to be rather pricey.
Bless.
Right then, what of the team?
I couldn’t argue with Enzo Maresca’s choices on this occasion. It is, I think, what I would have chosen.
Robert Sanchez in goal, and possibly large parts of the penalty area too.
Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella as the full backs, with licence to roam.
Wesley Fofana and Trevoh Chalobah, the centre-back pairing for this game and perhaps others to come if this went well.
Enzo Fernandez and Reece James, the withdrawn midfielders, but able to burst into other areas.
Pedro Neto on the right, Alejandro Garnacho on the left, the Billy-Whizz twins.
Cole Palmer tucked in to the middle, but looking to ghost into areas unmapped by man nor beast.
Joao Pedro to lead the line, or at least to occupy defenders while others harried and carried.
During the day, I had reminded everyone that Everton last beat us in a league game at Stamford Bridge way back in 1994. I was scolded for mentioning it, but I was confident. I bumped into Hersham Bob – no laced-up boots, nor corduroys, alas – who suggested that the returning Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall would get the winner.
“That’s the spirit mate.”
The minutes clicked down.
It was a gorgeous day in Old London Town.
The game started.
“C’mon Chels.”
The first quarter of an hour was quite subdued, with tentative probing from us, and a few more direct bursts from the visitors. Their fans made a fair bit of noise at the start of the game.
On fifteen minutes, Dewsbury-Hall took a knock and had to be substituted. He was replaced by Carlos Alcaraz. I liked the way we clapped him off. He was honest player for us and has fitted in well with the Toffees.
I tried to catch Rob’s eye to let him see me wipe my brow.
“Phew.”
On eighteen minutes, Jack Grealish shimmied and advanced down below us and sent over a cross, but Trevoh Chalobah blocked. Grealish looked a handful in those early stages.
Two minutes later, a shot from Iliman Ndiaye that Robert Sanchez saved through a crowd of players.
A voice from the crowd behind me :
“They look more organised than us.”
At that exact moment – in fact, as I began tapping away those words from a worried spectator on my ‘phone – I looked up to see Wesley Fofana pass to Malo Gusto, who released the ball perfectly between defenders to meet the run of Cole Palmer. His finish was pure Palmer; a cool finish past Jordan Pickford.
The trademark celebration, the run to the corner, lovely.
Chelsea 1 Everton 0.
Just after, Garnacho blasted over from a difficult angle, and then the same player latched onto a risky back-pass by Alcaraz but struck the ball just past the near post with an empty net begging.
By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency.
But then the visitors came again. It made a change for a team to attack us at home. James Tarkowski headed wide, then Ndiaye mishit a pull-back from Jake O’Brien. Then, a ball was rifled across the box by Gana Gueye but nobody was there to meet it. I was just grateful that KDH was off the pitch.
Next up, a skilful run from Grealish resulted in a shot that Sanchez somehow blocked with his shoulder.
We were riding our luck alright.
Just after, Pedro Neto did what Pedro Neto does, and I photographed him sprinting past his hapless marker Vitaliy Mykolenko. He reached the goal-line and played the ball into the path of Malo Gusto who touched it past Pickford.
GET IN.
By this time, Mykolenko was flat on his back, while Gusto slid towards the corner.
Phew.
Chelsea 2 Everton 0.
“That goal was beautiful.”
At half-time, I spoke to a few friends and acquaintances.
“Just doing enough.”
One replied –
“I think we’ve been diabolical.”
Throughout the first period, the atmosphere was quiet but that’s nothing new these days, eh? Everton were totally quiet.
“1994, lads.”
The second period began and a cross from the quiet Enzo teed up Garnacho at the far post, who was always stretching to connect. My photo of his lunge is almost as poor as his finish. The ball flew wide.
Throughout the first half and into the second half I had been impressed with the excellent play of first Chalobah and then Fofana. On fifty-two minutes, Wesley made a sensational block tackle on an Everton attacker who would have been through on goal.
I immediately thought “Bobby Moore on Jairzinho, 1970”; it was that good.
At last, a stadium-wide chant enveloped Stamford Bridge. It was initiated by the good people of The Shed, but the Matthew Harding soon joined in.
“CAREFREE.”
Garnacho shot over after a lightning break down our left. He was having one of those days.
On fifty-eight minutes, Cole Palmer was substituted, but Maresca went safe with Andrey Santos rather than with Estevao Willian. I approved of the way Palmer’s time on the pitch was managed.
I was impressed with Joao Pedro, who was something of a menace for the Everton defence, and he showed a few instances of great hold-up play.
On the hour, it was Chalobah’s time to shine defensively. He initially lost ground in a chase but recovered so well to make a last-ditch tackle just inside the box.
At The Shed, Sanchez tipped over.
At the Matthew Harding, Santos shot over the bar.
On seventy minutes, Reece James made a mistake in our final third, but that man Fofana recovered well. Just after, Grealish sliced well wide after arriving at the far stick at a free kick.
On sixty-five minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.
On seventy-five minutes, Pickford tipped a Reece James free kick over the bar.
On eighty minutes, Estevao replaced Joao Pedro. Pedro Neto moved inside as a false-nine.
On eighty-six minutes, Ndiaye raced past Fofana and struck a slow shot towards goal. The effort bounced back off the far post. Clalobah then blocked a shot from Alcaraz.
In the first minute of injury-time, a Neto break but Gittens shot weakly over.
The whistle blew.
I had enjoyed this one. It had a little bit of everything. We weren’t at our absolute best, nor not near it, but we showed signs that it might be coming together. At least we stemmed that mini run of awfulness. Everton showed a willingness to attack, and, on another day, they might have returned North with a point or more.
I thought Fofana and Chalobah were excellent.
Here’s an idea, Maresca. Play these two together in all games. Cheers.
Oh, the run. Here it is.
Chelsea vs. Everton : Premier League.
19 August 1995 to 13 December 2025.
Played : 31
Won : 18
Drew : 13
Lost : 0
Oh, and to complete a perfect day, Frome Town won 4-0 at Tavistock in Devon to strengthen our position at the top of the table.
Well, I didn’t watch any international football, that’s for sure.
Thankfully, the fortnight was over and Chelsea were back on the agenda. We were due to complete our “London Series” with the fourth match in a row against teams from the capital with a game at Brentford’s Gtech Stadium.
Unfortunately, PD was unable to get hold of a ticket, so it was only Parky who accompanied me up to The Smoke for this one.
“It’ll be just like the old days”, he chirped during the lead up to the weekend, harking back to those days from around 2008 when the Chuckle Bus consisted, in the main, of just the two of us.
With the game in West London not beginning until 8pm, I had decided to give any notion of a long day shuffling around a succession of pubs a miss and picked up Parky at 2.45pm. I am not getting any younger and I am beginning to feel the burden of arduous hours on the road.
Soon after collecting the old rascal, I was well aware that Frome Town were kicking off their FA Cup match at Shaftesbury in Dorset at 3pm. I had toyed for the idea of attending both games but decided that it was all too risky. Chelsea would be the priority on this day.
On the previous Saturday, I had driven down to the cathedral city of Winchester to see Frome meekly exit the FA Trophy. Winchester City, from the same division, had beaten us 2-0. Shaftesbury play in the same division as Frome too and I was hopeful that my hometown club would be victorious in this scene-setter to the evening’s main event.
I stopped at Membury Services near Swindon to check the score; losing 0-1.
I stopped at Heston Services near Heathrow to check the score; losing 0-1.
Bollocks.
It’s a very familiar drive into West London on the elevated section of the M4 and the sights are oh-so familiar. Rising to where John Prescott’s ill-fated “bus and taxi lane” used to terminate, I never fail to get a little shudder of excitement as I see the skyscrapers of the city in the distance. Closer in, the vast expanse of gleaming windows of the now vacated GSK Building occasionally reflects winter sunsets as I drive into London for evening games.
It’s quite a site and quite a sight.
Way to the north, I always peek to see the Wembley Arch, and in previous years I would always look to spot the floodlight pylons at Griffin Park just south of the M4.
I always check for what I call “the Seven Sisters”, a line of tower blocks to my right, a title that is a little off since there are only six of them, but I figure it’s the thought that counts. Also in view is what Parky calls “the pepper pot”, the tall tower that forms the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam.
Then, just a little further along, the expensive car dealerships, perched and overlooking the motorway.
It was at this point that I exited the M4, swung around the roundabout where the North Circular, the M4 and the A4 meet, and then turned back westwards to drop Parky off outside the “Bell & Crown” pub on the banks of the River Thames at Chiswick.
It was 5pm.
I had left my village in Somerset at 2.15pm.
Job done.
I edged further west to park up at Ferry Quays, and just as I did so, a score flash from Shaftesbury made me smile.
In the one-hundred and second minute of play, Sam Meakes had plundered a very late equaliser for Frome Town.
Lovely.
There would be a replay at Badgers Hill on Wednesday evening, and on that occasion, Frome would take precedence over watching Chelsea in Bavaria on the TV.
I met up with Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Minnesota Josh for an hour or so of chuckles, laughs and banter as the sun began its slow dip beyond Kew Bridge.
Within seconds of arriving, a beer was spilled from the low wall, and Josh’s sunglasses were knocked into the murky Thames below. In stepped Parky who hooked them out of the water with his trusty walking stick. I was hopeful that this moment would not be the most exciting few seconds of the entire evening.
We bumped into a smattering of other friends and acquaintances, and it was a gorgeous way to idle away around for an hour and a half.
Not much was said about the upcoming game; no point spoiling the moment, eh?
I left them to it as I fancied taking a few “mood shots” of the stadium. The walk up to the Gtech Stadium took me right along the border between Chiswick and Brentford, which are both covered by the London Borough of Hounslow.
Everything is so cramped at the Gtech Stadium, nestled underneath the M4, shoved between train tracks, narrow roads, and new high-rise flats. There is a splash of red at the box office and at the main entrance, but grey steel, grey windows, and grey cladding otherwise dominate the structure. The box office is recessed underneath offices to generate an extra little space, and the main entrance is inconspicuous. Blink and it will be missed. There is almost a sense of claustrophobia in this intimate part of West London.
I walked back out onto the main road and approached the away entrance, which is tucked away underneath the towering high rises that soon shot up in the void between the stadium and the M4. There was a ticket check, then a cheerful pat-down, and I was through. I had my Sony “pub camera” clasped in my fist and it was not spotted. I will only be able to bring my Canon SLR to games once the weather worsens and I can smuggle it under a jacket.
Down the steps to the away entrance, then into the surprisingly roomy concourse, then up the stairs to the upper concourse. Not a square inch of space is wasted at the Gtech.
I was inside the away seats at around 7.15pm. The Chelsea players were warming up a few yards away. This was a view that would cost the Dugout Club Wankers at Stamford Bridge thousands of pounds, but in the away section at Brentford it cost me just £30.
I was alongside Gary and John in the fourth row from the front and level with the corner flag, an excellent spot.
The team that Enzo Maresca had chosen was a head-shaker alright.
Sanchez
Fofana – Tosin – Chalobah – Hato
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Buonanotte – Gittens
Joao Pedro
The defence seemed ridiculously unfamiliar.
“Have you chaps met each other yet?”
The manager chose a first start of Jorrel Hato, a debut for Facundo Buonanotte, and persevered with Jamie Gittens.
On the bench, sadly, were the more esteemed Cole Palmer, Marc Cucurella, Reece James and Malo Gusto.
Was Maresca over-thinking, being too smart, resting players ahead of Bayern on Wednesday and United on Saturday?
Only time would tell.
There was the usual Premier League intro of “Insomnia”, forced darkness, strobe lights, them mosaics from the slender stand to my right.
Next, a shared “Hey Jude”, with both ends singing along.
The teams appeared to our left.
At 8pm, the referee Stuart Attwell whistled.
Rather than dilly-dally with a methodical pass back to a central defender, a Brentford player sprinted to receive the ball and walloped it forward. All of a sudden we were watching Wimbledon from 1988.
It came to nowt.
The Chelsea choir were in a noisy mood at the start of the game, and there was a particularly loud rendition of “OMWTM” that must have sounded decent on TV. We paraded a few of the old favourites but then fell into the predictable trap of singing about former players from years ago when the players from 2025 needed support. Frank Lampard, Dennis Wise and someone called Solomon Kalou were serenaded.
“It’s Salomon!” I shouted a few times.
On the pitch, there was a brisk start to the game with the debutant Buonanotte looking lively in the central position just behind Joao Pedro, who wasn’t really playing as an out-and-out centre forward because, you know, modern tactics, and all that, and instead played in the half-spaces that seem to exist in managers’ minds, if not on the pitch itself. As the half would progress, Joao Pedro got himself lost in these half spaces, while on the left Jamie Gittens seemed reluctant to exploit even quarter spaces.
But the start was decent enough, and a Joao Pedro shot was blocked, while at our end the lanky frame of Tosin similarly blocked an effort from the home team.
Moises Caicedo was his usual self, blocking, tackling, passing, a dream.
After a quarter of an hour, it was all us, and we were camped inside the Brentford half. However, all of the meaningful attacks were streaming down our right with Pedro Neto always available. On the left, Gittens was lost in the evening murk.
Brentford struggled to piece together much of their own, but then our form dropped and we struggled too.
On thirty-four minutes, I sighed as a ball from Trevoh Chalobah to Neto just didn’t have enough speed on it to give Neto the needed momentum. With that, the move broke down, and the ball was then played to Jordan Henderson. Now then, I have never thought too highly of Henderson, but I had to gasp at the excellence of his long ball towards Kevin Schade. It was absolutely on the money.
Fresh from his whistle-stop tour of Arabia and Amsterdam – talk about different ends of the spectrum in which to live – his decision to retire to Hounslow surprised me, but here he was with the ball of the game.
Schade was able to wriggle past the scrambling Tosin, and when the striker came inside, I only expected one outcome.
I did not see the ball hit the net, but I heard the roar.
Bollocks to you Jordan Henderson.
El-Ettifaqinell.
Just after, there was a rare chant from the home end.
It’s the one thing that has surprised me about Brentford in their new stadium. This is the time of their lives, their high-water mark, playing in a tight and compact stadium, set up for noise, but they are so quiet and timid. It was honestly a shock to be able to hear them.
We struggled to get back into the game in the last part of the first half, and the sight of a corner from Enzo grazing the post raised hardly a flutter.
This had turned into a hard watch.
I turned to Andy from Nuneaton.
“You wouldn’t cross the road to watch this if it wasn’t Chelsea, would you?”
There were multiple changes at the break, and a few of us were surprised that Gittens re-appeared for the start of the second period.
So, Mister Maresca, what you got?
Marc Cucurella for Hato.
Reece James for Fofana.
Tyrique George for Buonanotte.
It took me a few minutes to work out if there had been any fine tweaks to the positions. Was George now the striker, the half-striker maybe, with Joao Pedro behind? I wasn’t sure.
Soon into the second-half, George was released and did well to get a shot away from an angle. The reliable Kelleher was down well to touch it away for a corner.
Then came the first in a succession of “Reece James taking a corner” photos from yours truly and I don’t, thankfully, include them all.
Gittens then enjoyed his best run of the entire game, forcing a corner, but was then ironically substituted. On came the hopeful saviour, Cole Palmer.
God knows where everyone would play now.
Ah, I think I got it. Tyrique George moved over to the left, and Palmer moved behind Joao Pedro.
Am I right?
From row four, it wasn’t easy to slot everything into place.
Fackinell.
I captured a shot from Cucurella that was straight at Kelleher.
Our play improved immeasurably.
I, and probably hundreds of thousands Chelsea fans who were watching in TV Land thought the same thing.
“Funny that. Playing our best players. Playing better.”
Neto looked especially spritely down the right, away on that far side. On the hour, a cross from Enzo – improving after a dreadful first half – lofted a hopeful ball towards a leap of Joao Pedro. The ball broke to Palmer who swept it in with the minimum of fuss.
A roar from the Chelsea faithful, but no self-aggrandising celebrations from the scorer. He raced straight back to his own half.
Get in.
Just as I was jotting down a few notes on my phone, I looked up to see Robert Sanchez fall to his right and tip and effort from Schade around the far post, a magnificent stop.
I loved a run deep into the box in front of me, lots of flicks and touches, but the run from George just ran out of steam.
On seventy-four minutes, a clean run from Neto on the right and a perfect pass to Palmer. With the goal gaping, I absolutely expected the net to bulge even if I wouldn’t see it.
He shot.
A block, or a save, I know not. I just saw Palmer hold his head.
Ugh.
On seventy-six minutes, one final change.
Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro, and so Tyrique George again moved into the middle.
Now then, Garnacho. Who remembers his first game for Manchester United? His debut was against us at Old Trafford in April 2022 when a late Cristiano Ronaldo goal gave them an undeserved 1-1 draw. Our new signing came on as a late sub in that game, and I remembered how a memorabilia collector who featured Garnacho among the players in his portfolio was happy to pay me £50 for my ticket stub knowing that he would later sell it on, autographed, as a memento from that debut.
I have called the young Argentinian “the peroxide plonker” in the past, and as he lined up on our left, I could not help reminding myself of this.
To his credit, the former United starlet impressed me greatly in the short time that he spent attacking our end. I kept thinking back to Jadon Sancho, another United mis-fit, and his promising debut at Bournemouth last autumn.
On this day, Garnacho – at least – showed plenty of desire to get past his marker and create havoc in the danger areas. More of the same please.
On eighty-six minutes, the debutant shimmied and rolled the ball back towards the penalty spot, but there was nobody there to meet it. I remember thinking “where is Frank Lampard when you need him?” but a Brentford clearance was far from perfect. The ball ended up rolling towards Caicedo. There was a touch to create space and to set himself up, and he then drilled the ball goalwards.
Did I see the net ripple? Of course not.
But I heard the noise and saw the gorgeous celebrations.
GET IN.
My camera was on hand, after I had punched the air a few times no doubt, to record the scene down below me.
Limbs, limbs and more limbs.
Beautiful stuff.
I spotted Enzo walking away, his arms around the shoulders of Garnacho, no doubt whispering words of encouragement in Spanish but with an Argentinian twang.
Soon after, Sanchez was able to scramble across his goal to maintain our slender lead.
Whereas there had been time-wasting from the home team at 1-1, now there was none of it. There was a renewed urgency in their play.
The away end was buoyant, and we were hoping that we could hold on. However, in the fourth minute of extra time, a long bomb of a throw-in on their left caused chaos inside our six-yard box and Fabio Carvalho pounced to stab home, the far post unguarded.
Oh bollocks.
Just after, Garnacho set up Palmer but he lofted the ball over.
A second winner was not forthcoming.
Time ran out.
Ugh.
This felt like a loss and all the other well-used cliches.
On a slow walk back to the car with Parky, I mentioned to a few friends that because of our poor first-half showing, perhaps we never really deserved the full three points on this day in West London.
And I suppose it was time to be pragmatic.
Whereas others were full of rage, I guess we all need to practice a little patience here. After all, it is just the start of another long season.
However, the irony of an extra-time equaliser saving Frome Town but of an extra-time equaliser robbing Chelsea was not lost on me.
We stopped at Reading Services at 11.45pm – what a crap time to be halfway home – and I finally reached my house at 1.30am.
With the semi-final against Fluminense won, and with surprising ease, the third day of my eight days in Manhattan began with a lovely positive feel. I woke in Dom’s flat at around 9am, suitably rested after the football-related wanderings of the previous day, and for a while I just chilled out.
However, there was no rest for the wicked. This day was all about securing my ticket for the final on the Sunday. Tickets were to go on sale at 10am local time on the FIFA CWC App. Unlike the previous game, I was thankfully able to navigate this correctly. To cut a long story short, the $195 tickets in the upper deck, what the Americans call “nose bleeds”, soon went, leaving me to buy up one of the remaining tickets in the lower deck for a mighty $358.
Of course, this was much more than I wanted to pay, but I needed to guarantee a ticket for the final. After all the tickets disappeared on the FIFA App, more than a few US-based friends had missed out and I felt terrible for them. Their route to tickets would be via the secondary market, namely “Ticketmaster”, but there were many who were hoping that FIFA, in their desire to fill the stadium, would again offer free tickets to US-based supporters clubs as they had done for the semi-final.
After chatting to many friends about the ticket scenario, I eventually set foot outside at midday. It was another hot day in Manhattan. I devoured some pancakes at the “Carnegie Diner.”
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I chatted with a mother and daughter from Philadelphia who were all dolled-up and about to see a show. They were sat at the counter alongside me, and I entertained them for a few minutes with my tales of football fandom. I had to stifle a groan or two when they asked me, full of glee, about Wrexham.
Americans and football. It’s still a conundrum to me.
I then set off on a leisurely excursion down to the tip of Manhattan and took the – free – ferry to Staten Island. While I enjoyed the journey and the fantastic views of the harbour, I was aware that the second semi-final was taking place at The Meadowlands no more than ten miles away.
Who did I want to be victors?
Here was a dilemma, but not much of one. From a football perspective, it would undoubtedly be better for Chelsea for Real Madrid to win. I think that everyone involved with football would have agreed that PSG, the newly crowned European Champions, could claim the title of the greatest current club side in world football. Therefore, if we fancied our chances of winning this whole tournament, a game against Real Madrid would be preferred.
But with Real Madrid’s massive fan base – a former line manager from Latvia was a supporter, go figure – there is no doubt that this would induce a price hike on “Ticketmaster” and FIFA would have no problems in shifting all possible spares via their App. In a nutshell, Madrid reaching the final would mean less tickets becoming available for the Chelsea supporters.
So, my mind was easily made up. I wanted PSG to win so that more of my friends, mainly in the USA, could get tickets for the final.
It was simple as that.
On that ferry trip across the harbour, I soon heard how PSG had obliterated Real Madrid, scoring three goals in the first twenty-six minutes, and had eventually won 4-0.
So, the final on Sunday 13 July would be Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain. This would be a very tough game, a very tough game indeed. Honestly, I was worried, as worried as hell. Secretly, I was just hoping that we would not get embarrassed. I hated the thought of a 0-3, a 0-4 or worse. PSG were an established team, while we were still growing.
Later that afternoon, I overcame some personal anxieties and visited the area that is now called “Ground Zero”; the memorial that now marks the footprints of where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre once stood prior to the terrorist attack on 11 September 2001. I had walked around the bases of these two skyscrapers in the June of that year and had witnessed the events unfold as I was at home on the afternoon of the attack. In the intervening years, I had avoided re-visiting the area as it was all too difficult for me. However, while returning to Manhattan the previous evening with Alex, he had told me that he had lost no fewer than twelve friends on that day. That fact alone stirred me to visit. I did not regret it.
That evening, I rested in the apartment. I needed it. A lot had happened over the previous five days.
I decided to try not to think too much about the final on the Sunday. After all, in addition to following the team, I was of course on holiday. I owed it to myself to try to relax a little, to put negative thoughts about the final to one side, and to enjoy myself in – probably – my favourite city of them all.
From the Thursday to the Saturday, life was great.
I was in no rush to get up too early on Thursday. For starters, I had no real plan of what I might do with myself. This was now my nineteenth visit to the city in the past thirty-six years and there wasn’t too much left that I wanted, or needed, to see.
There had been historical landmarks, cathedrals from the inside and out, breathtaking ferry trips, towering skyscrapers, famous department stores, shopping sprees, walking tours, bridges, verdant parks, visits to Madison Square garden and five individual baseball stadia – and the site of one former ball park, Ebbets Field in Brooklyn – beaches, art galleries, museums, sports bars, dive bars, restaurants and diners. That I have been able to spend so many days in New York with many top friends, plus even one day in 2010 with my mother, makes all these memories all the more sweeter.
So, what was left?
Thankfully, I soon came up with a plan. Not far from where I was staying in Hell’s Kitchen was the Museum of Modern Art on 53 Street. I had only visited “MOMA” once before, and that was during the first few days of my very first trip to New York, and the US, in September 1989. I was long overdue a return visit.
I was out at 11am. It had rained overnight, and everything was a little cooler. I dropped in for another breakfast, this time at the “Roxy Diner” and at last found a decent coffee.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I reached MOMA at just after midday and stayed for three hours. At times it was almost too overwhelming. I loved so many of the pieces on display, but especially some work by Gustav Klimt, Edward Hopper, Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet and Andy Warhol. The place was busy, almost too busy, and I needed time to myself on a few occasions.
I remembered that during that first visit in 1989, my college mate Ian and I were rather perplexed by the number of visitors who – rather crassly in our eyes – took great happiness in being photographed in front of their favourite paintings.
I also remember myself taking a photo of just one painting, Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol. I tried my best to locate it in 2025, and had almost given up, but eventually spotted it.
With an ironic nod back to 1989, I recorded a video of myself in front of this iconic painting and sent it to Ian via Messenger. He then quickly sent a video back to me of him in his kitchen in Fareham with a painting over his shoulder.
This was great. It felt like Ian was with me at MOMA after all these years. With that, I exited out through the museum shop just as “Blue Monday” by New Order was being played.
Perfect.
Back at the apartment, there was some Chelsea stuff to sort out. We had heard that Claude Makelele was to make an appearance at “Legends”, the large bar on 33 Street that hosts the New York Blues, on Saturday evening. It was ticket only so I spent a few moments sorting out that, more Apps, more QR codes, oh boy.
I passed this news on to a few Chelsea supporters who were making their way over to New York for the weekend. I looked forward to seeing more familiar faces from England in the city.
That evening, I fancied a very chilled and relaxing pub crawl around Manhattan. I was out early at 4pm and started off at “McSorley’s”, seven blocks from where Glenn and I had stayed on East 14 Street in June, and just one block where my friend Roma and I had stayed in 2001. It was great to be back; I made it my fifth-ever visit.
Next up was a visit to the Chelsea Hotel. I had twice stayed in the Chelsea district, in 1989 and in 2015 but this would be the first time inside. Of course, those of us of a certain vintage remember the infamous nature of this hotel in 1978 and 1979; Nancy Spungen, Sid Vicious, what a mess. It’s a cracking hotel, though, and I loved spending the best part of an hour at the bar, but I made sure that the small bottles of Kirsch lager, at $14 a pop, took ages to drink. I wanted to savour every drop.
Just along from there, on the same street, was a very funky place called the Trailer Park Lounge, and I popped in for a drink. This had the feel of a southern dive bar, maybe jettisoned from Florida or somewhere, and was a nice distraction.
Next, “Grey Bar”, a reasonable bar, but nothing special. Here I chatted to the barman, a Yankee fan, while messaging many folk about tickets for the game on Sunday. It seemed that Chelsea would not let me completely relax.
Lastly, I dropped into “Legends”, underneath the towering Empire State Building. Here I chatted at the bar to a guy from New York, Jeff, who was an Arsenal supporter, and whose main claim to fame was that he was, rather fortuitously, at the last-ever game at Highbury in 2006. My friends Leigh and Ben, from England, called in for the last few beers. We could hardly believe it when Jeff said he wanted us to win on Sunday.
“Mate, there’s no Arsenal fan back home that wants us to win the final.”
“I know, but I’m an American.”
Yes, it was still a conundrum alright.
I had enjoyed this relaxing amble around Manhattan, with two bars in Chelsea, but as far as pub crawls go, this was all very sedate. I was back inside the apartment at midnight.
Friday was to be busier. I was up early and was soon on my way to meet my friend Stacey at the “Tick Tock Diner” outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I have to say that of all of Manhattan’s fine sights, there is no nothing worse than seeing the arse end of the Port Authority as you approach it on foot from the west.
No surprises, I devoured a mighty fine breakfast at this lovely diner which I last visited with Stacey, to my reckoning, almost thirty years ago.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
The agenda for this morning’s activities was set as soon as my return visit to New York took shape. Back in June, we wanted to drop in to the International Centre of Photography, but it was closed until 19 June. We took a subway and then spent an enjoyable ninety minutes inside its interior. It was, amazingly, very quiet. At times it felt like we were the only visitors. We are both keen photographers and so this was just right. The main exhibit was by Edward Burtynsky, who takes magnificent photographs of the many various landscapes that he visits. I loved the scale and the clarity, and the composition of many of his photos.
Sadly, and much to my annoyance, the FIFA World Club Cup kept getting in my way. It seemed that, without warning, FIFA had removed tickets in the top tier from friends’ Apps, and in doing so had caused widespread panic. My ticket, in the lower level, remained. While at the photography museum, I had to spend many a moment messaging various friends.
Meanwhile, I heard on the grapevine that either FIFA or Chelsea – or both – had been contacting US Supporters Groups to offer free – yes, free – tickets to the game on Sunday.
On the one hand, I was happy for those that had not yet been able to secure tickets.
On the other hand, I was fuming that I had forked out $358 for mine.
So, in a nutshell, it appeared that in a move to make the lower tier as full as possible, FIFA were moving people down from the top tier – but without telling them first – and were offering up free tickets too.
Fackinell.
I had arranged to meet another old friend Lynda near Ground Zero, so said my “goodbyes” to Stacey. I hadn’t seen Stacey for almost ten years and had then saw her twice in three weeks.
I first met Lynda in 2010 when she came over to Stamford Bridge for a game and we have stayed friends ever since. When Chelsea played New York Red Bulls in 2015 I stayed one night with Stacey and her husband Bill in Flemington, New Jersey and then spent two nights with Lynda and her partner Tee in River Edge, New Jersey.
The night before the game in Newark in 2015, there had been another get-together at “Legends”.
It was Tuesday afternoon – around 5pm – and we sped over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Our excitement was palpable; we would soon be meeting up with many friends in a bar under the shadow of the Empire State Building, but there was an added – and wondrous – twist. Not only would former players Bobby Tambling, Mario Melchiot and Paul Canoville be making an appearance, but arrangements had been made – hush hush and all that – for Frank Lampard to make an appearance too.
What excitement.
My friend Roma, with her friend Peggy, from Tennessee arrived at about 6.30pm. Roma is a familiar figure in these Tales and has been a fantastic friend over the past twenty-six years. Roma has attended games at every one of Chelsea’s previous eight US tours (she is “one up” on me, since I missed the 2013 tour), and was doing all three of this summer’s games. However, when I calmly informed her that her hero Frank Lampard would be in the bar later in the evening, her reaction was lovely. To say she was excited would be an understatement. She almost began crying with joy. Bless her.
What a lovely time we all had. In addition to being able to reconnect with many good Chelsea friends, including the usual suspects from the UK, we were treated to an hour or so of valuable insights into the four guest’s views on various subjects. Munich often dominated the questions. Frank was very gracious and answered each question carefully and with wit and sincerity. I loved the way that he listened attentively to the other players. Near the start, the New York crowd began singing :
“We want our Frankie back, we want our Frankie back.”
Frank smiled and responded :
“I’ll be back.”
Lynda and I chatted at a restaurant next to the Hudson River for an hour or so, and it was lovely to see her again. Lynda was a keen footballer when she was younger, and I was reminded of the time when Chelsea and PSG first met in New York.
No, dear reader, it wasn’t the game on 22 July 2012 at Yankee Stadium.
Oh no.
The day before, on the Saturday, the various supporters’ groups within the US had arranged a six-a-side tournament involving supporters from across the US, but there was also, as a finale, a game between the supporters of Chelsea and Paris St. Germain.
It was one of my greatest honours to be named as the captain of the Chelsea team that day, and I include some words and pictures.
As the fans’ tournament, involving four teams of Chelsea fans from throughout the US, was coming to an end, I was as nervous as I have been for years. I had been chosen to captain the Chelsea team to play in the Friendship Cup game against Paris St. Germain.
When I had heard this news a few weeks back, I was very humbled, certainly very proud, but the over-riding feeling was of fear. I hadn’t played for two months, and I was genuinely concerned that I may pull a muscle, or jar my once troublesome right knee, or give away a penalty, or run out of gas after five minutes or just look out of my depth. This is typical of my times in various school football teams over thirty years ago when I would tend to be shackled by fear and a lack of confidence in my ability on the pitch.
Once the game began, my fears subsided, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We lead 3-1 at the break but soon allowed PSG to scramble some goals. At 4-4, I managed to squeeze in a goal and my heart exploded. Could we hang on? In the end, PSG went 8-6 up and my disappointment was real.
Lynda played in the Chelsea team, along with my long-time friends Steph,Pablo and Mike, too. The game was refereed by Paul Canoville and Frank Sinclair. Watching upstairs in the gallery was Ron Harris. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him after and tell him, with a twinkle in my eye, that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal. And yet he had seen me score for Chelsea after just twenty minutes.
Lynda, and Tee, and their two children Tori and Kai, had attended the Fluminense game on the Tuesday, but were off on a family trip to the coast at the weekend. We said our “goodbyes” and hoped to see each other in London again soon.
This was a busy day, and I caught the subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, and beyond. I was off to see the New York Yankees play the Chicago Cubs in an inter-league game in the South Bronx. Dom’s mate Terence had bought some tickets for this game and, luckily, had a spare. We were to meet, as always, at “Stan’s.”
I arrived at 4.30pm, perfect. I had arranged to meet up with Scott, Paul and Gerry and they were stood drinking at one end of the bar. The three of them had been based in Philly for the entire tournament apart from the last day or two. They were with a chap, Martin, who I had only seen for the first time on Tuesday afternoon at the Fluminense game. This surprised me since he lives in Sherborne in Dorset, just twenty-five miles away.
It was lovely to see some Chelsea faces in “Stan’s”, following on from my visit with Glenn, Steve and Mike in June.
“A “Rolling Rock” please, mate.”
Dom, Terence and three other lads arrived, and we had a grand time. Scott and Gerry became fans of baseball around ten years ago while seeing Chelsea in the US, and Scott is a Cubs fan. This was his first visit to Yankee Stadium. “Stan’s” sits right opposite where the original Yankee Stadium stood – the first version from 1923 to 1973, the second from 1976 to 2008 – and of course I regaled them with the fact that Ray Wilkins made his England debut “across the road” in 1976.
I got talking to Martin about baseball and Chelsea in equal measure. He has visited tons of baseball stadia over the past fifteen years or so. I mentioned how my love of the game has sadly diminished since around 2008.
I mentioned that the game against PSG on Sunday would be one hundredth live game of the current season, and I trotted out the numbers.
“54 Chelsea games, 42 Frome Town games, 3 games in Rio de Janeiro and 1 game at Lewes when we played Brighton in the FA Cup.”
Martin smiled and replied, “I went to that game, too.”
Fackinell.
Seeing a few Chelsea supporters in “Stan’s” took me back to that PSG game in 2012. I had stayed in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a week, then came down to New York for the game at Yankee Stadium, meeting up with tons of good friends in the bars of Manhattan and then the stadium.
First up, “Legends.”
Despite the game against PSG not starting until 7pm, I had arrived at Legends bang on midday and awaited the arrival of friends. I soon bumped into Tom, a fellow Chelsea home-and-away season ticket holder, who was revelling in his first ever visit to the US. His comment to me struck a chord.
“This is the most surreal experience I’ve had, Chris. This pub is full of Chelsea, but I don’t know anyone.”
Of course, to Tom, this was akin to supporting Chelsea in a parallel universe. I think he was amazed at the fanaticism from these people who he didn’t personally know. For Tom, it must have been unnerving. This scenario is so different to our experiences in the UK and Europe where the close-knit nature of the Chelsea travelling support has produced hundreds of friendships. In Wigan, in Wolverhampton, in Milan, in Munich, there are faces that are known. On this afternoon in the heart of Manhattan, fans kept entering the pub, with nobody leaving. I wondered if it would collapse with the volume of people in both bars. Thanks to my previous travels to the US with Chelsea, wherever I looked, I managed to spot a few familiar faces. I was sat at the bar, chatting with Scott from DC, his brother David from Athens, Phil from Iowa, Mark from England, Andy from California, Stephen from New Orleans. The blue of Chelsea was everywhere. Down below in the basement, a gaggle of around twenty-five PSG fans were singing, but their chants were being drowned by the boisterous chants of the Chelsea fans.
It dawned on me that the Chelsea fans that I would be encountering were not just English ex-pats or not just Americans of English extraction, but Americans with ancestors from every part of the world. Just the previous week in Portsmouth NH, I had met a young lad who had seen me wearing a pair of Chelsea shorts and had declared himself a massive Chelsea fan. His birthplace? Turkey. I asked him if he was a fan of Galatasaray, of Besiktas or of Fenerbahce, but he said that Chelsea was his team. This frankly amazed me. It confirmed that Chelsea has truly gone global.
The simple truth in 2012 is that people like Tom and me, plus the loyal 5,000 who make up our core support at home and away games in the UK and Europe are in the massive minority amongst our support base. For our millions of fans worldwide, the typical scenario is just what Tom had witnessed at first hand in NYC; a pub in a foreign land, bristling with new Chelsea fans, fanatical for success.
From “Legends” in 2012 to “Stan’s” in 2025…
We left “Stan’s” and moved further north along River Avenue and into “The Dugout” bar. Time was moving on and I seemed to be the only one who was keeping an eye on the clock. First-pitch was at 7.05pm, and with a logistical precision that I would be proud, despite missing the “Star Spangled Banner”, Dom and Terence finally sorted out their QR codes and ushered us in. We arrived in our seats in the front row of the top deck just before the final out of the bottom of the first inning.
That will do for me.
I even saw the end of the famous “roll-call” from the fanatics in the Bleachers, an echo of The Shed back in the ‘seventies.
Our seats, six of us in a row, were magnificent and only around fifteen yards from where we were sat against the Angels in June.
It was lovely to be back again.
At the PSG game in 2012, we were in the lower tier.
“The hardcore of the Chelsea support – maybe 2,000 in total – were spread out along the first base side, like different battalions of confederate soldiers at Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburg, ready to storm the Yankee lines.
Down in the corner, behind home plate, were the massed ranks of Captain Mike and his neat ranks of soldiers from New York. Next in line were the battalion from Philadelphia and the small yet organised crew from Ohio. Next in line were the wild and rowdy foot soldiers of Captain Beth and the infamously named CIA company. On the far-right flank stood the massed ranks of the Connecticut Blues who were mustered under the command of Captain Steve.”
In that game, Paris St. Germain went ahead in the first but Lucas Piazon – remember him, he only appeared on foreign tours – equalised in the second half.
So, the two games in Manhattan and the Bronx in 2012 had not given us a win.
Chelsea 6 Paris St. Germain 8.
Chelsea 1 Paris. St. Germain 1.
I wondered how the third game across the river on Sunday would end up.
The baseball game played out before me, and it was a fine night to be a Yankee fan. Cody Bellinger hit three home runs as the home team walloped the Cubs 11-0. It was my sixtieth major league baseball game, my 41st Yankee game, my 32nd Yankee home game and my biggest Yankee victory.
Two-thirds of the way into the game, we walked down to the centre-field Bleachers, the very first-time that I had watched a game from the Bleachers in either Yankee Stadium.
After, we decamped to “The Dugout” and then “Stan’s” before heading back to Manhattan.
It had been a fine night in the South Bronx.
On the Saturday, after the beers of the Friday night, I succumbed to another lie-in. I met up with Dom and Terence at the nearby “Jasper’s” on 9th Avenue just as the women’s final at Wimbledon, being shown on the TV, was nearing completion. There was a bar snack and I then caught a cab to the Guggenheim Museum. Although the temperature outside wasn’t too oppressive I just couldn’t face the walk up through Central Park. This was my second ever visit to this museum, and I loved it. It’s a remarkable building, and there was the usual array of fine paintings inside.
In the evening, we reconvened at “Legends” once more, and – as to be expected – the place was packed, although surprisingly maybe not to 2012 levels. I think there are quantifiable reasons for this. The 2012 summer tour was announced in good time and gave many supporters the chance to plan and attend, unlike the knock-out format of this competition. Also, I still sensed an innate reluctance to support this “money grab” of an extra FIFA tournament from many Chelsea supporters in the US.
And I can understand that.
But here we were, in Manhattan on a Sunday night and it felt like a gathering of the clans. Outside I chatted to Lorraine and Colin from Toronto and Pete from St. Petersburg In Florida. Ex-footballer Troy Deeney was flitting about in his role for “Talk Sport” and inside I spotted a few from the UK that had just arrived including Big John, who sits in front of me in The Sleepy Hollow, and Kev from the “South Gloucestershire Lot”.
There was an insipid Q&A with Claude Makelele, but it annoyed me that there were so many people chatting that I found it difficult to hear what the great man was saying.
It was quieter when Frank held court in 2015.
After fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal questions, I decided to go downstairs to the “Football Factory” for some respite and some beers. Here, I spent a fantastic time talking with Alex, who has so many funny stories up his considerably long sleeves, but there was also great fun seeing folk that I had not seen for ages. Most importantly of all, it seemed that everyone who needed tickets for the final, had them. Fantastic.
It’s funny, my modus operandi for the Saturday night was “don’t have too many beers, don’t want a hangover on Sunday.”
Well, I failed.
Many beers were sunk at “Legends” and I even had to time to slope off to “O’Donohue’s” near Times Square where I met up with a gaggle of lads from the UK who had arrived to join some chaps who had been out in the US for a while.
I met up with Neil, newly arrived via Rome, with Big Rich, plus Tommo, Tombsy and a few more.
At 2am, I made it home.
Sunday arrived, and I was only nursing the very slightest of hangovers. By the time I had left the apartment at 9.45am, it had disappeared. I took the subway down to meet up with Kathryn and Tim from DC, near “Macy’s” to catch the PATH train to Hoboken at 10.30am. Outside Penn Station, at the exact spot where Glenn and I had posed for photos in the drizzle in June on our first few minutes in Manhattan, I took a photo of Cole Palmer on an electronic billboard with the Empire State Building in the background.
What an image.
It wasn’t like this in 1989 when I only met one other Chelsea fan in almost ten months in North America.
I could hardly believe it all.
The plan was to get over to “Mulligan’s” again for a brief pre-match gargle and then heading out to the parking lots that surround MetLife to meet up with the New York Blues for a tailgate.
Delays with the trains meant that we only arrived at “Mulligan’s” at around 11.30am. But the usual crowd were inside again, and it was excellent to bump into Kristen and Andrew from Columbus, Ohio, and Adam from Texas, but also Ian, Kevin – who sits a few feet away from me in “The Sleepy” – and Becky, who had experienced a nightmare trip out via Istanbul.
Dom and Terence were with Alon at the bar, everyone together. With a couple of “Peronis” inside me, I was buoyed, and a bit more confident about the game. I was able to relax when the QR code for the game suddenly appeared on the FIFA App.
We needed to get moving, so Kathryn ordered a large uber to take Kristen, Andrew, Tim, herself and myself over to the stadium. As we tried to enter a main road, a police car blocked our entrance, and we waited for ages as the traffic on the main road cleared and a cavalcade of cars drove ahead of a coach carrying the Paris St. Germain team. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers in the coach.
We were dropped off near Parking Lot D at around 1pm; just right. I spent just over an hour here, drinking with some friends from all over the north-east of the US. It was a pleasure to see Sid and Danny from Connecticut, Tim from Philly and Steve from Staten Island especially. The weather was hot, but the beers were cold. It was a perfect mix. There wasn’t much talk about the game. Deep down, I was still concerned about us getting hammered. The New York Blues had provided a great array of beers and food. I gulped down a hot dog; just enough to stave off hunger pains, my only food so far during the day.
The younger element was getting involved with some singing, but I left them to it. My days as a willing cheerleader on these occasions are in the past now.
With about three-quarters of an hour to go before the 3pm kick-off, I made my way towards the stadium. We heard the buzz of three helicopters circling overhead, and with news that the President of the United States was to attend the game, many match-goers looked towards the heavens. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers of the helicopters.
I was making good time, and I knew exactly where to aim for; the Chelsea end was now at the northern end of the stadium, opposite from Tuesday.
The security check and the QR scan was easy. I was in.
I spotted my mate Callum with a few of his mates from London, and I took a photo of them with their St. George’s flag. They had come over for the final, though Callum was at the two Philly games too.
Time was moving on, but I wasn’t rushed. This was just right. I got to my seat location at around 2.40pm. I was in a great location, around half-way back in the lower tier, just to the right of the goal frames. There were clouds overhead, and it didn’t feel too uncomfortable.
Then, what a small world…I suddenly realised that Rich, the guy that I had lambasted at the Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013, was stood right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and we virtually collapsed with laughter. I was in front of him in 2013, he was now in front of me in 2025.
Fackinell.
Pretty soon, the pre-match kicked in. First up, a set of musicians – dressed in the gold and black of the tournament – and mainly drummers as far as I could tell, and yellow plumes of smoke. Were they a college marching band? I immediately entertained memories of the “Marching Mizou”, from the University of Missouri, who were also dressed in gold and black, at Stamford Bridge against Derby County in 1975.
Next, a singer appeared out of nowhere, gold lamé suit, silver hair.
I turned to the two local lads to my right.
“Who’s that prick?”
“Robbie Williams.”
“Bloody hell, I was right.”
I had fleeting images of seeing him at Stamford Bridge in 1995, and his album cover that featured the Matthew Harding Stand that came out a few years after.
The boy from Burslem belted out a song that I had not heard before.
“Aim high, fly by, destiny’s in front of you. It’s a beautiful game and the dream is coming true.”
One of the lads to my right, both dressed in Chelsea paraphernalia, asked me for my prediction, and I had to be honest. I looked him in the eye and said “we’ll lose 0-2.”
This obviously took him back, and I said what I needed to say. We chatted a little about his Chelsea story and he said that the memorable 3-2 at Goodison in 2006, all three goals being belters, was a key moment in him becoming Chelsea.
By now, my senses were being pummelled visually and audibly. Not only was the sky full of plumes of smoke, but the PA guy was booming out over the speakers. This idiot wasn’t just talking loudly either; he was shouting, and the PA was turned up to eleven.
“Let’s see who are the loudest fans!!!”
I turned to the bloke to the right.
“None of us are as loud as you, you prick.”
It was all too much. The noise was deafening.
Next up, the American national anthem was played out and there were immediate boos. The natives squinted over to the left to see if they could see the president.
Awesome.
With all this hullabaloo, it was somewhat difficult to come to terms with what I was part of here. I looked around and it seemed that the stadium was virtually sold out. There was a knot of PSG fans grouped together in the lower tier opposite, though it was later pointed out to me by Callum that their ultras had been forced to evacuate their prime seats behind the goal by some law enforcement agents.
Things were happening so quickly now. The players walked on to the pitch, and were introduced one-by-one, how crap.
Our team surely picked itself.
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Enzo – Palmer
Joao Pedro
At last, Chelsea in blue, the first time for me in this competition. The Paris kit, all white, included an image of the Eiffel Tower.
I turned around and spotted Karen and Feisal, whose wedding I photographed back in 2021, just a few yards away. They looked confident. I wasn’t so sure.
Next, Michael Buffer and his ridiculous “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” bollocks. He had appeared at Stamford Bridge a few years back, and I was impressed then as I was now.
Next, a countdown to the kick-off.
I snapped as Enzo played the ball back to a teammate and the FIFA Club World Cup Final 2025 began.
It was surreal, it was mad, it was preposterous. Thirty-two teams had entered this inaugural expanded competition, and I bet hardly any Chelsea supporters expected us to get to the final. Yet here we bloody were.
And you know what, we began incredibly well. We seemed to be first to the loose ball, fitter and faster than the lauded opposition, and soon started to construct fine moves that stretched PSG in all areas of the pitch.
After five minutes, it was virtually all us, and I was so happy. Moises Caicedo took my eye at first, robbing players of the ball, and moving it on intelligently. But very soon it was obvious that Cole Palmer, being afforded more space than usual, was “on it” and the Chelsea supporters all around me sensed this.
After just seven minutes, a lovely passage of play featuring a few players moving the ball down our left resulted in Joao Pedro setting up Palmer right on the penalty box line. His shot was clean, curving slightly, and only just missed the left-hand post. Many thought it was in.
“A sighter” I chirped.
The guy to my right was still asking if I thought it would be a 0-2 defeat, and I smiled.
With Pedro Neto running back to provide valuable cover for Marc Cucurella, with Enzo Fernandez probing away with neat passes, and with Caicedo taking on the role of enforcer with aplomb, we were on top.
But PSG threatened on a couple of occasions. There was a great block from Cucurella, and a great save from Sanchez.
After a quarter of an hour, I leaned forward and spoke to Rich.
“Great game of football.”
On twenty-two minutes, a sublime kick out from Sanchez was aimed at Malo Gusto. The tracking defender Nuno Mendes was confused by the proximity of Gusto and took his eyes off the flight of the ball. With a degree of luck, the ball bounced on his head but released the raiding Gusto. He travelled into the box and set himself to shoot by coming inside. The shot was blocked, but Gusto received it back and calmly played it into the vacant Palmer. He seemed to immediately relax, and stroked the ball in, past the dive of Gianluigi Donnarumma.
The Chelsea section went wild.
There were bodies being pushed all around me and I lost myself.
I screamed.
I shouted.
I yelled.
“FUCKING GET IN YOU BASTARD.”
Bloody hell mother, we were 1-0 up.
Fackinell.
Rich’s face was a picture.
It seemed that I was indeed right about Palmer’s “sighter” a quarter of an hour earlier.
It was all Chelsea now, and PSG looked tired. Was our extra day of rest really that important?
During a break in play, I popped over to say hello to a gaggle of lads from England to my right. None of us could believe what we were witnessing.
We continued to impress. Many attacks came down the right, with Gusto in fine form. On the half-hour mark, a long pass out of defence from Levi Colwill – how unlike us, maybe Enzo Maresca has been reading my notes – released Palmer. He took the ball under his control with ease and advanced, sliding in from an inside-right channel, across the box, using the dummy run from Joao Pedro as a distraction, sending two defenders the wrong way, moving into a central position, then there was one extra touch. At that exact moment, I just knew that this extra touch had bamboozled Donnarumma’s timings. I just knew that he would score. From virtually the same place as eight minutes earlier, he rolled the ball in.
YES.
We were two up.
This time there were double fist pumps – downwards – from me as I stood bewildered amongst the exultant throng, very much aware that others were losing it.
This was mad.
The rest of that first-half was a blur. Chelsea were bossing it, and the world was a beautiful place. There were honest shouts of “Come On Chelsea” permeating throughout our section and I even forgave the locals for yelling that loathsome “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” nonsense.
Additionally, I realised that I now loved the way that the word “wanker” has permeated into US football culture.
We weren’t finished yet.
On forty-three minutes, we watched as a pass out of defence from Trevoh Chalobah found Palmer, ten yards inside his own half but ridiculously unmarked. I brought my camera up and watched him advance. Just outside the box, he split the space between two ball-watching defenders and passed to Joao Pedro who had made the finest of runs behind. As our new forward clipped the ball over the Paris ‘keeper, I snapped. I saw the ball clear Donnarumma and caress the netting.
Good God.
I simply stood still, silent, my arms outstretched, pointing heavenly, like some sort of homage to Cristo Redentor.
We were three-up.
I had this thought. Didn’t everyone?
“They can’t catch us now.”
At half-time, I contacted my mate Jaro who was watching with his whole family a few sections along. He came over to see me and we could hardly talk to each other.
This was unbelievable.
Up above us, on a stage so ridiculously high, a few acts sang, and the half-time show was rounded off by Coldplay.
“Cause you’re a sky, cause you’re a sky full of stars.”
I was more pleased to see Jaro than I was Chris Martin.
But with the sky above the MetLife, now clear of clouds, filled with fireworks and smoke, this only exaggerated the sense of incredulity in my eyes, and I am sure others too.
That first-half, let’s not kid ourselves here, was up there with the very best I have ever seen us play. It had everything.
I am shuddering now just at the memory of that moment.
I always talk about the first half when we beat Everton 5-0 in 2016 as being sensational, but Everton are no PSG. I remember the first-half against Barcelona in 2000. I remember other games, too many, perhaps, to list.
But at the MetLife on Sunday 13 July 2025, was that first-half the best?
I think it has to be.
The break lasted forever or seemed to. I think someone timed it as twenty-five minutes. That’s not football. It’s wrong for players to be kept waiting. Muscles tighten. Injuries are more likely. Stop that shite, FIFA.
But what a twenty-five minutes, though. If only all half-time breaks could be as joyful.
And I was convinced there would be no Chelsea Piers 2012-style second-half recovery from this PSG team either.
Not surprisingly, PSG started on the front foot in the initial moments of the second half. On fifty-one minutes, they worked the ball through, and a low cross was poked goalwards by Ousmane Dembele, but Sanchez reacted magnificently well to push the ball around his far post.
“Strong wrists there, Rich.”
Sanchez saved again, and although PSG enjoyed more of the ball, we were able to keep calm and limit them to few chances.
Off the pitch, I liked the noise that we were making in the stands. PSG, by contrast, over the course of the whole game, had made least noise compared to Flamengo, Tunis and Fluminense.
On sixty-one minutes, Andrey Santos replaced a tiring Enzo.
On sixty-eight minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.
Very soon after coming on, Delap was set free by Santos and advanced forcefully. At one stage he seemed to be running right at me. He did everything right, moving his defenders, and unleashed a cracking shot that really deserved a goal, only for Donnarumma to pull off a fine save to his left. The same player then cut in from wide but was unable to finish.
On seventy-eight minutes, two more changes.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for James.
Christopher Nkunku for Pedro Neto.
I didn’t see the incident on eighty-three minutes, but Cucurella hit the deck, clutching his head. VAR was called in to action and Joao Neves had pulled Cucurella’s curly locks.
A red card was issued.
In the closing moments, we all loved Cole Palmer taking the piss in the corner away to our left in front of the Chelsea support. If Palmer was – quite rightly – the man of the match, we all soon agreed that Robert Sanchez, enjoying the game of his life, was next best.
As the clock ticked down, we all relaxed a little and began celebrating.
The gate was announced as 81,118.
And that, dear reader, was just about it.
At the final whistle, a shout of relief.
Then, with the players in blue running towards us and celebrating, “Blue Is The Colour” rang out and I almost lost it. My bottom lip was going at one stage.
“Pull yourself together, Chris, mate.”
I recorded this moment on my phone and have shared it here.
“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”
I am not a fan of the ubiquitous use of “Freed From Desire” at virtually all football stadia these days and I am glad we no longer play it at Chelsea at the conclusion of our games but I did love the way that the players, Enzo especially, were cavorting at the end while the supporters were singing along to it.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na”
Fackinell.
On a very surreal day, things became odder still. As we all know, the President of the United States took a greater role in the presentation of medals and the trophy than anyone could have expected.
I’ll leave it there.
I loved the way that Reece James was able to lift the golden trophy to the heavens a second time, and not long after my bottom lip started behaving even more embarrassingly.
But these were joyous times.
I kept thinking to myself.
“32 teams.”
“32 teams and we fucking won it.”
And I thought back to my comment to Glenn in Philadelphia when Pedro Neto put us 1-0 up against Flamengo :
“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”
When I left the stadium, a good hour after the end of the game, I was alone, and very tired, and very dazed. I honestly could not believe what I had just witnessed. Originally, I had this notion of getting back to Hoboken and taking an evening ferry across the Hudson, with the setting sun reflecting off the skyscrapers of Manhattan. It would be a fitting climax to my one hundred games season; the World Cup metaphorically placed in my back pocket.
But I was so tired and just wanted to rest. My feet were on fire, after standing for hours. I made my way towards the lines for trains and coaches to take us free of charge back to Secaucus Junction.
In the line, I saw a very familiar face. Allie is from Reading, and I see him everywhere with Chelsea. He had the intention of attending some group phase games but decided against it. Imagine my joy when we clocked each other.
“Can’t miss a final, Chris.”
We stopped for the inevitable photo.
I took the bus to Secaucus, and I was just happy to sit for twenty minutes and take the weight off my feet.
I took the train back to Penn Station, and I snapped a photo of the Chelsea players celebrating the win on the same billboard that had depicted Cole Palmer in the morning. Now, Reece James’ celebratory roar beamed out beneath the New York skyline.
Those photos provide nice bookends to the day.
I ended up having some food, all alone, near Penn Station, and I just wanted to get back to the apartment. I was so tired that I didn’t even think to call in at “Legends” to see if anyone was around. I had heard that the Empire State Building was to be illuminated in blue in honour of Chelsea Football Club, 2025 World Champions, but this magical moment was to take place from 10pm until 11pm.
And I took a cab home at 9.15pm.
Although I was truly knackered, it saddens me that I just couldn’t hang on for one final hour and one final photograph.
Seeing the Empire State Building illuminated in Chelsea blue would have been a magical moment and a killer photograph, the perfect ending to a monumental season.
Sigh.
However, should we qualify for the next World Cup in 2029, which is expected to take place in Rio de Janeiro – where my longest ever season began last July – I wonder if Christ the Redeemer will be illuminated in royal blue after the final.
Because we never win these trophies just once, do we?
We were in for an alluring climax to the season. With two straight wins in the league on the bounce – not anticipated by me and probably many more – we were right in the thick of it in the scramble for Champions League and Europa League placings. Our next match, our ninth league game in London on the spin, was against newly crowned Champions Liverpool.
While huge parts of our Chelsea nation obsessed about the guard of honour, I shrugged my shoulders; it would all be over in less than ten seconds.
What with the closure of the District Line south to Wimbledon, there was a change of plan for our pre-match. “The Eight Bells” was jettisoned in favour of “The Tommy Tucker”, a mere Ian Hutchinson throw-in from the West Stand forecourt on Moore Park Road. I dropped PD and Parky right outside at just before 11am and then switched back on myself and drove over to my favourite breakfast spot, “The Half Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road. If the other two lads could enjoy a four-hour session, then at least I could enjoy a full English.
I made it inside the pub at around 12.30pm, and the highlight of the time spent inside this busy boozer was the realisation that 1972 Olympic gold medallist Mary Peters was a few yards away. I can well remember watching her hop, skip and jump her way to her a gold in the pentathlon all those years ago.
For Mary Peters and Chelsea Football Club, Munich will always be a special city.
I left the pub earlier than the rest and reached the concourse just as Newcastle United scored a late, VAR-assisted penalty, to equalise at Brighton. Still, not to worry, a draw there did us a favour.
I reached my spot in The Sleepy Hollow, having smuggled my SLR in yet again. Before I settled in my seat, I took the camera out and took a few shots. However, a steward had evidently seen me and rather apologetically said “I have been told to tell you not to take use a professional camera.”
I smiled and replied “OK.”
At the end of the game, I would have taken 127 photos, but it was OK, I don’t get paid for any of the buggers.
I guess I was inside with a good forty-five minutes to go. There seemed to be many more obnoxious half-and-half scarves in the MHU than normal, and I feared the worst. I suspected an infiltration by you-know-who. Way atop our little section of seats, a father sat with his four-year-old son, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt under his jacket. I tut-tutted and tried to find someone else to be annoyed at. I didn’t take long. Sat behind me were four lads, two with half-and-halves, who seemed to be ignoring Chelsea’s pre-match kick-in down below us, instead focussing on the Liverpool players at The Shed End. By now Clive was alongside me, and we suggested to them that they were Liverpool fans. Their reply wasn’t in English, but they seemed to intimate that they were fans of football and soon dispersed. They must have had seats dotted all over the MHU.
The build-up to the match seemed to be rather low key in the stadium. The Liverpool fans were massed in the opposite corner, and one banner caught everyone’s attention.
IMAGINE BEING US.
Righty-oh.
The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. My light rain jacket kept out the chilly gusts.
By some odd twist of fate, forty years ago to the exact day, Chelsea were also pitted against Liverpool, but on that day in 1985 the match was at Anfield. More of that later.
The week before that game, on Saturday 27 April, Chelsea played Tottenham Hotspur at Stamford Bridge.
Let my 1984/85 retrospective recommence.
Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 27 April 1985.
For all of the big names coming to play us in matches at Stamford Bridge in that return to the topflight, none was bigger than Tottenham. It was the one that was most-eagerly awaited of all. And yet the problems of that era contrived against us. After the near riot at the Chelsea vs. Sunderland Milk Cup semi final on 4 March, there was a full riot at the Luton Town vs. Millwall FA Cup tie on 13 March, and football hooliganism was the talk of the front and back pages. Considering the history of problems between the two teams, the league game with Tottenham was made all-ticket with an 11.30am kick-off.
The result of this, much to my complete sadness, was that this crunch match against our bitter rivals only drew a crowd of 26,310, a figure that I could hardly believe at the time.
Sigh.
I watched from the back row of the West Stand benches with my match day crew and took plenty of photos.
Before the game, as a celebration of our ninetieth birthday – admittedly a month and a half late – we were treated to some police dogs going through some manoeuvres on the pitch (how apt) but also the Red Devil parachute display team, and if I am not mistaken one of them managed to miss the pitch and end up on the West Stand roof. I am sure some wag wondered if the guilty parachutist was Alan Mayes. Some blue and white ballons were set off in front of the Tottenham fans and we all looked on in bewilderment.
“Let’s just get to the game.”
Ski-hats were all the rage in 1984/85 and one photo that I took of Alan, Dave, Rich and Leggo has done the rounds on many football sites over the years.
The match, in the end, wasn’t that special. Tottenham went ahead via Tony Galvin in the first half but a Pat Nevin free kick on seventy-five minutes gave us a share of the points.
A week later, the action took place two-hundred or so miles to the north.
Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 4 May 1984.
In 1984/1985, I only went to five away games due to finances, and the visit to Anfield was one of the highlights for sure. Liverpool were European Champions in 1984 and reigning League Champions too. They were in their pomp. Growing up as a child in the ‘seventies, and well before Chelsea fans grew tired of Liverpool’s cries of history, there were few stadia which enthralled me more than Anfield, with The Kop a beguiling wall of noise.
No gangways on The Kop, just bodies. A swaying mass of humanity.
Heading up to Liverpool, on an early-morning train from Stoke, I was excited and a little intimidated too. Catching a bus up to the stadium outside Lime Street was probably the nearest that I came to a footballing “rite of passage” in 1985. I was not conned into believing the media’s take that Scousers were loveable so-and-sos. I knew that Anfield could be a chilling away ground to visit. Famously, there was the “Cockneys Die” graffiti on the approach to Lime Street. My first real memory of Liverpool, the city, on that murky day forty years ago was that I was shocked to see so many shops with blinds, or rather metal shutters, to stave off robberies. It was the first time that I had seen such.
The mean streets of Liverpool? You bet.
I was deposited a few hundred yards from Anfield and took a few photos of the scene that greeted me. The local scallies – flared cords and Puma trainers by the look of it, all very 1985 – were prowling as I took a photograph of the old Kop.
Travelling around on trains during this season from my home in Stoke, I was well aware of the schism taking place in the casual subculture at the time. Sportswear was giving way to a more bohemian look in the north-west – flares were back in for a season or two, muted browns and greens, greys and blues, even tweed and corduroy flares – but this look never caught on in London.
At the time, I always maintained that it was like this :
London football – “look smart.”
Liverpool and Manchester football – “look different.”
I walked past The Kop and took a photo of the Kemlyn Road Stand, complete with newly arrived police horses. You can almost smell the gloom. Note the mast of the SS Great Eastern, which still hosts a fluttering flag on match days to this day.
The turnstiles were housed in a wall which had shards of glass on the top to deter fans from gaining free entry. Note the Chelsea supporters’ coach and the Sergio Tacchini top.
I paid my £2.50 and I was inside at 10.15am.
To complete this pictorial tour of Anfield before the game and to emphasise how bloody early I was on that Saturday morning – it was another 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive drinking and, ergo, hooliganism – there is a photograph of an empty, waiting, expectant Anfield. I guess that the photograph of the Chelsea squad in their suits was taken at an hour or so before kick-off. This is something we never see at games now; a Chelsea team inspecting the pitch before the game. I suspect that for many of the players, this would have been their first visit to Anfield too. Maybe that half-explains it.
My mate Glenn had travelled up with the Yeovil supporters coach for this game and we managed to find each other, and stand together, in the packed away segment at Anfield. My mates Alan, Paul and Swan stood close by. We were packed in like sardines on that terraced section of the Anfield Road that used to meet up with the Kemlyn Road, an odd mix of angles. Memorably, I remember that a lot of Chelsea lads – the firm, no doubt – had purchased seat tickets in the Anfield Road end, mere yards away from us, and a few punches were thrown. Even more memorably, I remember seeing a lad from Frome, Mark – a Liverpool supporter in my year at school – with two others from Frome only yards away in those very same seats.
The look we gave each other was priceless.
I see Mark at lots of Frome Town games to this day.
This was a cracking game. We went behind early on when Ronnie Whelan headed past Eddie Niedzwiecki and we soon conceded two more, both via Steve Nicol. We were 3-0 down after just ten minutes.
Welcome to Anfield.
We then played much better – my diary noted that it was the best we had played all season – and Nigel Spackman scored via a penalty at The Kop. Our fine play continued after the break, and Kerry Dixon slotted home in the six-yard box. Alas, a quick Liverpool break and a cross from their right. Ian Rush stuck out a leg to meet the ball at the near post and the ball looped over Niedzwiecki into the goal. My diary called it an exquisite finish and who am I to argue? I suppose, with hindsight, it was apt for Rush to score a goal at The Kop in my first ever game at Anfield. Writing these words forty years later, takes me right back. I can almost remember the gnawing inevitability of it.
Five minutes later, on about the sixty-fifth minute, Gordon Davies volleyed a low shot into the corner down below us.
Liverpool 4 Chelsea 3.
Wow.
We played so well in the remainder of the match but just couldn’t squeeze a fourth goal. We had outplayed them for a large part of the game. I remember being really surprised that Anfield was so quiet, and The Kop especially. Our little section seemed to be making all of the noise.
“EIO, EIO, EIO, EIO.”
“Ten Men Went To Mow.”
In that cramped, tight enclosure, this was a big moment in my life. I left Anfield exhausted, my throat sore, my brain fizzing with adrenalin, my senses heightened, drained.
We were all forced to take buses to Edge Hill, a train station a few miles out of Lime Street. Once there, I spotted a Chelsea lad that I recognised from Stoke, waiting with the rest of our mob, and preparing their next move, back into the city no doubt.
It took me forever to wait for a train that took me back to Crewe, where I needed to change for Stoke. I was, in fact, one of the last two Chelsea fans to leave Edge Hill that day.
These are some great memories of my first trip to Anfield.
Over the following forty years, I would return twenty-seven more times.
Back to 2025, and this was my fiftieth game against Liverpool at Stamford Bridge.
We lined up with a very strong formation, with the return of Romeo Lavia squeezing Moises Caicedo to right back and keeping Reece James on the bench.
Sanchez
Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
Lavia – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Liverpool were a mixture of familiar names and not-so-familiar names. I think I can name every single one of their 1985 squad, much less their 2025 version.
There were boos as both teams took to the pitch. I just stood silent with my hands in my pockets.
Within the first thirty seconds, or so it seemed, a pass from deep from Virgil Van Dijk set up Mo Salah. He attacked us from the right before attempting a low cross that was well gathered by Robert Sanchez.
This was a noisy Stamford Bridge, and the game had begun very lively. After just three minutes, we witnessed a beautiful move at pace. Romeo Lavia came away with the ball and slipped it through to Cole Palmer. The easy ball was chosen, outside to Pedro Neto. He advanced and I looked over to see Nicolas Jackson completely unmarked on the far post. However, after moving the ball on a few yards, Neto spotted the Lampardesque run of our current number eight and our Argentinian was able to kill the ball with his left foot and stroke it home with his right foot, past the diving Alisson, and Stamford Bridge went into orbit.
This was an open game, and Madueke’s shot whizzed past the post while Robert Sanchez saved well from Cody Gakpo.
Liverpool enjoyed a little spell around the fifteen-minute mark, but we were able to keep them at bay. I loved how Lavia and Caicedo were controlling the midfield. On twenty-three minutes, a magnificent sliding block from Trevoh Chalobah robbed Liverpool a shot on goal.
As the half-hour approached, I felt we were riding our luck a little as balls bounced into space from defensive blocks and clearances rather than at the feet of the opponents.
On thirty-one minutes, Noni Madueke played a one-two with Marc Cucurella, and his shot was inadvertently blocked by Jackson. The ball ran on to Caicedo, who dropped a lob onto the bar from the byline down near Parkyville.
On forty-one minutes, a snapshot from Neto hit the side netting. Just after, Jackson played in Madueke, who rounded Alisson to score, only for the goal to be chalked off for offside.
By now, the Liverpool lot, despite a flurry at the start, were quiet in their sunny corner of the stadium.
Liverpool did not seem to be creating as many threats as expected, and I was quietly confident at the break that we could hold on for a massive three points. I loved how Neto was playing, out wide, an old-fashioned winger, and Lavia, Caicedo and Enzo were a solid, fluid and combative three when we had the ball. Some of Jackson’s touches were, alas, woeful.
Into the second half, a magnificent burst from Madueke down in front of us – just a joy to watch – but a weak finish from that man Jackson. Just after, Nico slipped in the box. Just after, a fantastic dummy by Madueke out on the line, a little like Jadon Sancho at Palace, but he then gave the ball away cheaply.
Wingers are infuriating buggers, aren’t they?
At the other end, we watched a lovely old-fashioned tussle between Salah and Cucurella on the edge of our box.
Only one winner, there.
“He eats Paella, he drinks Estrella.”
On fifty-six minutes, Palmer shimmied into the right-hand side of the box and sent over a low cross towards Madueke. He touched the ball goalwards, but in the confusion that followed Van Dijk slashed at the ball and it ricocheted off Jarrell Quansah and into the goal, not that I had much of a clue what on Earth was going on. I just saw the net ripple.
It was an odd goal, in that nobody celebrated too quickly, as the spectre of VAR loomed over us all. The build-up to the goal included so many instances of potential VAR “moments” that I think it conditioned our thinking.
To our relief, no VAR, no delay, no problems.
But – VAR 1 Football 0.
Sigh.
Not to worry, we were up 2-0, and I had to ask the lads if they could remember the last time that we had beaten Liverpool in a league game at Stamford Bridge. Nobody could.
On the hour, Jackson worked himself into a great position but selfishly tried to poke the ball in from a very tight angle.
Liverpool, coming out of their shell now, enjoyed some chances. A great diving header from Levi Colwill denied them a shot on goal, and then they wasted a free header from a Salah cross.
On seventy minutes, another great slide from Our Trev denied them a shot. He was enjoying a magnificent game.
Another Liverpool header went wide.
This really was an open game.
On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Nico, who is soon to enrol in the parachute regiment.
More Chelsea chances came and went. A shot from Madueke was blocked, a rasper from Sancho was saved well by Alisson, Palmer wriggled free and somehow hit the post from a ridiculously tight angle.
This was breathless stuff.
Another shot from Palmer, who looked rejuvenated.
“He wants it now.”
On seventy-eight minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Lavia, who had been a revelation.
On eighty-five minutes, a free header from Van Dijk, from an Alexis Mac Allister corner, and they were back in the game.
This caused our hearts to wobble, and as the game continued, we watched with increasing nervous concern. Just after, the next move, Palmer forced another save from Alisson, who was by far the busier ‘keeper.
A fine move, but Neto shot over.
On eighty-eight minutes, Reece James took over from Enzo, who had enjoyed another fantastic match.
The battle continued.
“COME ON CHELS.”
Six minutes of injury time was signalled.
Fackinell.
Not to worry, in the very final minute, Liverpool attempted to play the ball out from the back and Caicedo closed down and got to the ball just in front of a defender. The defender, however, got to Caicedo just before the ball.
Penalty.
Cole Palmer stroked it home, his first goal since January.
He ran towards the goal and turned towards the East Stand but I summoned up all of my psycho-kinetic powers to entice him over to us, under The Sleepy Hollow.
I spotted two of the four foreign lads sitting close by, full of smiles, and I felt I owed them an apology for thinking that they were Liverpool fans. I gave them the thumbs up. They reciprocated.
This was a lovely day and a lovely match, and perhaps the best performance of the season thus far. We bounced out of Stamford Bridge and I subconsciously found myself singing Chelsea songs on the stretch from the West Stand forecourt to the tube station, just like in the old times.
