Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

Posted on November 30, 2023 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 25 November 2023.

Where does the back story begin for this game? How about October 1973? Let me explain.

No matter what this season brings, no matter how successful, how disappointing, or even how uneventful this campaign turns out to be, it will always be an important one for me. For this particular Chelsea devotee, all eyes are on March 2024 as it will mark the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game.

My first one was a home game with Newcastle United on Saturday 16 March 1974, and if the current fixture list remains unchanged, I will be celebrating this major milestone with an away trip to Arsenal on Saturday 16 March 2024. It could have been so much better though. In this season’s fixtures, Chelsea host the Geordies just a week before this date on Saturday 9 March. Damn the FA and damn their fixture lists.

So – to set the scene perhaps, here’s a little mention of 1973/74 and the reverse fixture of my first game. On Saturday 20 October 1973, Chelsea travelled to Tyneside in a Football League Division One encounter but unfortunately lost 2-0. The feared striker Malcolm Macdonald scored a brace in front of 32,154.

The Chelsea team that day was as follows.

John Phillips, John Hollins, Eddie McCreadie, Steve Kember, David Webb, Ron Harris, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Osgood, Peter Houseman, Chris Garland.

It pains me to see the names Hudson and Osgood listed as I sadly never saw them play for Chelsea. I never saw Eddie McCreadie either.

Fifty years later, another trip to St. James’ Park had been planned for a while. This was another game involving an overnight stay – or rather three of them – although Parky was forced to miss out due to a hospital appointment. On the Friday, I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 8am and began the long drive north. Luckily, it was a fine and sunny day and the drive was a joy. We had booked some digs in Felling, Gateshead, and I was parked outside the house at 2.15pm.

Over the past few years, the area has become familiar to me. On a trip to see Chelsea play at Newcastle in January 2020, I met a local lass, and I have been visiting her a little since then. This trip to the Newcastle area would be my fifth visit of the year. I celebrated my last two birthdays with Julie in the city of Durham and there have been a few nights out in The Toon and the surrounding area.

However, back in July, I wanted to visit a location – alone – that I think about every time that I see a game in Newcastle.

On 11 June 1957, Hughie Gallacher, the former Newcastle United and Chelsea striker, walked in front of an express train at Low Fell, in Gateshead, and was instantly killed. He was just fifty-four years of age. After a phenomenal career, in which he scored 24 goals in just 20 games for Scotland, he returned to the North-East – his last games were for Gateshead – but found life outside of football to be very difficult. I have always been fascinated by Gallacher and I bought “The Hughie Gallacher Story” by local journalist Paul Joannou a few years back. What lead to his suicide? In a fit of rage, he had thrown an ashtray at his son Mattie, drawing blood, and had been denied access to him. This haunted Gallacher and for many weeks he could be seen pacing the streets of Low Fell in a daze.

I felt that I needed to visit Low Fell.

It took me a while to find the location of where the incident took place on the main London to Edinburgh line. I drove in and around Low Fell for a while, imagining Gallacher walking those same streets almost seventy years earlier. I stopped near the railway and parked close to a bridge. I took a few photographs. On my very first visit to Newcastle in March 1984 – ah, another anniversary of sorts – I would have travelled on this very same piece of railway on a Chelsea Special, without knowing the sad story enacted here.

What I found amazing was that St. James’ Park, at the top of the hill in Newcastle, was clearly visible from Low Fell. And, if I let my imagination work away, I wondered if the St. James’ Park floodlights would have been visible as Hughie Gallacher climbed up on to the railway track on that fateful day in June 1957.

Hughie Gallacher was idolised at Newcastle United. The club’s record gate of 68,386 marked the return of the diminutive striker to St. James’ Park after his transfer to Chelsea. On Wednesday 3 September 1930, that huge crowd saw the local team defeat Chelsea 1-0.

In July this year, I had a quiet moment of remembrance in honour of the one Chelsea player from our distant past that I wish I had seen play.

On the Friday night in Newcastle, after a little session at a warm and welcoming pub in Felling – waiting for our mate Rich to arrive by train from Edinburgh – we dotted around the crazy city centre, meeting up with a few usual suspects, before finally getting back to our digs at around 2.30am.

We awoke late, and tired rather than hungover, before catching a cab into town. Our digs were just a few hundred yards from the Gateshead Stadium, home to the current Gateshead team. We breakfasted at The Quayside pub, where we met up with Steve and the Two Bobs, plus a few pals from Minneapolis, over for a week of Chelsea games.

This was to be, of course, our first game since the hated international break. I spent my “free” weekend watching Frome Town play Worthing in the FA Trophy. In another stupendous match at Badgers’ Hill, Frome drew 2-2, and won 4-3 on penalties to advance. Later that evening, PD, Glenn, Parky and I watched From The Jam in the town centre. It was a very special day. On the Monday, we drew Torquay United in the next round, easily Frome’s most prestigious game in my living memory. I can’t wait to attend that match, luckily taking place on the Saturday before our visit to Everton on the Sunday.

Although modern football continues to bewilder and sadden me in equal measure, I still find the act of attending games with good friends so addictive.

You might have noticed.

There was just time for a solitary drink in the Crown Posada, deep under the bridges on the quayside at the bottom of the hill. This lovely old pub gets a visit from me every time I return. As we were supping our lagers, Led Zeppelin IV was being aired on the old-fashioned turntable on the bar.

“Stairway To Heaven” was played and it felt really incongruous. Not a football song. Not a football moment.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold.

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.”

It made me wonder if her name was Amanda Staveley.

We caught a cab to the stadium at about 2.15pm. The cabbie, from Morocco, claimed he was a Chelsea fan, but was able to reel off a few of the former players that he had met in London in the Gullit and Vialli years. And there was me thinking that it was just a ploy to get a big tip.

The stadium is so close to the city centre. I love it.

Never mind stairways to heaven, we just wanted to get our arses in the lift to the top tier. Once there, there was the usual meet and greet with a few familiar faces in the bar areas. As we walked into the top tier with ten minutes to go the kick-off – perfect timing – the pounding “Blitzkrieg Bop” by The Ramones provided a fine accompaniment.

If this was heaven, I was happy.

Next up, “Blaydon Races” boomed out.

This took me back to 1974. I can well remember my father teaching me the words to this well-known Geordie song, no doubt during the time leading up to that very first game. It would have been further engrained in my memory bank by the time Newcastle United played in the 1974 FA Cup Final two months later.

“Gannin alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

I shook hands with Alan and Gal. No John on this occasion. We were in the third row, just wide of the goal.

The familiar view, more familiar for me now. This was my fifteenth visit to this stadium and I looked south to the high land of Gateshead, Felling to the left, with Low Fell just about visible between the towering roofs of the Gallowgate and the Milburn Stand – no, not the railway line – and a church spire right at the top of the hill. I have had some good times here. Julie and I are sadly not an item anymore, but a thought about her too. With that, the PA boomed with “Going Home : Theme Of The Local Hero” – and I turned to Paul and said –

“Some city this.”

I will admit, I was a bit emotional.

Fackinell.

A massive flag crowd-surfed in the lower tier below me as the two teams appeared.

Back in March 1974, the visitors to Stamford Bridge memorably wore hooped socks. They have chosen white ones this season, so we were forced into wearing blue ones.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Fernandez – Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

Time to think about the game. I had previously mentioned that after four goals against Tottenham and City, were we in line for four more against the Geordies? I was of course joking. This would be a tough one. We agreed that a draw would be fine. But – a big but – a win would be seismic.

The game began.

They attacked us, the old Leazes End. We attacked the Gallowgate.

It was a busy, lively first five minutes. I was keen to find positive signs to assuage any fears of a poor performance. I continue to live in hope. There was a shot from Conor Gallagher – wide, no Hughie incarnate – and we traded a few punches with the home team. Every time the recalled Benoit Badiashile touched the ball, his song cascaded down the terraces from behind me.

“In a Lamborghini…”

It was a decent start, but on thirteen minutes a ball was threaded through for a Newcastle United player to tap home. In my mind, the scorer was offside. I expected the lino’s flag to be raised. I waited in vain. There was no flag, no VAR decision. We were 1-0 down. The goal scorer was Alexander Isak. It was, I believe, their first effort of the game. The home crowd had been pretty quiet but now they found their voices.

We tried to find spaces and Raheem Sterling was particularly busy. After one advance down the left, he was fouled just outside the “D” by Kieran Trippier. I settled my nerves to time a photograph as he shot. The ball dipped over the wall and the Toon ‘keeper Nick Pope did not move. The ball nestled into the goal.

A guttural “YES” from me and a clench of both fists. The scorer ran away to a corner, and team mates joined in. He was booed for the rest of the first-half.

It developed into a decent half. I disliked the way that Cucarella was often exposed with a wide man often in space. But Cucarella seemed to be trying his best, full of endeavour, I could not fault that. The man from Brighton, though, never ever seems to make a regular bog-standard block tackle. The bloke is forever scurrying after people.

I thought Cole Palmer was having a quiet game.

I caught a terrible miss from Joelinton at the far post on film. The goal was gaping. He really should have done better.

The best move of the match followed, the ball pushed one way and then the other, with Reece James eventually setting up Enzo who sadly shot too close to goal and Pope tipped it over. Later, a terribly weak effort from Gallagher with his left foot was scuffed past the post. I could see Hughie Gallacher pointing at the goal and shouting in rage.

Just before the break, a Trippier free-kick touched the top of the bar.

It had been a decent enough half.

The night began to fall during the break. And as the second-half began, the temperature fell too. There are safe-standing barriers throughout the away section in the Leazes now, but the trick on an afternoon like this was to avoid touching the exposed metal. Hands were stuffed deep inside pockets. My camera was used sparingly.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. It sadly dawned on me that we were not in this now. The second-half was being punctuated by free-kicks and there was little flow. What football that there was came from the home team despite very little backing from the home support.

On the hour, a cross from James Gordon – a very fine cross, it has to be said – was met by a free-header from Jamaal Lascelles, who firmly planted the ball wide of Robert Sanchez.

Now the bloody Geordies sung.

“E I E I E I O – Up the Premier League we go.”

Not a minute later, Thiago Silva slipped, Joelinton pick-pocketed him, and easily struck the ball past Sanchez.

Silence in my head. Silence in our end.

St. James’ Park was in heaven now.

The noise was deafening. I wondered what the visitors from Minneapolis thought of the noise, the city, the whole buzz.

Sadly, many Chelsea left.

“Thanks then.”

A triple substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher

Armando Broja for Jackson

Moises Caicedo for Ugochukwu

While I found myself looking back at the faces of a few familiar supporters in the rows alongside me and behind me, I missed the foul by James that resulted in a second yellow.

Silence in my head again.

Numb.

Levi Colwill for Palmer.

Mudryk had a couple of runs from deep but typically ran out of gas and ideas.

On eighty-three minutes, with the spritely Gordon running at full pelt, I uttered the immortal line.

“Don’t let him come inside.”

At that exact moment, he came inside. His low shot was perfectly placed beyond the despairing dive of Sanchez. There’s that fourth goal.

Fackinell.

Newcastle United 4 Chelsea 1.

Noni Madueke replaced Sterling.

The game ended. It was cold now. A few handshakes. A few nods. Not good Chelsea. Not good at all.

“Terrible second-half.”

This was the worst Chelsea defeat that I had ever seen at St. James Park. The worst in our history was a 5-0 reverse in October 1974. Ah, back to 1974 again. Perhaps I had best stop talking about it. We made our way down to street level. There had been no stairway to heaven on this visit to Tyneside. Not for us anyway. We walked down Barrack Road outside the glass and steel of the Milburn Stand, then stopped by for a cheeseburger with onions at a stand outside the Gallowgate.

We walked all of the way down, through the Bigg Market – a few locals wished us well, “have a good night lads” – finally stopping at a familiar chip shop right at the bottom of the hill.

While The Toon was in full flow, we caught a cab back to Felling.

But there will be another time in Newcastle. Another visit. It’s a favourite city.

Next up, a home game against Brighton next Sunday.

See you there.

Tales From Game 71/208

Posted on October 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 21 October 2023.

In my international break, I saw just one match and it unsurprisingly featured my local team Frome Town. On Tuesday 10 October, I travelled the short distance to the former mining town of Paulton for a local derby of our own. Frome coasted to a 2-0 lead at the break, playing some nice stuff. Then, a down turn in events and we conceded two goals by the halfway point of the game and we were hanging on. With ten minutes to go I said to a mate “I’ll take the draw” as I couldn’t see us scoring. With six minutes to go, it was still 2-2. The final score? Paulton Rovers 2 Frome Town 7. It was, unquestionably, the most ridiculous game that I had ever seen. Admittedly the second-half had an extra twelve minutes, but even so. It was a demented result. Dodge are in a fine run of form at the moment.

With no European football to bolster our fixture list this autumn, this was turning into a very regular start to the season for Chelsea Football Club; four games in August, four games in September, four games in October, four games in November. Our London derby at home to Arsenal would be the third of the four in October. It was our first game in a fortnight.

On the walk towards the stadium at around 4.45pm, with the sky full of rain, free programmes were being handed out. The programmes were billed as a “collectors’ edition” in the way that many normal products are over-hyped these days. It was only a programme, albeit a free one, and I couldn’t really see it being worth much in the future. But it was a decent gesture by the new kit sponsors “Infinite Athlete” – whoever they are – and was perhaps an apology-of-sorts for not arriving on the scene a little sooner. If I was offered £1,000, I would struggle to describe the services that they bring to the world, and my world in particular. The cover was different to the usual design this season (maybe that is what made it so collectable, if not delectable) and it featured match facts in the style of a ticker-tape at the top of the cover.

It didn’t look much like a match programme at all.

The first stat mentioned that this would be the two-hundred and eighth game between the two sides. Chelsea have played no team more often. It was, in fact, the first-ever top-level London derby, played at Stamford Bridge on 11 September 1907, when the gunners were still a south London team called Woolwich Arsenal. The game ended up with Chelsea winning 2-1.

So, really, forget about the rest, this is the daddy of all London derbies.

This edition would be my seventy-first such game across all competitions and venues and, thus, it would mean that I would have seen just under thirty-five percent of all Chelsea versus Arsenal games. This doesn’t include the game I saw in Beijing as Chelsea have not included that in their total.

Gulp.

I got duly drenched on the walk to the turnstiles and I soon wanted to take my thin rain jacket off once I had reached my seat. It was a mild evening in SW6 and I would watch the entire match wearing just a sweatshirt, a Boca one in grey, blue and yellow, and it tied in nicely against the red and white of Arsenal and River. In the match programme, I would later read that our manager Mauricio Pochettino favoured Racing as a boy before he started playing for Newell’s Old Boys.

As kick-off approached at 5.30pm, the weather deteriorated further. The ground filled up slowly and steadily, but I had a feeling that that those watching in the front rows would be getting drenched. We had played cat-and-mouse with the rain all day long. We had set off at around 9am but after picking up the last of the passengers – Parky – I was sent on a little diversion caused by the flooding of a road near Melksham. On the drive to London, the skies were intermittently cloudy then clear. Thankfully, my walk to Stamford Bridge at around midday and then the pub at around 2pm was during a couple of dry spells.

I remembered that Parky’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge was against Arsenal, way back in 1961 – another 2-1 win – on the same day that Parky’s hero Jimmy greaves was playing for England in the 9-3 walloping of Scotland. Greaves scored his usual three.

I had spoken to Ron about his childhood in Hackney and how he used to be taken to Highbury by his Arsenal-mad father as a child. They would watch first-team and reserve team games in the ‘fifties, taking a bus from their pre-fab to watch their local team play. I asked if it felt odd playing against the team that he had supported as a child, and in that pragmatic and down-to-Earth way of his, he just shrugged his shoulders and dismissed such silliness.

It’s likely that PD’s first-ever Chelsea and Arsenal encounter was the same as mine; that game at Highbury in 1984. It is so famous that a whole book was written about it.

The rain still fell. Stamford Bridge had rarely looked gloomier. Over in the away section, one bright yellow Arsenal flag was draped over the Shed balcony. It shone like a beacon, but hopefully not as a metaphor for the away team as the match would develop.

The teams appeared just as a huge banner honouring the recently-retired Eden Hazard floated over heads down to my left. On the day before the anniversary of his passing, I would have preferred a flag with the image of Matthew Harding being passed from east to west in the stand that bears his name.

Before the kick-off, the stadium stood silent in remembrance of those killed in Israel and the Gaza Strip.

Fuck war.

To add to the sombre tone of the day, there had been two sad pieces of news that we encountered in the pub beforehand. The lads who sit at a table near us were gathered around and I spotted a photo of one of their crew placed on the adjacent table. Sadly, “Hillsy” had passed away last Sunday, the victim of a single heart-attack, and all of us remembered his cheery manner on many occasions in “The Eight Bells”. We all signed a shirt of remembrance.

Later, the news filtered through that Sir Bobby Charlton had died. I was only looking at a recent photo of him a day or so ago. Ah, that was some sad news. Growing up in the early ‘seventies there was nobody bigger, nobody better, nobody more famous than Bobby Charlton. I thought back to two games.

28 April 1973 – Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Bobby Charlton’s last-ever game for United was played out at a packed three-sided Stamford Bridge. I suspect that a good 15,000 of the 44,000 present were United fans. I remember that crazy Osgood goal and the shrug to the TV camera. Charlton’s last-ever United game seemed a seismic moment in time. For United, maybe it was. They were relegated twelve months later.

26 August 2013 – Manchester United 0 Chelsea 0.

Out on the Old Trafford forecourt, the scene of much naughtiness over the years, I spotted Sir Bobby Charlton before the game looking dapper in a light grey suit and United tie. The great man walked straight across my path. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I was giddy with excitement as I reached out to shake his hand. It was probably my favourite non-Chelsea football moment of all.

In the packed pub, we had raised our glasses in memory of Sir Bobby Charlton.

As the minute of silence finished – not a sound from the four-sided Samford Bridge in 2023 – I wondered if Sir Bobby would be remembered too.

We lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Or something like that.

Jorginho would be passing the ball square in their midfield while Havertz was on their bench, perhaps dreaming of a night in Porto and another one in Abu Dhabi.

This would be a big test for our fledgling team. Our club, actually, even feels like a fledgling club at the moment too.

I feared the worst, but hoped for a draw.

The rain was lashing down and despite all available lights being switched to the max, visibility of the action down at The Shed was pretty poor. As the game began, a 5.30pm start, the first burst of action took place at that end. A fine ball from Thiago Silva found Raheem Sterling who pushed the ball into the box. A shot from Conor Gallagher was blocked and a follow-up from Enzo Fernandez was blazed over.

We absolutely dominated everything in the opening period as the rain continued to fall. There was an eerie and ethereal feel to the evening; night not yet fallen, but so dark and moody. I imagined a scene from a century ago, another London derby, the air thick with London fog and mist and cigarette smoke drifting over the packed terraces.

Then, approaching fifteen minutes of play, a superb counter-attack that began wide left and finished wide right. Sterling struck the ball in towards Mykhailo Mudryk, whose glancing header had initiated the move in the defensive third, and he threw himself at the ball. There was a huge shout from The Shed – for what I do not know – but it soon became apparent that those closer to the action had spotted an Arsenal handball (or a handy Arseball, depending on the outcome of the imminent VAR).

We waited.

Penalty.

Sterling grabbed the ball, but the confident Palmer wanted it too.

The youngster won that battle and calmly slotted the ball home, David Raya left flat-footed and beaten.

The place roared as Palmer celebrated in front of the silent away fans. I caught the slide on his knees through a million raindrops.

We continued to purr, but there were two totally unexpected errors by Thiago Silva.

“That’s his last two errors this season” I whispered to Clive.

Arsenal, a rare-attack, moved forward down below us but a flicked effort from Declan Rice was hardly worth bothering about.

They hadn’t settled at all.

There was a fantastic old-fashioned run up the right-wing, a full-length battle between Malo Gusto – attacking with, er, gusto – and Gabriel Martinelli, that ended with a foul on our energetic right-back.

Shots from ourselves were a little half-hearted.

One from Gallagher was hit right at Raya.

Clive : “No need to blast those. Jimmy Greaves would have just passed that into the goal.”

One from Enzo was hit centrally at Raya too.

Chris : “I can just see Bobby Charlton drilling that in on the floor.”

Although not at the very highest end of the noise scale, the atmosphere was at times reassuringly loud. There were the usual barbs aimed at Arsenal and their lack of success on the international stage.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

Et cetera.

A beautiful thrusting run from Gallagher set up Palmer, who darted and dived in front of the Arsenal defence. His deft shot was a lot nearer the target than that of Rice, and his effort seemed to graze the far post on its way past.

Then, another delightful move down our right; such sweet movement, from Silva to Palmer, to the effervescent Sterling, but then a snapped shot from Gusto that again flew over.

But this was lovely stuff. Top marks especially for Gallagher, Gusto and Palmer. Oh, and Cucarella, let’s not forget him, easily our most improved player over the past month.

At the break, mild optimism.

Easy now.

Just before the end of the break, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared on the large TV screens and we applauded his memory.

Munich survivor. World Cup winner. European Cup winner. Night of the realm.

Rest In Peace.

Soon into the second-half, the rain still falling but not so hard, I was lamenting that Mudryk, save the occasional flash, was having a quiet game. Then, Gallagher stole the ball from an Arsenal nonentity, and raced up the wing. I had a perfect view as Mudryk – yes, him – caught up with Gallagher and effectively took the ball off him. The smile on Conor’s face as the Ukrainian took the ball on is priceless. He advanced a little, then slowed, then chipped the ball goal wards.

By the time I had stopped snapping, the ball had dropped into the net, finding that few square feet of space between bar and the hapless Raya.

GET IN!

I immediately thought back to Gianfranco Zola’s last-ever goal for us versus Everton in 2003 from roughly the same spot.

I roared loudly but kept an eye on where the scorer was running.

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way.”

I caught his Christ The Redeemer pose.

Phew.

Sadly, the photos of his clipped chip / lob / shot and the ball dropping in are too blurred to share.

The players were loving it down below.

FUCKING COME ON!

At last, we were looking like we were a team, a proper team, knowing when to soak up pressure, when to break, with skilful players moving for each other. God, it had been a long time coming.

I was still a bit edgy though.

“Next goal is crucial.”

A Sanchez-style mess of a clearance by Raya almost allowed Palmer to make it three, but his effort was then blocked by the ‘keeper when it looked easier to score.

On sixty-six minutes, Nicholas Jackson replaced Mudryk.

Stamford Bridge stood to applaud him off.

The substitute then went close.

Fackinell.

Arsenal enjoyed a few efforts on goal, mainly from free-kicks and corners, but we held firm. Thiago Silva was a colossus.

Then, a calamity. On seventy-seven minutes, a pass from Sanchez to Enzo was underhit, and Rice swept the ball into the empty net from thirty-five yards.

Bollocks.

Mikel Arteta had rung some changes. Jorginho was replaced, no applause, no boos, and then Havertz appeared, a few boos, no applause.

We made two late changes of our own.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Reece James for Palmer.

“Where’s Reece playing then?”

After staying miserable and quiet all day long, the away supporters were finally roused. It had been a very poor performance from Arsenal’s choir, the quietest by a major club for many a year.

We were now hanging on. Stamford Bridge seemed engulfed in nerves. I was kicking every ball and other clichés.

“COME ON CHELS.”

On eighty-four minutes, another calamity. A deep cross from the right from the previously quiet Bukayo Saka found an unmarked Trossard at the far stick. Through the mire, it looked like our defenders had switched off.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 2.

Bollocks.

They celebrated like they had won the European Cup.

As if.

Ironically, one song now dominated, but one that they had stolen lock stock and barrel from Liverpool, a song that detailed that club’s quite considerable success in Europe.

Arsenal’s version was a poor copy.

“We won the league at Anfield. We won it at the Lane, Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford. No one can say the same. Mikel Arteta’s army. We’re Arsenal through and through. We’ll sing it in the North Bank. And in the Clock End too.”

Winning the league at Stamford Bridge?

I must have missed that one. Maybe it happened.

But it’s the stealing of a rival’s song that I found a little squeamish. Ugh.

Then, substitute Eddie Nketiah latched on to a ball played through the channel and – memories of Nwankwo fucking Kanu – the shot dropped just past the far post.

Fackinell.

Head tennis in their box and Levi Colwill headed over.

A late low shot from Jackson was saved by Raya, the ‘keeper desperately hanging on to the ball on the greasy surface.

It ended 2-2.

Every Chelsea fan on the planet :

“I would have taken a draw before the game began. But this feels like a loss.”

But this was a really decent performance. Many commented that it was the most cohesive football that we have played in two years or so. My God, it certainly felt like it. And yet we have some really testing games to come in the next couple of months. I still project us to finish around eighth, but after the Arsenal game, perhaps I can be a little more optimistic.

Next up, another derby against Brentford.

See you there.

Rest In Peace

Tales From The Munich Men

Posted on September 3, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 2 September 2023.

…there were some positives from this day.

I loved a very enjoyable pre-game in “The Eight Bells” alongside friends from not only England but Scotland, Norway and France.
I didn’t get a parking ticket.
We reached Reading Services just in time to load up on “£2” pasties from “West Cornwall Pasty Company” as it prepared to close.
I didn’t watch “Match Of The Day.”
Frome Town won an FA Cup tie at home to Clevedon Town in front of a healthy gate of 478.

Was everything else bleak?

…well.

After two home wins against Luton Town and AFC Wimbledon, our fledgling season seemed to be up-and-running, and the third home game in nine days against Nottingham Forest looked like one that we could win. After that, there would be a break due to something called international football, whatever that is, before the next match on Sunday 17 September in Bournemouth.

This represented a chance to consolidate, then, and to settle the nerves. As I said to the chaps on the way to London “a win will just keep them off our backs.”

The weather improved throughout the day, from misty overcast skies in the West Of England, to a sunny day that gradually emerged in London SW6. We were now in September, and there was a nice and relaxing feel to the morning as I hopped from Fulham Broadway to café to pub. I joined PD and Parky in “The Eight Bells” at around 11.15am. It was surprisingly quiet.

As I had descended the steps at “Putney Bridge” tube, there was a chap in front of me wearing a grey Stone Island pullover. Knowing that label’s particularly notoriety, every time I see the infamous badge, I always wonder if the wearer is “football” at all. After all, there must be some normal gentlemen, not in the least bothered about Stone Island’s association with football violence over the last thirty-five years; just normal chaps, probably fashion conscious, looking for nice clothes, blissfully unaware. And then there must be those, like me on occasion – I bought my first one in around 1998 – who love the football, love the clothes but can’t be arsed with the fighting. I must have bought around ten pieces over the years, but nothing for fifteen years, and they used to mix in well with my other match-going gear, especially in winter. Then there are those who sport the badge and are indeed members of the hooligan fraternity, or at least – this might be the key – want to be.

I remember the days when a small group of us used to email each other, before Messenger and WhatsApp appeared – and the time that we were making plans on the Friday for the trip to Bolton for “that game” on the Saturday in 2005, I jokingly suggested “dress code : Stonies” and, lo and behold, this gathered momentum.

These days I don’t wear my existing SI stuff at football because it’s not worth the attention from the police nor opposition fans alike. I often used to buy a few heavily discounted SI bits at “Century 21” in New York, but my last such purchase was probably way back in around 2006.

Anyway, I wondered to what category this chap belonged.

Alongside PD and Parky at our usual table was Salisbury Steve, plus Rich and Matt from Edinburgh. We were soon to be joined by a growing band of Norwegian supporters, including a few season ticket holders, who we have got to know over the past year. There’s Even, Hans, Roy – originally drawn in by my blog I believe – and a few more too. I met Eirik, from way up in Trondheim, for the first time and he too writes a football blog. We got on famously, and shared many a laugh. Soon into the session, Mr. Grey Stoney joined us, and I explained that I had seen him earlier and wondered if he was, indeed, “football.” I asked his name, and he replied “Ooh-osteener-son-eye-ah.”

I replied : “fuck that, I’ll just call you Dave.”

Originally the table that the seven Norwegians were camped around was reserved for some others from midday. But they never showed up. I joked that if they did, they might complain that the booth and adjacent seats smelled, offputtingly, of herring.

Eirik is midway through writing a book about the 1970 FA Cup Final, a subject close to all of our hearts. I told, for maybe the 1,243^rd time in my life, how the 1970 Cup Final made me a Chelsea fan.

Outside, I spoke briefly with Dave, the guy I mentioned in the Luton blog who travels to away games in a specially-provided van that allows his wheelchair to be loaded. He was, of course, fuming to hear of the club’s decision. It’s not as if Chelsea send a huge fleet of coaches to away games. He reckoned two per game. I would briefly chat to Cathy inside the ground and she updated this to “four for big games.” Either way, it’s a drop in the ocean. I hope the club have an about-turn on this.

The usual “Kent Lot” were not in attendance due to rail strikes, which sadly coincided with the introduction of an increased reach of the “low emission zone” which would put off many from travelling in to London. The pub did seem a little quieter than usual.

I then spent some time talking to Ollie, who had just bought a 1989 shirt from Steve’s stall at Fulham Broadway. Steve had mentioned to me that “there’s a French guy looking for you earlier” and I soon realised it was Ollie. While I was there, I explained to Steve, who lives in nearby Evercreech in Somerset, why Frome is called “Dodge.” While on the subject, I added that the nearby towns of Trowbridge and Bruton are known locally as “Trow Vegas” and “Brutopia” respectfully.

Ollie told me how he had season tickets at Le Havre for many years, alongside his father, and how he travelled extensively around France to see them. Famously, we played Le Havre in 1992/93 in “The Cross Channel Trophy” with the first leg at Stamford Bridge in October 1992 and the away leg in France in April 1993. It was the first game that I could ever remember Chelsea travelling en masse to a game in Europe. There was inevitably some fighting. Stone Island garments were probably at the fore. Ollie, for the past fifteen years, is now resolutely Chelsea. It’s always nice to see him.

At 2pm, it was time to head to the game.

We heard some Forest songs emanating from the carriage behind us, and as we waited patiently in line at Fulham Broadway for the lift, I saw one particularly loud, young, Forest fan sporting no colours, but who was wearing a green Stone Island top and who was bellowing out a chant.

The others made their way in. I waited to choose my moment, since smuggling my SLR into Chelsea this season has reached an advanced level of difficulty.

Anyway, I was successful.

Inside, the sun had added an extra dimension to the red-clad Forest fans, wearing more replica shirts than you normally see at Chelsea, but their shirt this season really is a thing of beauty, harking back to when they wore Adidas on their travels around the UK and Europe.

Both of these clubs are European Champions twice-over and share a common bond.

Nottingham Forest won their first European Cup in Munich in 1979.

Chelsea won our first European Cup in Munich in 2012.

Trevor Francis, the match-winner in 1979, passed away in July, a decent man, and a really sad loss.

In front of the West Stand stood a gaggle of around twenty spectators. These fools paid extra to be able to watch the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from a few yards away. I groaned, and complained to John, another disabled lad who will suffer if the away coach subsidy is taken away.

“Look at them. Just look at them. Paying extra to be able to see the players up close. That’s not football.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Chelsea lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Caceido – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell

Or did they?

I have spent an inordinate amount of my time this season, especially in the first ten minutes of each match, trying to work out if we are playing three, four or five at the back. In the match programmes, the four games played thus far, state a four at the back. In the pre-match news about the selection for the Forest game, the formation is given as 3-5-2, yet in the eventual match report after it is given as 4-3-3.

Confusion reigns, but hopefully not for the players eh?

Whatever, this site isn’t for excessive and arid chat about formations and tactics. Go elsewhere for that. This, as the Norwegians seem to appreciate, is for everything else.

Forest must have won the toss and elected to attack The Shed in the first-half, the pesky buggers. I immediately sensed a problem.

At 3pm, the Munich Men kicked-off.

Within the first minute, we had twice rattled the Forest defence with early efforts from Nicolas Jackson, a crowd favourite now, and Raheem Sterling, who is increasing in popularity, albeit slowly.

As the game took shape, it seemed clear to me that Ben Chilwell was playing as a left-winger. There, that’s that solved. Jackson showed good movement in the opening period, a pleasing sign, so different from the immobile forwards of last season.

Unsurprisingly, the away contingent of three-thousand was making all of the noise, aided by songs from Wings, Status Quo and Spandau Ballet.

I thought that we started pretty decently, and despite an odd stoppage that the viewing millions were no doubt informed about but we were not – sound familiar? – we began to create a few chances. Conor Gallagher jinked inside and smashed one just wide. Malo Gusto on the right was properly involved in this game and was linking well with Gallagher and Sterling.

The visitors enjoyed a few breaks, a few free-kicks, and came close on a couple of occasions. Taiwo Awonyi, a handful last season, looked especially dangerous. We looked in control, though, but as the minutes rolled past, I kept thinking that we had yet to make the Forest ‘keeper really work.

There were a few rallying calls from us in the Matthew Harding, I joined in, and I suddenly remembered what my main role of the day was…it wasn’t to photograph the action, nor take quirky shots of the stadium, nor to quickly type up notes from the game on my ‘phone, it was in fact to support the team.

Thinking : “Come on Chris, don’t become the person you hate. Sing up.”

I leaned back and spoke to Clive.

“The first few games of this season have already been more enjoyable than all of last season.”

“That’s weird, PD just said exactly the same.”

There had been strong running from Gallagher throughout the half; tons of energy, plenty of tackles, plenty of blocks, a decent game.

“Ah to have a ball-winning midfielder, Al.”

Al spoke about Tottenham’s alleged interest in Gallagher, and Sky TV’s talking up of this non-story.

“Makes you laugh. Tottenham are considering a bid for Conor Gallagher. And I’m considering going on a diet.”

I howled.

However, the first-half ended almost apologetically, with a Chilwell cross just evading both Sterling and Jackson.

The first-half fizzled out.

After just three minutes of the second-half, Moises Caicedo gave the ball away just inside our half and the ball was moved quickly to former Manchester United striker Anthony Elanga, who surprisingly easily ran through our defence and slotted the ball in beyond the flat dive of Robert Sanchez in our goal.

Bollocks.

It was the visitors’ very first shot on target.

Fackinell.

The support tried to stir our players. Enzo, who had been rather quiet, slid a perfectly-weighted ball between two defenders for Chilwell, but his cross was poor.

A fine move on fifty-five minutes down the right fed in Jackson but a last ditch tackle saved Forest.

On sixty-two minutes, two substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Chilwell.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher.

I was amazed that Conor was taken off. I had liked the look of Cole Palmer when he played against us at City in the league last May. Little did I think he would be playing for us in four months. He was involved, and didn’t shy away from receiving the ball, but our play in general went from bad to worse.

On seventy-seven minutes, two more changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gusto.

Ian Maatsen for Caicedo.

Gusto had played well. Maybe he was tiring.

The rest of the second-half, played out before a raucous away corner and an increasingly docile yet irritated home support, was memorable for wayward slashes at goal from many.

We could hardly believe it when a low cross from Sterling on the right, after a fine pass from Palmer, tee’d things up just right for Jackson but he inexplicably lifted it over the bar from the edge of the six-yard box.

One final chance saw the poor Sterling slash a low shot well wide from an angle after a decent set up by Jackson.

There were boos at the end.

In previous years, this would have annoyed me, but on this occasion I didn’t seem to care one way or the other, which definitely worried me.

Don’t I care anymore?

I do, but I probably care less.

Outside, we slid past the travelling Forest fans. They were waiting to step back inside the coaches on the Fulham Road, walking back to the tube and walking back to parked cars. They were full of song and joy. A few were a bit lary but, deep down, I understood. I kinda approved. I almost envied them; a day out in the capital, an unexpected away win – their first at Chelsea since January 1995, I remember it, two goals from Stan Bloody Collymore – and every right to be loud and proud. I’d rather have a noisy mob of lary lads to spice things up at football than row upon row of docile and distanced spectators.

We began walking back to Bramber Road. The sun was still hot. I was feeling a little tired. I then looked up and saw Mr. Green Stoney – the Forest lad from earlier – getting rounded up by two of Fulham’s finest.

I silently tut-tutted and smirked.

Did the man attract the attention or did the badge attract the attention? A philosophical debate for another time perhaps.

I made it home at just after 9pm. It had been another long day.

At the start of this season, I secretly predicted us to finish eighth.

Higher or lower?

We’ll see.

We have a fortnight off now. Next weekend, I am heading over to Italy for a little break, but we will reconvene at the Vitality Stadium in Bournemouth for a 2pm kick-off.

Bring your bucket and spade, don’t be late.

On The Fulham Road

It’s All Gone Blue

Four European Cups Between Us

Another Time, Another Place

Eirik

Om Eirik Havdahl

Tales From A Happy And Victorious Afternoon At The Vitality

Posted on May 7, 2023 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 May 2023.

Yet another crazy Chelsea season was nearing completion. There were five games left; three away, two home. The next match was Bournemouth away, the easiest of trips for me.

With PD resting at home and out of action until the new season, we called in a last minute replacement. Mark, from nearby Westbury, was able to pick up a spare ticket and would join Parky – recovering after his own hospital appointment this week – and little old me as I made my way from Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset, via the slightest of incursions into Hampshire.

I left home just after 7.30am. I knew that a few fans had already travelled down on Friday to make a weekend of it. I collected Parky at 8am and I picked Mark up in the Market Place in Westbury at 8.25am.

This brought back memories from almost forty years ago. The first time that I ever met Mark was on a trip up to London to see Chelsea play Leeds United in April 1984 when we went up in the same car. The driver was Mark’s mate Gary, but he has not been seen for years. Also in the car was PD and Glenn who obviously still go. Thirty-nine years later, four out of five ain’t bad, is it? We beat Leeds 5-0 that day and on the way back to Frome, we stopped off at the Market Place in Westbury and enjoyed an evening pint in “The Crown”.

My route from Westbury was simple enough; down the A350 to Warminster and then down the A36 to Salisbury, then the A338 – via a brief stretch on the A331 – to Bournemouth. As the crow flies, from my house, it is an hour and a half. With my two pick-ups, it took me two hours and ten minutes.

I had not seen Mark since the away game in Milan, so we had a good old catching-up session while I ate up the miles. We agreed on lots of things.

“Why hasn’t Badiashile featured at all? He was calm and efficient in his starts. Since then, nothing.”

“Can’t understand what Frank sees in Sterling. Hope he doesn’t start today.”

“Mudryk is a raw talent and needs game time.”

“In a four, no reason why Chalobah can’t play right back.”

“I like Enzo, though.”

For some reason, I fancied us to win at Bournemouth. I told everyone that I met before the game that “we surely can’t lose all our matches this season?” Although I was never sucked into believing that we had a bona fide relegation fight on our hands, we knew that a win would make us mathematically safe.

In fact, deep down, I suspected that those in our support that were genuinely worried about relegation had not really understood the complexities involved in a relegation struggle. I also think that some of our newer fans were almost revelling in a mock concern about this alleged relegation fight to help them get some “sufferance” brownie points among their peers.

For those who have been reading about 1982/83 this season…now then…THAT was a relegation fight.

I dropped Parky and Marky off outside “The Moon In The Square” and joined them a few minutes later. We breakfasted like kings while many in the pub sat watching the royal coronation on TV.

We met up with a few friends and the time soon passed.

At 1.30pm, we drove the ten minutes out to the Vitality Stadium, spotting a few Chelsea fans along the way. I squeezed my car into the allotted “JustPark” space on Holdenhurst Road and made my way towards the away end. It was ironic that while we have enjoyed many fine days out in Bournemouth since 2016, from October to April, here we were in May and there was drizzle in the air.

I stood alongside Gal, John and Al in the fifth row.

Just before the teams appeared, the noisy and overly-enthusiastic PA announcer pleaded for each of the individual four stands in turn to make “noise for the boys” and my eyes continually rolled.

The teams stood at the centre-circle and “God Save The King” was sung with gusto by all.

As the players lined up in readiness of the kick-off – we attacked our “end” in the first-half, not usually the case here – I absolutely loved Frank’s choice of a starting line-up.

I checked position by position. It was the team that I would have picked in a 4/3/3.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell

Kante – Enzo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Havertz – Madueke

Did Frank read the comments in my Arsenal blog?

I relaxed knowing that Raheem and Pierre-Emerick were not involved.

The drizzle had mostly petered out but the floodlights were still on. I noticed a surprising number of empty seats in the home areas. Sadly, a fair few were not filled behind me in our section. I find it inconceivable that one of the top fifteen clubs in Europe can’t fill all 1,200 tickets for an away game just one hundred miles away.

It was an open start to the game. The home team – ouch, those nasty zig-zag stripes – created a couple of tasty chances, but Kepa spread himself at his near post to save our blushes while another flashed past a post.

There were a couple of positive chants in support of Frank in those first few minutes.

“Super, Super Frank…”

“Scored two hundred…”

My man Noni Madueke had settled in well on the right flank, twisting and turning, running past defenders, a threat. On just nine minutes, from that right flank, Trevoh Chalobah touched the ball to N’Golo Kante who had time to cross. Conor Galagher moved towards its flight glanced it in at the far post past the marvellously named Neto.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

I just couldn’t bring myself to sing along to the “we are staying up” chants, nor could the young lad next to me. I get the desire for self-deprecation.

But.

Just.

Not.

Right.

Now.

Enzo set up Chalobah but Neto saved well. We looked neat on the ball, with Enzo looking to play in whoever he could whenever he could. Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Dominic Solanke and Ryan Christie set up Matias Vina who ghosted past defenders and, as he set himself up for a shot, I absolutely feared the worst. His lofted curler was perfectly placed beyond the reach of Kepa.

The game was tied 1-1.

I liked the way that Madueke feared nobody as he attacked down the right. His shots on goal showed confidence even if his shot selection and execution were awry. Down our left, seemingly within touching distance, a growing relationship between Gallagher and Mudryk was starting to flourish. The Ukrainian is certainly fast.

I glimpsed into the future at the potential of our very own “M & M” boys – “Mad/Mud” anyone? – causing havoc down the wings, the days of Arjen Robben and Damien Duff reincarnated perhaps, if not the days of Peter Rhoades-Brown and Phil Driver.

Ah, 1983.

Forty years ago, on Friday 6 May, I had an uneventful day at school but the twin nightmares of “A Levels” and a probable relegation were lying heavily on my mind. The very next day – Saturday 7 May 1983 – Chelsea were to visit Bolton Wanderers, one point and one place above Chelsea, in a pure “relegation six pointer”, and my diary noted that if we lost I felt that we would surely be relegated.

Despite seeing the game against Bournemouth being advertised by a few people, who really should have known better, as a “relegation six pointer”, this game wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

We were decent enough in that first-half and at the break I was quietly confident that my pre-game prediction of a Chelsea win would prevail. Kante was producing another 8/10 performance and while he is in the midfield, and Thiago Silva is in defence, we have a chance.

We lost our way a little at the start of the second-half, however, and while Bournemouth created a few chances, we slowed.

I turned to Gal : “Havertz always wants to take one touch too many, doesn’t he?”

This was a strange game now. There were patches of quality; we loved a magical twist out on the touchline from Madueke that made his marker look foolish. This had us all purring. But these were matched by moments of farce; an optimistic volley from Kante went high and so wide that the ball didn’t even leave the pitch.

The pro-Frank songs continued. However, on sixty-three minutes, he had us scratching our heads.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kante.

He was our best player. There was no midweek game to worry about. Was he carrying a knock?

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Oh bloody hell, Raheem…you again?

In the away section, things were getting a little testy. A chant for Roman Abramovich was loud, and an undoubted reaction to the substitutions that seemed to exemplify the current, failing, regime. A chant about the current owner was more forthright.

“Boehly – you’re a cunt.”

There were punches exchanged between two Chelsea fans a few seats behind me.

Christie blasted over. A superb sliding tackle on Solanke by Silva inside the penalty area went to VAR, but there was no foul. Havertz took an extra touch as he broke in on goal from an angle and the moment was lost.

The game rumbled on, with the mood seeming to change inside the away section every few minutes. Ben Chilwell pulled up on the far side and we feared the worst. Dave replaced him. At the same time, Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

The appearance of Hakeem didn’t thrill me, or many, with much joy, but he hugged the near touchline and looked to cause trouble with that tip-tapping style of his.

Vina was clean in on goal to my left, but Kepa made an absolutely brilliant shot, his arm outstretched, strong wrists, magnificent. A Ziyech cross found the head of Havertz, but the effort was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, a corner was headed back across the face of the goal but Dango Ouattara headed over from virtually underneath the bar.

At this stage, it seemed we had lost the momentum and that a Bournemouth goal would be the typical, obvious, sad conclusion.

“Why did I think we’d fucking win this?”

On eighty-two minutes, Sterling and Ziyech stood over the ball at a free-kick on the right hand side of their defensive third. Ziyech floated an in swinging curler towards the penalty spot. The cross had everything. It always looked like it might trouble the defence and ‘keeper. The trajectory, pace and dip were all to perfection. A few Chelsea players rose and the leg of my boy Badiashile flicked the ball past Neto.

The net rippled beautifully.

YES!

His joyous run and slide was lovely to see, his smile wide.

We were back in front.

Phew.

Another substitution, just after, Joao Felix for Havertz.

“How long to go, Gal?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s hang on.”

The Chelsea crowd were rocking now.

“We’re gonna have a party, when Arsenal fuck it up.”

On ninety minutes, a beautiful run by under-fire Sterling set up Felix who calmly slotted the ball low past Neto.

I screamed my joy at this one. The game was safe.

AFCB 1 CFC 3.

What a beautiful sight.

These were good times now at The Vitality.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

One win doesn’t make a season, but this bugger was a long time coming. After six consecutive losses, at last three points for Chelsea, and for Frank.

After the game, the players walked over to reciprocate our applause for them. We were happy. They were grateful.

Back in the car, we realised that we had risen to eleventh place.

I made a very quick exit out, and dropped Salisbury Steve off on the way back. I was home by 7.30pm.

Easy.

Next up, two-time European Champions Chelsea take on two-time European Champions Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge.

See you there.

Tales From Another Tough Watch

Posted on April 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 15 April 2023.

Just as I was driving away from my usual parking space at Chelsea after the game with Brighton, I summed things up to PD in the seat alongside me :

“Out-played, out-shot, out-fought, out-thought.”

In a season of sub-par performances, this perhaps had been the worst of the lot. No positives at all? It certainly bloody felt like it. I will come back to the game later but as there is a lot to get through in this ramble I had best begin.

Shall we do things chronologically again?

The next game to feature in my retrospective look at our worst-ever season, 1982/83, is our away match at Boundary Park, the home of perennial Second Division battlers Oldham Athletic. This encounter was played on Saturday 9 April 1983 and came on the back of a four-game winless streak for John Neal’s troops. My diary noted that the game kicked-off at 2pm. Perhaps this was a result of that afternoon’s televised Grand National which, from memory, used to start around 4pm. Clubs were so desperate for spectators in those days that I suspect that this was the reason. Regardless, the match was really poorly attended; just 4,923 showed up. I often hear talk of us taking thousands to away games in those days. I suspect that it wasn’t the case on this occasion.

At the time, Oldham Athletic were stacked full of former Manchester City players and were managed by the former City striker Joe Royle. Playing for the Latics on this occasion were Kenny Clements, Tony Henry and Roger Palmer. Not involved on this day were Paul Futcher and Ged Keegan. All of these players had previously turned out for Manchester City.

At half-time, the score was 1-1, at full-time it ended up 2-2. Mercurial midfielder Mike Fillery scored both, with one from the penalty spot. The Chelsea team included debutant Paul Williams, a young central defender, who only ever played this one game in our colours. After the match, we dropped two places to fifteenth in the twenty-two team division. We had six games left to play with four being at home, yet were just two points off a relegation place.

I, and many thousands of others, were worried. We were barely limping along as the end of the season approached.

My diary the day after the Oldham game mentions my thoughts :

“All of a sudden, things are looking really desperate. Only now does relegation seem a possibility. I hadn’t really considered it to any depth until today.”

Despite all of this, I was definitely excited to be attending our next fixture, a home match with Newcastle United, only my fourth “live” game of the season. I was still at school and I had only worked a couple of Saturdays in my father’s shop that season so every spare bit of pocket money, Christmas money and ad hoc gifts from relatives were saved up with such frugality that I rarely spent any extra money on anything else. An occasional illegal beer on a night out, quaffed slowly, was really my only other expenditure. These were definitely simpler times but Chelsea was everything to me. The game against the Geordies, on Saturday 16 April, could not come quick enough.

As a quick aside, on the preceding Thursday I had met up with a couple of Canadian relatives who were touring England at the time. My father’s cousin Mary was chaperoning her daughter Marina on a school band trip. I met Marina for the first time one evening in nearby Bath. I, sadly, already knew that Marina was a Manchester United supporter. She kindly presented me with a Chelsea scarf, but also a few of Vancouver Whitecap items. Marina and both her parents were Whitecaps season ticket holders. No doubt I tut-tutted when I saw Marina wearing an actual United shirt. Anyway, for reasons beast known to Marina, she had been wearing the Chelsea scarf on her travels around England but the coach driver had warned her to take it off as she would get beaten up. This, I thought, was a bit excessive, but no doubt fed into the narrative of Chelsea Football Club being famous, only, for hooliganism in 1983.

Fast-forwarding to 2023, I have three games to mention.

On Bank holiday Monday, I watched Frome Town defeat local rivals Melksham Town 2-1, winning the game with a last-minute goal from Jon Davies in front of 491.

On the Wednesday, I watched at home on my computer as Chelsea lost 0-2 against Real Madrid at the Bernabeu. Such is my level of expectancy at the moment that I was relatively happy that we didn’t get beaten more heavily.

Then, on Thursday evening I returned to see Frome Town defeat strugglers Cinderford Town 5-1. This game attracted 425, a gate helped by a fine sponsorship deal involving local businesses allowing fans to enter for free. The football against Melksham and Cinderford was the best all season and, as daft as it now seemed, Frome now have an outside chance of sneaking into the last two play-off positions, currently held by Wimborne Town and Tavistock.

On the morning of the Brighton game at Stamford Bridge, a sizeable part of me wished that I was staying in Somerset to see a third Frome game in six days, another derby against Paulton Rovers.

But Chelsea was calling.

As often is the case, the pre-match was far more enjoyable than the main event. I met up with Ollie from Normandy once again and also my Brighton mate Mac and two of his friends Barry and Guy. We enjoyed a fine time in “The Eight Bells.” I arrived at about midday. PD and Parky were already there. Salisbury Steve would join us too. We just about fitted around a table.

Ollie told me that he much prefers the older stadia in England as opposed to the new ones. He is yet to visit The Emirates and has no desire to do so. He much prefers the likes of Goodison Park, Fratton Park and Selhurst Park. We promised each other to meet up at Turf Moor next season.

Mac and I are soon celebrating ten years of friendship; we started chatting about football in a Manhattan bar in late May 2013 and have kept in touch ever since. Our two teams play, ironically, in the US in July. I, for one, won’t be there. Barry asked me for advice about travelling to Wembley as they are playing Manchester United in an FA Cup semi-final next weekend. This ties in nicely with my 1982/83 retrospective as in that season’s FA Cup Final, Brighton took eventual winners Manchester United to a replay.

It honestly didn’t seem six months ago that we were all drinking in Lewes before that shocking 1-4 defeat at the Amex. And who would have thought that both of our teams would now be hosting Argentinian World Cup winners?

Alexis Mac Allister – no relation – I would realise, was playing for Boca Juniors at the time that I saw them play Atletico Tucamen in January 2020, although he did not take part in that particular game. On the previous night, however, I did see his brother Francis play for Argentinos Juniors against Lanus.

Like me, Mac gets no thrills from watching England play these days. And also like me, he hardly watches football on TV if it doesn’t involve his team. His wife can’t understand it.

“But you are a football fan. Why don’t you watch?”

“I’m a Brighton fan.”

I had a knowing chuckle.

And I summed up my reluctance to get emotionally involved with England these days.

“Why bother watching millionaires who play for teams I hate?”

My bluntness shocked me, God knows what the others thought.

We made our way to Putney Bridge tube, Ollie’s Army, an updated version of Oliver’s Army.

“The boys from Somerset, Wiltshire, Sussex and Normandy…”

The rain had held off; the sun was out. I was in at around 2.30pm, perfect.

Frank’s starting eleven?

Kepa

Chalobah – Fofana – Badiashile – Chilwell

Enzo – Zakaria – Gallagher

Pulisic – Sterling – Mudryk

A few question marks there. The forward line certainly didn’t thrill me. And a return to a flat-back four? Righty-oh.

The new pre-match of Blur, Harry J. All-Stars and – er – the Foo Fighters.

A sign was unfurled in The Shed.

“WELCOME HOME SUPER FRANK.”

But this was as low key as it gets.

Not many people that I spoke to expected a win. I have been saying all season long that our position does not lie and that Brentford, Fulham and Brighton are better than us. I still could not see where a goal was coming from. It was four games in a row now. I mentioned our horrific end to 1980/81 to a few souls; “nine games with not one single goal.”

Gulp.

There was no emotional backdrop of noise welcoming Frank Lampard back at Stamford Bridge. I’ll admit that it seemed odd, super-odd, to be seeing him in navy blue in front of the East Stand once more, our first sighting since the Everton game slightly more than three years ago. What a crazy time it has been since.

COVID, football behind closed doors, Lampard sacked, Tuchel in, European Cup glory, a war in Ukraine, sanctions, Roman Abramovich ousted, reduced-capacities, Lampard to Everton, Clearlake in, Billy Gimour to Brighton, Levi Colwell to Brighton, Marc Cucarella to Chelsea, Tuchel sacked, Potter to Chelsea, De Zerbi to Brighton, Chelsea walloped at Brighton 4-1, Lampard sacked at Everton, Potter sacked at Chelsea, Lampard returning to Chelsea, Tottenham still shite.

Football, eh? Fackinell.

The game began with Brighton looking the most-threatening in the opening spell. After just two minutes, I thought they had scored via Kaoru Mitoma but cross was touched wide at the near post by Mac Allister.

In a very open start to the game, a Mykhailo Mudryk run from deep promised much before he was felled unceremoniously by Joel Veltman. There then followed a cross from Mudryk that was deflected away for a corner by Lewis Dunk. The Ukranian then followed this up with a shot from thirty yards that went wide.

Next, breathless stuff this, a chance for Brighton with the goal gaping but wide. They then hit the bar a minute later, Evan Ferguson digging one out from outside the box. Trevoh Chalobah and Benoit Badiashile were looking nervous in their first starts for a while.

On ten minutes, the first “Super Frank” chant but it was hardly deafening.

On fourteen minutes, probably against the run of play, Mudryk broke in from the left, advanced, and played the ball back to Conor Gallagher. His strike was on target but hit Lewis Dunk – the own goal king a few years ago – and spun high and over Robert Sanchez in the Brighton goal.

Bloody hell, a goal, I hardly knew how to react.

Phew.

We had spoken about getting a little luck to break our recent drought and this was just right. Conor reeled away, a former Palace player, and celebrated in front of the Albion fans.

Sadly, we didn’t push on and Kepa soon had to be called into action to thwart the away team’s advances. Twice in a minute he saved us. First, he claimed a high ball into the six-yard box and then ran out to block.

On twenty-five minutes, the elusive Mitoma slalomed into the box but Kepa did ever so well to save low.

The atmosphere was quiet. I was yet to join in with anything.

On the half-hour, three more Brighton chances. A really fine break at pace carved through our lines but the end result flew wide. Another shot was blocked. Then Kepa saved well from point blank range, a Ferguson header palmed over.

This was turning into a very ropey Chelsea performance indeed. On thirty-seven minutes, a rare attack saw Wesley Fofana cross from the right, but it was slightly too high for Raheem Sterling to either head goal wards or properly steer the ball back to Mudryk.

Just before the break, Brighton moved the ball well and a hanging cross came in from the right. I was hoping that Chalobah would be able to head away, but the ball fell between him and Fofana, and new substitute Danny Welbeck pounced.

1-1.

My sadness temporarily evaporated when a friend messaged me to say that Frome had gone 2-0 up against Paulton. As I shouted over to PD with this information, no doubt with a smile, I was filled with absolute guilt.

The away support boomed loudly.

“ALBION! ALBION!”

Just before the whistle, a fine move from us but a save from Sanchez at the near stick.

At least there were no boos at half-time.

At the break, Gary Cahill, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink and Eidur Gudjohnsen appeared on the pitch, promoting the good work carried out by the Samaritans.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Eidur and Jimmy were a fine partnership up front for us. My God, how I wished one of them, or even both, could lose twenty years and parachute into the current squad.

I took a photo as they exited the pitch down below me.

The second-half began. There were no substitutions.

Early on, Kepa needed to be called into action again, saving well on two occasions. There was a fine diagonal out to Ben Chilwell down below us but although he advanced well, his shot was weak.

Chalobah raked the shin of a Brighton player and was booked. This elicited the humorous response from Brighton : “You dirty northern bastards.”

Our play just wasn’t joined up.

On fifty-seven minutes, a quadruple change.

Reece James for Fofana.

Hakim Ziyech for Pulisic.

Mateo Kovacic for Enzo.

Joao Felix for Sterling.

I was only disappointed with the Enzo substitution, but I suspected that the Argentinian was being saved for Tuesday against Real Madrid. Still four at the back.

This new injection of players seemed to wake the crowd up from our collective slumber.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

At last I joined in.

My poor performance had mirrored that of virtually all of the players.

Just after, there was a mix-up between James and Chalobah on our right and we were pickpocketed. Julio Enciso’s shot slammed against a post but Welbeck could not touch home the rebound.

It was all Brighton. All the tackles. All the movement. All the passing. We were being given a horrible lesson in team work.

PD chirped : “I’ve got Samaritans on speed dial.”

With sixty-five minutes gone, at last we perked up a little. A shot from Kovacic was blocked by that man Dunk. At long last, the noise boomed around a sunny Stamford Bridge and it was a joy to hear.

However, all this was to be deadened. On sixty-nine minutes, a wonder strike from Enciso gave the visitors an absolutely deserved lead. We had given the ball away cheaply and the resultant rising shot was magnificent.

Brighton had never won at Stamford Bridge before. The scorer celebrated in front of their supporters. I strongly suspected that this would be their first victory.

A few minutes later, Mason Mount replaced Zakaria.

I turned to Clive : “you wouldn’t even know he was playing would you?”

On seventy-eight minutes, an enlivened Mudryk broke away and reached the bye-line but appeared to play the ball too far behind our attackers. The low ball found Mount but he leaned back and the ball flew high over the bar.

Neat interplay allowed Gallagher – out best outfield player – to wriggle in to the box but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Reece drilled in a beautiful cross into the six-yard box but sadly Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was nowhere to be seen.

In the last minute, Mudryk cut in and sent a riser just over. To be fair, he had shown very occasional glimpses throughout the game. I haven’t given up on him just yet.

The away fans were the only ones singing now.

“We are Brighton, super Brighton. We are Brighton from the south.”

At the final whistle, boos.

This was yet another tough watch and it seemed that virtually all of our games this season – Tuchel, Potter, Lampard – have been a tough watch.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about the club’s choice to play “Three Little Birds” as we trudged out. Better than the fucking Foo Fighters, I suppose.

So, were there any pluses from the day? Kepa had played well, saving us on many occasions. But this was a rare positive. If he was a 7, maybe Gallagher was a 6, maybe Mudryk a 5, with everyone else 4 or less. It was grim. And by the time I had reached home – early, at 8.30pm – the internet was full of supporters getting off on ripping into Lampard – some were actually enjoying it as far as I could see – while some were talking about boycotting the remaining games. I honestly didn’t know what to make of it.

In the midst of this gloom, I saw that Tottenham lost at home to Bournemouth, so that raised a smile..

Frome won 2-0 in front of another gate of 491. It had meant that the club had enticed 1,407 into three home games over just six days; a fine achievement. While Chelsea play Real Madrid on Tuesday, Frome will visit already promoted Totton.

Don’t worry, I will be at Stamford Bridge.

Bring a hard hat. See you there.

1982/83 & 2022/23

Tales From The Wrong Seat

Posted on January 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 21 January 2023.

I think that I am going to enjoy writing this one.

Going into our match at Anfield, there was much gallows humour about this being a mid-table clash, a battle for ninth position, and that some fancied our chances because “they are bloody worse than we are”. It must surely be a while since Liverpool and Chelsea have occupied such lowly positions ahead of a league encounter.

There was a nice little bit of symmetry ahead of the game; our first match this season was at Goodison against Everton and the match at Anfield would be our twentieth. Therefore, both halves of the current campaign would commence on Merseyside.

I was up early. The alarm sounded at 4.30am and after de-frosting the car and picking up a couple of tinned coffees for the journey at a local garage, I collected PD and then Glenn at 6am, and Lord Parky bang on 6.30am as planned.

We were full of talk about the club for the first half-an-hour, with Glenn bemoaning many in the media, both social and unsocial, for calling our new buying policy “scattergun” and with me being foolish enough to admit the fact that I fancied a win later in the day.

We stopped at Strensham on the M5 for a quick breakfast between 7.40am and 8am, and I then made a bee-line for Merseyside. As I slowed down to a halt to wait for a green light to turn onto Queens Drive, we spotted “The Rocket” pub to our left; the very pub where hundreds of Scousers had been stranded ahead of the Champions League Final in Paris last May, the victims of a prank by playful Evertonians.

At this moment, amidst a little side-chat about the merits of managers Thomas Tuchel and Graham Potter, and how fans have moaned about both, I summed things up as succinctly as I have ever done.

“Well, we’ve been going through a rebuild since Conte left. And since then, we have won the Europa League, the Champions League and are current World Champions. That’s not a bad rebuilding stage, is it?”

I was half-tempted to drive past the new Everton stadium at Bramley Moore Dock to check on its considerable progress since I visited the site in August, but we just wanted to get parked up and into Anfield. The five months that have elapsed since game one in August seemed like five minutes. I was parked up outside the away turnstiles at Goodison Park just after 10.30am; the price had increased from £10 in 2021 to £15 in 2023. Outside, the winter weather was biting hard. We headed off up the gentle slope to the top of Stanley Park with parts still touched by frost. The extension to the Anfield Road end, where we would be stationed, dominated my focus.

It was eleven o’clock. Just right. While I waited outside for a while to hand over a spare ticket, the others marched inside. Two Liverpool team buses appeared from my right and were then swallowed up by the huge shutter doors beneath the gigantic new stand. Mobile phones were held aloft by the hundreds of Liverpool fans. This must be a regular occurrence, part of the Anfield routine. But there was no real buzz about the place. Times must be hard at both ends of Stanley Park these days. Since my last visit, a mural of Ian Rush had been painted on the end wall of some terraced houses. There were voices and accents from everywhere.

The weather was tough. I have never seen so many North Face jackets and bobble-less hats.

I chatted to many fellow Chelsea fans.

“They are shite. They’re worse than us.”

“Yeah, I fancy us today, God knows why.”

Kim arrived and I handed her a ticket. At the security checks, I had the usual little panic that my camera would be shown the red card but the seemingly short-sighted security guard just frisked me without spotting the camera bag draped over my shoulder.

In.

I checked my ticket but soon spotted that I had mistakenly ended up with the ticket intended for Kim in row 20. Not to worry, Kim would be with Parky, John, Al and Gal down in row 7. Not a problem. There were only fifteen minutes to go so there was no time to waste. As I edged through the tight concourse, I was aware of a new song being enthusiastically chanted by the younger element.

…”said to me.”

I entered the familiar away end and my spot was in line with the touchline in front of the main stand, not as far jammed into the corner as I had feared. This was my twenty-sixth visit to Anfield, level-pegging with visits to Old Trafford; only five Chelsea wins at each venue, though. That pre-match hope for a win suddenly seemed unlikely.

There was rail-standing in the away quadrant now. Of all places, standing at Anfield. I never thought I would see it.

I once stood on the old Kop, though, and this was way different.

Joe Cole, Steven Gerrard and Rio Ferdinand took part in pitch-side interviews. Joey was serenaded. And so was Gerrard. As he walked past us – he must have dreaded that – he momentarily cupped his hands over his ears.

The usual pre-match ritual at Anfield.

Flags on poles, banners, huge crowd-surfing mosaics, the teams, mascots, the PA announcer with ridiculously low voice, The Kop waiting for “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and scarves held aloft.

I remembered my first visit in April 1985 when a big pot of Crown Paint used to take pride of place on the centre spot.

Noticeably, I spotted the highest concentration of scarves in the lower corners of the main stand and the Centenary Stand – née Kemlyn Road – where those Rangers fans congregated in November 1985.

Our team?

I tried, again, to work it all out.

Kepa in goal.

A back four of Cucarella, Badiashile, Silva and Chalobah.

Lewis Hall was tucked into midfield, somewhere, maybe just alongside Jorginho.

A three of Mount on the left, Gallagher in the middle, Ziyech wide right.

Kai Havertz up top.

Liverpool’s team involved players such as Gakpo and Bajcetic, and these two were completely unfamiliar to me. They reminded me of the final hopeless selection of letters in a game of “Scrabble”

Here we were. At the football again. Waiting to see Chelsea again. Everyone together, the lucky ones, the lucky three-thousand. This meant that I was thankfully able to avoid the unappetising avalanche of buzzwords that the TV folk habitually, and without any self-awareness, foist on our poor ears.

“The press”, “transition”, “between the lines”, “little pockets”, “overload”, “high press”, “low block”, it goes on and on, like a relentless deluge of shite. On a recent “MOTD2” I am sure I heard Danny Murphy mention “overload” three times in ten seconds without the merest hint of irony.

Fuck adventures in TV Land.

We were at the football.

“Into them Chelsea.”

As the game kicked-off, no surprises us attacking The Kop, four spaces to my left were unfilled. Not long into the match, four young lads sidled in. Up in front of The Kop, my eyes straining in the mist, a corner came over from Conor Gallagher and in the resulting melee we gasped as the ball was thwacked against the left-hand post. A leg prodded the rebound home, the net gently rippling.

“GET IN.”

Now then dear reader, there have certainly been tough moments in my recent history when I have questioned my devotion to the cause, especially in the post-COVID era, and I have publicly shared my concerns about me losing the passion for football and maybe even Chelsea. So I am so pleased to report that at 12.33pm on Saturday 21 January in the Anfield Road Stand, there was no ambivalence nor doubt. I, like the thousands around me, was going fucking doolally.

My celebration of choice on this occasion was a Stuart Pearson fist pump, but a double one for good measure.

I turned to the lads to my left…”great timing.”

Alas, we then suffered that horrible delay that these days suggests that VAR was about to rear its ugly ahead once again.

When the goal was disallowed, Mr. Deep Voice on the PA mumbled something incomprehensible. There was no follow-up explanation on the screens. Unlike those in TV Land, I was left to ponder the mystery of why the goal was disallowed.

Modern football.

Unlike in our last visit in August 2021, there would be no Anfield goal for Kai Havertz this time.

Both teams started brightly enough, and Liverpool started to attack. I could hardly believe that James Fucking Milner was starting for them. Gakpo fired over. On a quarter of an hour, things were even.

We then hit a decent spell. There were a couple of lovely long bombs from Thiago Silva towards Kai Havertz, one slightly over hit, another better, but a slip from Mount when free. Havertz then played in Hall, but his shot from an angle was wild. There was a lovely cushioned lay-off from Havertz, a lot more physical in this game, for Gallagher. This was good stuff, or at least, better than we had been used to.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Let’s sing that all season.

The home crowd was so quiet, easily the quietest that I had ever witnessed at Anfield. We were yet to hear the infamous “History” chant.

Two crosses from a reassuringly decent Ziyech caused a few concerns in the Liverpool box.

The new song was aired again and I spent a ridiculous amount of my time trying to work out the lyrics.

I liked the look of Benoit Badashile again, and even Marc Cucarella was impressing. The youngster Lewis Hall was having a tough game though. Silva was as imperious as ever. Gallagher was fantastic, charging balls down, running to close space, maybe not winning the ball, but forcing a mistake for others to gather the ball.

Liverpool did cut through us on a couple of occasions but their final passes, and shots, were poor.

Just before the half-time whistle, at last an audible chant from The Kop.

…”where we watched King Kenny play.”

Mo Salah took a touch when in previous years he might well have volleyed without much thought, and the ball curled high and wide.

Advantage Chelsea at the break? I think so.

At half-time, I noted empty seats in the afore-mentioned lower corners of the side stands, proof that these were hospitality areas in addition to the top tier of the Centenary and the middle tier of the main stand. Does this matter? It just shows how clubs are going after the extra-revenue these days. They’re going after day trippers, the tourists, the moneyed classes, the same old story.

Less and less seats for the average Joe. More and more for the average Johann, Jan, Jonty and Julian.

And although – I know from experience – many of English football’s overseas fans are wildly passionate about their teams, I shudder at the thought of a bigger and bigger percentage of ticket sales being aimed at the corporate sector. It used to be a game for the working classes. I can’t imagine what Bill Shankly would think of it all.

No wonder Anfield was quiet.

By the way, it made me chuckle that among the electronic messages that advertised hospitality packages on the perimeter of the pitch there was the stunning revelation that match day tickets were included. Thanks for clarifying that, Liverpool Football Club.

There were prolonged chants in honour of John Terry and it soon became known that our former captain was in the away section with us. I am guessing but I think he was maybe ten or fifteen yards away from me though I never saw him. I remember him at Burnley too.

I remembered a famous photo of Shanks in The Kop after he had left the club, unable to let go.

We began the second-half poorly, so poorly. The first two minutes seemed to take an eternity. There was an outrageous effort from Ibrahima Konate that was walloped from the half-way line towards Kepa at The Kop. Thankfully, it dropped just wide. There were a few more Liverpool attempts. This was desperate.

It was also still bloody freezing. It was bloody freezing in January 1983 too. There, that’s the 1982/83 reference taken care of.

On fifty-five minutes, Graham Potter replaced the struggling Lewis Hall with the Ukranian Mykhailo Mudryk, the undoubted subject of the new song, and from my vantage point I was able to capture him entering the field, his first touch, his first few dribbles and spins in the wide expanses of our left. In the end, my “wrong seat” had turned out to be a God send.

On the hour, Ziyech came in from his right wing position and drifted past player after player…each time the away end pleaded with him to shoot…and in the end his effort was typically high and wide.

Soon, Mudryk had us all purring, playing a “give-and-go” with Gallagher and spinning into the box, but we groaned as his effort only troubled the side netting. Soon after, Milner cruelly chopped him down. But Mudryk looked the business, he excited us all.

A rare Liverpool chance, but Kepa was able to thwart Gakpo’s goal-bound prod with a fine save.

We went on the attack again, and at times our play was a joy to behold. On seventy-one minutes, the best move of the match – full of quick passing – resulted in a Ziyech cross hitting the far post area but with nobody able to connect. A shot from Ziyech was blocked.

With ten minutes to go, more changes.

Dave for Trevoh.

Sadly, our defender had picked up a knock, such is life in the Chelsea trenches these days.

Carney for Mase.

Mount had been quiet for much of the game.

Pierre-Emerick for Kai.

I liked the effort from Havertz in this game. He was more involved than before. More up for the fight.

The away crowd were in fine form now. We had spotted a new desire in the team and we roared the team on with every sinew. Just the way it should be.

“You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never notice how much we love you. Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Fantastic stuff.

Dave, off the pace at times these days, was excellent in his cameo at the end of the game.

I was convinced that we would strike at the death but our chances sadly petered out. But this was a fine day out from us. It felt, whisper it, that a corner had been turned.

I wished that I had sussed out the new song though.

We walked back to the car amid a lovely exuberance. This was a special feeling.

I pulled out of the car park at 3pm and circumnavigated Goodison Park’s four stands and it honestly felt as though I might never be returning. Those blue stands have given me plenty of memories over the years. Out onto the Bullens Road, past the Dixie Dean statue, past the Winslow Hotel, thoughts of my father in the Second World War, past the player’s entrance – I remembered a recent ‘photo of Pele walking across the street in 1966 – past the Holy Trinity statue, past the Gwladys Street turnstiles and away.

It took me a whole hour to get past The Rocket and onto the M62.

Everton were to lose 2-0 at West Ham of all places.

”Frank’s gone, isn’t he?”

The four of us stopped off at “The Vine” – yet again – at West Bromwich at around 5.30pm where we each enjoyed glorious curries.

Lamb Rogan Josh, Chicken Balti, Lamb Madras, Chicken Jalfrezi.

There was a quick review from myself of our starting; “Conor Gallagher an eight, everyone else sevens apart from Mount a six and Hall a five.”

There was more chat about the match. We all admitted that we might have been getting a little carried away about our performance – ”after all, it was only Liverpool” – and we were sure that “MOTD” would dismiss it as a poor game, but for those of us of a Chelsea disposition, we definitely spotted a new belief, a more rounded performance, and better quality. We mused that the last five games against Liverpool had all consisted of draws. Well, more or less.

There was patchy fog all of the way back, but horrific clawing fog around Frome.

I eventually reached home at 9.30pm.

It had been a good day.

Tales From A Long Day At The Start Of A Long Month

Posted on October 2, 2022 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 1 October 2022.

My alarm sounded at 6.45am.

Good morning universe.

Here I was, here we were, back in action after an enforced lay-off. Our last game was the home match with Salzburg some seventeen days ago. Yet in this new month of October we faced nine games in just twenty-nine days. The plan will be to try and attend all of them. We were to begin this manic month with a trip to Selhurst Park for a game with Crystal Palace.

My weekend had begun with yet another concert – my sixth in a summer and autumn of music – that involved an act that was around in 1982. On Friday, I saw Toyah perform at the local venue in Frome.

She had opened the set with “Good Morning Universe” and it was stuck in my mind as I drove home after the concert. And it evidently remained in my ahead until the next morning too.

Toyah was a huge name in the UK music scene from 1980 to 1982, but her stardom soon drifted. I had seen her perform to a pretty small crowd in Frome back in 2015, but her popular “Sunday Lunch” videos with husband Robert Fripp, since lockdown in 2020, have put her back into the public eye once again. For someone who is sixty-four, her show was full of energy. I enjoyed it. The venue was packed.

There was always a slight resemblance between Toyah and my first-ever girlfriend from the summer of 1982. Although I did not dwell too much on it at the time, it later dawned on me that Toyah had a lisp, and that my girlfriend had the slightest of lisps too. I was always so delighted that Toyah’s determination to overcome a speech impediment allowed her to fulfil her career path. Forty years on, my own speech impediment still rears its very ugly head at unsuspecting moments and I hate it now as I fucking hated it then.

As I watched the singer on stage in Frome, my mind kept catapulting me back to summer and early autumn some four decades ago.

Here comes another seamless slide into 1982/83.

My reflective look at “the worst season of them all” continues with two Second Division games from forty years ago.

On Saturday 18 September, Chelsea played Oldham Athletic at Stamford Bridge. This game was notable as marking the debut of firebrand striker David Speedie who we had acquired from Barnsley for £80,000 in the previous May. I honestly cannot remember why his first start was delayed. The new boy got off to a flier, scoring two with a goal in each half. The attendance was 10,263. I remember being disappointed with this gate but philosophical too. In those days, such a gate was often reached by a few of the smaller clubs in the then First Division. My diary noted that I was “pleased that we thrashed Oldham 2-0” and I doubt that I was being ironic. A win, any win, in those forlorn days was definitely a thrashing. Trust me.

A week later, Chelsea travelled up to Hillsborough to play Sheffield Wednesday, who were always one of the bigger and more-fancied sides in the division at that time. The team remained unchanged from the Oldham game. The youngster Steve Francis in goal. A back four of Micky Nutton, Gary Chivers, Micky Droy and Chris Hutchings. A midfield of Mike Fillery, John Bumstead, Tony McAndrew and Paul Canoville. The striking partnership of Colin Lee and David Speedie upfront. The new season’s starting striker Pop Robson was already – ominously – relegated to a substitute role. A pretty decent attendance of 18,833 assembled for this game. Sadly, the home team went ahead after just twelve minutes and scored two more goals in the second period before two late Chelsea strikes from Fillery and Lee probably gave the result a much closer ending than it deserved.

I can confirm that I was at home that afternoon, listening to the score updates on Radio Two, because I can remember what was happening elsewhere at other games in England on that particular afternoon. It turned out to be a Saturday for the record books. As always, the striking music that heralded “Sports Report” at five o’clock, followed by the measured tones of James Alexander Gordon as he read out the day’s results, was the highlight of the afternoon. The Scot’s raising or falling intonation would allow the listener to know the result even before the scores were completed. He was a master of his craft.

“Sheffield Wednesday – rising – three, Chelsea – falling – OH SHIT WE’VE LOST – two.”

On this particular day, throughout the Football League, it was raining goals. We have not witnessed the like of it in English football ever since. The First Division led the way. In its eleven games, a mammoth fifty goals were scored.

Aston Villa 2 Swansea City 0

Brighton 1 Birmingham City 0

Coventry 4 Everton 2

Liverpool 5 Southampton 0

Manchester United 0 Arsenal 0

Norwich City 1 West Brom 3

Notts County 0 Ipswich Town 6

Stoke City 4 Luton Town 4

Tottenham 4 Nottingham Forest 1

Watford 8 Sunderland 0

West Ham 4 Manchester City 1

Meanwhile, in Division Three, Doncaster Rovers walloped Reading 7-5 at home. However, one Reading player scored four and still ended up on the losing team. His name? Kerry Dixon.

Chelsea’s start to the new campaign had been fair-to-middling. Nothing more. After seven league games, we had won two, drawn three and lost two. It was hardly inspiring stuff from a team that had finished in twelfth position the previous season. But they were my team, my club, and I loved them dearly. On the near horizon was a trip to Stamford Bridge to see Chelsea play Leeds United and, even forty years later, the thrill of the anticipation of that match still resonates.

As I have often documented, a trip to Crystal Palace’s stadium, deep in the hinterlands of South London, is always a troublesome one. I had been monitoring the best way in for a few days and all of the technical aids at my disposal were adamant that after collecting PD and Glenn, and finally, Lordy, the quickest route would be along the M4. So, this was what I did. Lordy was picked-up at 8.30am, but on nearing Swindon, our world caved in. There was a diversion ahead and so I was forced first south and then north of the motorway along smaller roads. It probably cost us an hour.

At Reading Services, I reset my sat-nav and it was sending me right into the heart of London rather than around the M25.

I drove on.

The route in was familiar. It took me along the A4, up to the junction with the North End Road, past those familiar Chelsea match day pubs. It even took me along Lillee Road, only a few yards from where I normally park for home games. But then, with the realisation that the national train strike had forced thousands onto the road network, our plans were hit hard again. Our slow drive through Fulham took the best part of an hour. We were not aided by some very slow changing temporary traffic lights just before Wandsworth Bridge. Eventually, around five-and-a-half bastard hours after leaving sleepy Somerset, we were parked up at my JustPark spot on Woodville Road with the massive TV pylon that dominates that hilly part of South London clearly visible yet still over two miles away. This huge structure was the tallest in London until as recently as 1990. We had given up on getting a drink before the game, but as we headed towards the already overflowing “Prince George”, we spotted a few friends drinking on the pavement outside a small jerk chicken café. We crossed the road to join them.

Rachel from Devon and Donna from Somerset were there. Rob from South West London was there, but without his mate Bob who was in Somerset watching his local team Waltham & Hersham in the FA Cup against Taunton Town. He has evidently reached that key stage – “local non-league team over Chelsea” – before me but I know that time will come for me too.

Drinks were guzzled. A blue flare was let off on the pavement outside the pub opposite. PD and Parky shot off to collect a ticket. Glenn and I set off just before 2.30pm to sort out tickets too.

By 2.40pm, I was in the queue for the Arthur Wait.

“Makes a bloody change to get to a game at Selhurst Park and it’s not pissing with rain.”

There was the usual bag check. While I waited in line, I spotted a listing of “prohibited items” on a poster next to the turnstile. Featured was an image of a camera with a “detachable lens” and the cold sweats came on. I had memories of the last encounter with Crystal Palace, at Wembley, and we all know how that ended. Thankfully, my camera was allowed in.

I shuffled through the packed concourse.

Selhurst Park. If it didn’t exist, you’d have to invent it.

However, for all of its cramped inefficiencies, people would soon lament its passing should it ever be replaced by a single-tiered stadium – “soul-less bowl” is the go-to phrase, eh? – either on the same site or elsewhere.

Each stand is different. Opposite our viewing area is the main stand, an Archibald Leitch original, eerily similar to the Johnny Haynes Stand at Fulham, and thus, the old East Stand at Stamford Bridge. To the right, the slight tier of seats of the Whitehorse Lane Stand, with ugly executive boxes above. In the corner between the two stands is the platform where Bex and his cohorts appeared in the original “The Firm” film from 1989. To the left, the steep two-tiered Holmesdale Road Stand, with its curved roof, a throwback to the Edwardian era but the newest of all the current stands. The Arthur Wait Stand was once all standing, and it remains a dark and brooding beast of a stand. The three thousand Chelsea fans, as always, were to be based here, though this hasn’t always been the case. The sightlines aren’t great. In fact, with my position in row eight, down low, I soon decided early on to try not to snap too many photos since my view of the game would be so poor.

A few friends spoke of similarly difficult journeys to the stadium. As kick-off approached, I spotted many clusters of empty seats in the home stands. Palace surely have a more local fan base than us, but I suppose the train strike must have had an adverse effect on numbers. It is a pet peeve that not all attendances are published either online or in the Sunday ‘papers these days. It has all changed after all of those games without fans in the nightmarish seasons of 2019/20 and 2020/21. Not even Chelsea’s home programme includes attendance figures anymore. So, maybe we’ll not know the official attendance for a while, anyway.

This annoys the fuck out of me.

My spreadsheet has half-empty columns.

And what is a world with half-empty columns, eh?

Kick-off approached. The teams entered from that far corner. It suddenly dawned on me that we would be wearing that God-awful away strip. Overhead, there were clouds but there was no hint of rain. I was glad that a rain jacket was left back in the car. I was wearing a subtle-coloured Marc O’Polo sweatshirt; an homage to one I that bought in 1986 or so when that particular brand was much-loved by football fanciers at the time. If the 1986 version was apple green, this one was more mint.

There was a minute of silence in remembrance of Queen Elizabeth II and this was followed by a hearty rendition of “God Save The King.”

This, of course, was Graham Potter’s first league game in charge.

In a “Costa Coffee” on the walk to the stadium, I had briefly spoken to fellow-fan Andy about the switch.

“Is Potter an upgrade on Tuchel?”

I just shrugged my shoulders, unsure.

The game kicked-off and it was clear that we were playing four at the back.

Kepa

James – Fofana – Silva – Chilwell

Jorginho – Kovacic

Then God knows what…

Sterling – Havertz – Aubameyang – Mount

From my position down low, it wasn’t clear.

The game began and we dominated the first – er – seven, count’em, minutes. Thiago Silva was our main pass master, touching the ball often, and looking to play balls in to others. However, the home team had hardly touched the bloody ball when Wesley Fofana gave up possession too easily and the ball quickly found Jordan Ayew. I watched in horror as his perfectly whipped-in cross dropped perfectly at the foot of Odsonne Edouard and Kepa was beaten. Sadly, I caught this goal on camera, but thankfully the image is too blurred for my stringent quality assurance department to allow it to be shared.

It was a killer cross. But where was our defence? Answers on a postcard.

Michael Olise impressed me with his direct play in front of me, but it was Eberechi Ebe who then forced Kepa into action.

With a quarter of an hour gone, we had no attempts on target. Then, an easy header looped up easily into Vicente Guaita’s reach.

Gal was getting annoyed with Aubameyang, though to be fair, the striker had not received much service. It’s difficult when players from rivals find themselves at Stamford Bridge. I know full well that I am going to find it hard to warm to Aubameyang. Is it irrational? Who knows? Gal, from his words – that were certainly annoying the bloke behind me – it will be longer for him to approve of the former Arsenal striker.

Put it this way, at this moment in time, Gal rates Mark Falco more than Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.

There was a header from Mason Mount that flashed wide of the near post.

Halfway through the first period, I leant forward to chat to Calvin : “this is all a bit boring mate.”

Sterling hit the base of a post but I think the move was offside anyway, as was another that quickly followed.

This was hardly inspiring stuff.

The sun was out by now and it was surprisingly hot on this October afternoon.

The central section of around four hundred of their “ultras” – yeah, I know – were now jumping up and down to a chant that was so loud that I couldn’t hear it.

They looked like they were doing some sort of silent flash mob thing.

Bless’em.

(I know they are doing their best to get the atmosphere going, God knows we need it in this bloody country, and they are easy targets…but why just can’t people get behind their teams without this fucking contrived nonsense?)

In their defence, they did produce a few banners in the first-half about the lack of fan involvement in our national game but I am not sure who this was aimed at.

I hope there are similar banners throughout Europe as we rush headlong into the monster of the Qatar World Cup.

There next followed some confusion and more than a little worry. One on one, Silva appeared to hold back Ayew. The defender was booked. VAR then signalled a possible red card. Having not seen the apparent swipe of the ball by Silva’s hand, this was all a bit difficult to work out. Anyway, panic over, no red card.

“Think we got away with that” I said to John, two seats along.

With around ten minutes of the first half remaining, a fine move brought us some cheer. A diagonal found the leap from Silva – strangely well-advanced – and his header found Aubameyang. His quick turn, a swivel, and a shot was exquisite.

GET IN.

The bloke behind might well have ruffled Gal’s hair.

I am sure it wasn’t, but it felt like Aubameyang’s first touch.

It certainly seemed to me that it was an unlikely goal. Unsuspected. Out of the, er, blue.

Chelsea roared : “How shit must you be? Our number nine scored.”

In the closing moments of the half, a back-pass to Gaita was punished with a direct free-kick inside the box. More anguish from the under-performing Mount as his shot cleared the near post. There had been a lovely loose run from Havertz, drifting with ease, past several defenders and I was prepared to celebrate one of the great goals but the shot drifted wide of the far post.

There was time for a quick photo-call with Lordy at half-time.

Soon into the second-half, Potter replaced Jorginho with Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

His slow trudge across the pitch suggested to me – maybe it was just me, I am sure it was – that he realised that he had eventually been found out.

We had a couple of half-chances as the game continued; Chilwell over, a shot blocked from Havertz. Sterling was as lively as anyone, but our link-up play was a little too laboured for my liking, and the away crowd was getting a little frustrated.

As for the defenders, James was the star. I hardly noticed Wilfred Zaha at all.

An upturn in our form was mirrored in the Arthur Wait.

“On when the blues go steaming in, oh when the blues go steaming in, I want to be in that number, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

“Oh when the blues.”

“Go steaming in.”

“I want to be in that number, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

“Oh when the blues.”

“Go steaming in.”

“I want to be in that number, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

It was deafening. Top work everyone.

This was followed by an equally loud “Ten men went to mow.”

Lovely stuff.

With twenty minutes, two superb saves from Kepa, foiling Zaha on both occasions.

On seventy-six minutes, a double switch.

Conor Gallagher for Havertz.

Armando Broja for Aubameyang.

The play creaked along.

A look towards Alan.

“Shite, mate.”

He nodded.

I spent some moments preparing an epitaph to post on “Facebook” at the final whistle.

On eight-five minutes, a final substitution.

Christian Pulisic for the poor Mount.

The epitaph was nearing completion.

“That was a hard watch. Milan must be quaking in their boots. At least Frome Town won.”

Just at that moment, maybe two seconds later, a sideways push of the ball from Pulisic to Gallagher.

A touch, a shot.

I watched the ball fly into the goal despite what looked like a valiant attempt by Guaita to claw it over. His fingertips could not deny us a goal.

I roared.

The away end roared.

Fackinell.

Alan : “they’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “come on my little diamonds.”

For the second time in eight months, a last minute goal at Selhurst Park had sent us into a frenzy.

At the final whistle, Gal and his nemesis – at it like hammer and tongs in that feisty encounter in the first-half – embraced with smiles.

I thought to myself : “get a room, lads.”

This was a fortuitous win, no doubt. I am not going to enthuse too much about it. I have to say that I am particularly worried about our two games against Milan over the next week or so, but I am filled with a huge sense of anticipation too.

Maybe not as much as the Leeds game in 1982 but you catch my drift I am sure.

In reality, more than a few friends have admitted that if we do drop into the Europa League, at least we might get some good trips out of it.

“The final is in Budapest” Calvin had reminded me.

But it’s just the fear of getting humiliated against Milan that I fear most. Nobody wants that. They should be two huge games. I honestly can’t wait.

With traffic locked, we popped into a cheap and cheerful “Chicken Cottage” – they evidently love their chicken in around Selhurst Park – to let the flow ease up a little and eventually left Thornton Heath at 6.15pm. Via another diversion on the A303, I eventually reached home four hours later.

I had picked PD up at 8am. I had dropped him off at 10pm.

Just in time for “Match of the Day.”

Just right.

Next up, one of the Italian greats.

Chelsea versus Milan at Stamford Bridge.

I’m off to practice some Italian swear words.

See you on Wednesday evening.

Postscript :

The BBC recently took the shocking decision to drop the reading out of all of the classified football scores on Radio Five Live at five ‘clock every Saturday.

Words fail me.

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms

Posted on August 10, 2022 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 6 August 2022.

My summer had been quiet. I never fancied another CFC tour to the US during the close-season, and there was no holiday abroad to excite me. It was simply a case of staying at home, saving pennies and attempting to relax from the burden of work which was as busy as ever. The highlight of my summer season was a little burst of gigs involving some music from my youth; Tom Robinson, Tears For Fears, Stiff Little Fingers and China Crisis. Waiting in the wings in September are Altered Images and Toyah. It will be 1982 all over again and that is never a bad thing.

The summer was also short. The gap between the last game of 2021/22 to the opening match of the new season was a brief ten weeks. As time passed, I became increasingly bored with the constant tittle-tattle of rumour and counter rumour regarding our transfer targets. I realised how much I disliked the mere mention of the name Fabrizio Romano; nobody likes a smart arse. I again squirmed every time fan after fan, supporter after supporter, FIFA nerd after FIFA nerd used the phrase “done deal” without transfers being completed. Once players sign, then we can talk.

Maybe it’s an age thing but sometimes I feel that I am from another footballing planet compared to a lot of our support.

Our season would open up in a grand fashion. To start, my favourite away stadium with a trip to Everton’s Goodison Park and then what I would class as our biggest home game with the visit of Tottenham. Two absolute belters. Early on in the campaign there would also be visits to Leeds United, Southampton and Fulham. These are three cracking away trips too. But the downside of this opening burst of away games is that we only just visited Everton, Leeds and Southampton very recently. Could the league computer not have spaced the buggers out a bit?

As the new season approached, I was inevitably concerned that my enthusiasm levels weren’t at especially high levels, but this is so often the case. I often find that I need the season to begin for me to get fully back into the swing of things. But my indifference to the new campaign actually shocked me this summer.

I was faced with the age-old question: was my love of the game waning? It’s a strange one. Many aspects of the modern game leave me cold. So cold. Yet I lap up the chance to attend live matches. There is the old cliché about football – Chelsea – being my drug and I can’t dispute this. Perhaps I should add that my summer season included four Frome Town friendlies, my most ever.

Football, eh?

I hate you but I love you too.

The alarm was set for the new season at 5.30am. By 7.30am I had collected the Fun Boy Three – PD, GG and LP – and we were on our way once again.

I made good progress. After picking up PD at 7am, I had deposited the three of them outside “The Thomas Frost” boozer on Walton Road just south of Goodison only four hours later. It was surely my quickest-ever journey up to Merseyside.

While my fellow travelling companions settled down for five or more hours of supping, I began a little tour around the city, one that I had been promising myself for ages. It was also time for a little more introspection.

This would be my fiftieth consecutive season of attending Chelsea games – 1973/74 to 2022/23, count’em up – even though my fiftieth anniversary will not be until March 2024. Additionally, this would be the fifteenth season that I been writing these blogs. Long gone are the viewing figures of when these were featured on the Chelsea In America bulletin board, but these are such a part of my match-going routine now and I can’t give them up. However, over the summer one of my close friends, Francis, suggested that I should take a year out of match photography and blogging. Just to give myself a rest. An average blog takes four hours of my time. But the look that I gave him probably shocked him to the core.

“Nah. It’s what I do mate.”

I will be honest, I did go over the options in my mind though.

But here I am. Writing away. Taking photos.

I hope that I still maintain the will to keep doing this for a while yet. With the rumours of us partaking in a partial rebuild of Stamford Bridge under the new Todd Boehly regime, I have to continue on until that is finished surely? The success of the Roman Abramovich era might never be matched but there is always something to write about at Chelsea.

On we go.

On my own now, I edged my car south and west towards the River Mersey. Within five minutes, I was parked up a few hundred yards away from the construction site of the new Everton Stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. Camera in hand, I set off to record the progress being made.

I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.

Snap.

On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.

Splat.

The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.

The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.

One photo taken and carnage.

Ha.

I limped further along Boundary Street and spent a good twenty minutes or so taking it all in. I found it rather funny that a bold sign warned against site photography and sharing images on social media. During my spell there, around fifteen other lads – not being sexist, they were all lads – called by to take some photos too. I am not ashamed to say that I have recently subscribed to two YouTube channels that provide drone updates of the construction sites at Bramley Moore and also Anfield.

I love a stadium, me.

So, the scene that I was witnessing was indeed pretty familiar. The skeletal shell of the new stadium is rising with the two end stands – the south and north – being the first to pierce the sky alongside the murky grey of the famous river. There are seven cranes covering the site. Maybe those lads were just crane spotters.

I must admit it looks a glorious setting for a new stadium. Evertonians – like me, no doubt – will hate the upheaval of moving out of good old Goodison in a couple of years, but the move represents the chance to level up the playing field with their more moneyed neighbours at the top of the hill up on Stanley Park. I had a fear that last season’s visit to Goodison would be my last. I believe that the new stadium is slated to open up during the 2024/25 campaign.

There was a chance – with Everton likely to flirt with relegation again perhaps – that this day would mark my last ever visit to Goodison.

I hoped not.

I have a personal history with this stadium that I have often mentioned.

I marched back to the car and then drove south towards the city centre. I immediately passed a huge derelict warehouse – a tobacco warehouse I believe – and I had visions of the red brick structure being upgraded to a hotel to take care of the new match day traffic that the new stadium would attract.

But I then heard a voice inside my head, of my mate Chris, a staunch Evertonian.

“Chris lad, all our support comes from Merseyside, The Wirral, the new towns, out to the North Wales coast, we don’t have any day trippers, la.”

I continued on. I have driven around the city centre – or at least the area by the Albert Dock – on many occasions but the scale of the Liver Building knocked me for six. What a building. It’s magnificent. But I drove past it – I spotted a massive bar called “Jurgen’s” – and headed up the hill inland. For many years, ten or more, I have wanted to visit the two cathedrals in the city. This was as perfect a day as any to get this accomplished.

I parked outside the massive Anglican Cathedral on St. James Mount. The sandstone used immediately reminded me of the stone used on the tunnels approaching Lime Street – and the “Cockneys Die” graffiti – and of Edge Hill Station on that first-ever visit to the city for football in May 1985. The building is huge. It is the longest cathedral in the world. I popped inside as a service was taking place. The visitors – there were many – walked around in hushed tones. A few photographs were inevitably taken.

I then headed north and then west and aimed for the second of the city’s great cathedrals, or the fourth if the cathedrals at either end of Stanley Park are included, the Metropolitan Cathedral. This Roman Catholic cathedral – made of concrete in the ‘sixties – sits at Mount Pleasant.

Hope Street links the two religious buildings. It looked a very lively place with theatres and eateries. I dived into the granddaddy of all Liverpool’s pubs, The Philharmonic, famous the world over for the elaborate porcelain fittings in the gents. More photographs followed both inside and out of the funkier of the two cathedrals – nicknamed “The Mersey Funnel” and “Paddy’s Wigwam” – and I was lost in my own world for a few moments.

The art deco Philharmonic Hall looked a magnificent site. The TV tower in the city centre was spotted between a canopy of green leaves. There were blue skies overhead. The Liver Birds could be seen peaking over some terraced rooftops. A few hen parties were making Hope Street their own. Maybe on another visit to the city, I will investigate further.

But it was time to move on. I dabbed a CD on as I pulled out of the car park – China Crisis’ Gary Daly’s solo album “Luna Landings”- a 2020 issue of some synth tracks recorded in the ‘eighties – and it was just perfect.

My route took me past some old, and grand, Georgian houses no doubt once owned by the cream of Liverpool’s entrepreneurs, businessmen and traders when a full forty percent of global trade came through the port of Liverpool. But it then took me past Edge Hill, and onto Tue Brook – past the drinking dens of “The Flat Iron” and “The Cabbage Hall” of match days at Anfield in previous years – and everything was a lot more down-at-heal, the Liverpool of hackneyed legend.

At around 3pm I was parked up in Stanley Park. Up to my left, the extension of the Annie Road Stand at Anfield was in full flow. It will bring the capacity up to 61,000. The new Everton one will be just under 53,000.

Ouch, la.

I popped into “The Thomas Frost” – my least favourite football pub – and located the lads, who had been joined by Deano and Dave, plus a cast of what appeared to be thousands. A friend, Kim, had not been able to attend due to COVID so her ticket was passed on to another pal, Sophie. The chaps had witnessed the Fulham and Liverpool 2-2 draw, and PD was shocked at the hatred that the watching Evertonians showed their local rivals.

Heysel robbed Evertonians of a tilt at European glory and it is not forgotten by many.

A song for Marc Cucarella was aired by the younger element. It would become the song of the day.

I excused myself and squeezed out of the boozer.

This particular corner of Liverpool, along the Walton Road, is a classic pre-match location for Everton home games. “The Thomas Frost”, “The Clock”, “The Party Pad” and “St. Hilda’s” are close, and drinkers from both clubs were inside and outside all of them. At just gone 4pm, my friends – and brothers – Tommie (Chelsea) and Chris (Everton) approached “St. Hilda’s” and it was glorious to see them again.

Here was the reason why we go to football.

Lads enjoying a laugh, a catch-up, a bevvy.

I was welcomed by the Evertonians that I met outside the pub. I loved it.

This is football.

Chris was in the middle of a punk festival – “Rebellion” – up the road in Blackpool and so was now mixing up his twin passions. The brothers are off to watch Stiff Little Fingers together in Dublin over the next few weeks. That 1982 vibe again. Both of the brothers helped me plan my Buenos Aires adventure a few years back and we all love our travel / football addiction.

We briefly mentioned previous encounters. This was the first time that we had begun a league season at Everton in my living memory, though there had been opening games at Stamford Bridge in 1995 – Ruud Gullit’s league debut, a 0-0 draw – and also way back in 1978. The earlier game – a 0-1 home loss – was memorable for two of my pre-match friends in 2022. It was Glenn’s first ever Chelsea game and he still rues a miss by Ray Wilkins. It was also Chris’ first visit to Stamford Bridge with Everton. I spoke about it with him. It has gone down in Chelsea folklore as being the “High Street Kensington” game, when Chelsea ambushed Everton’s mob at that particular tube station. This inspired the infamous “Ordinary To Chelsea” graffiti outside Lime Street, aimed at uniting both sets of fans to travel together to Stamford Bridge for the Liverpool league fixture later in the season. The graffiti is so iconic that sweatshirts are being produced featuring the image almost fifty years later.

Time was again moving on.

Chris and I sauntered off to opposite ends of the Bullens Road.

I left him with a parting shot.

“Up The Fucking Toffees.”

He smiled.

“Up The Fucking Toffees.”

The kick-off was at 5.30pm and I was inside at around 4.45pm or so.

At last, I had a seat that wasn’t tucked way past the goal-line. In fact, it was right on the goal-line. Compared to previous visits my seat 38 felt as if I was watching from the royal box. John from Paddington now sits with Alan, Gary, Parky and little old me at away games now; the Fantastic Five. I looked over at the Park End; Everton had handed out tons of royal blue flags for their fans to wave. I heard Chris’ voice once again.

“Typical Kopite behaviour.”

I hoped that the ground would be full of shiny unhappy people by the end of the game.

John asked me for my prediction.

I thought for a few seconds and went safe : “0-0.”

It was time to reacquaint myself with more than a few friends as the kick-off time approached. I had recently seen Julie and Tim at the SLF gig in Frome. And I had shared a fine evening with Kev in Aberdare at the recent China Crisis gig.

“From Abu Dhabi to Aberdare” anyone?

Kev, in fact, was wearing a China Crisis T-shirt. I had joked on the night that I would wear my exact same copy to the game too, but I had forgotten all about that. Probably just as well, eh Kev?

We could work out the starting line-up from the drills taking place in front of us. The confirmation came on the twin TV screens at opposite ends of the ground.

Mendy

Dave – Silva – Koulibaly

James – Jorginho – Kante – Chilwell

Mount – Havertz – Sterling

In light of our former chairman’s departure, I am surprised that nobody else but me did the “$ out, £ in” joke over the summer.

The PA ramped up the volume with a few Everton favourites, and then the stirring “Z Cars” rung out around Goodison.

It was unchanged as it has been from around 1994.

The rather mundane and bland single-tier of the Park Lane to my left. The still huge main stand, double-decked, sloping away in the top left corner. St’ Luke’s Church peeping over the TV screen in the opposite corner and then the continuous structure of the Gwladys Street bleeding into the Bullens Road, the Leitch cross-struts on show for decades but not for much longer.

A couple of large banners were paraded in the Gwladys Street.

To the left, an image of The Beatles with an Everton scarf wrapped around them all. Were they really all Evertonians? Well, they weren’t day trippers, that’s for sure.

I hoped that their team would be The Beaten.

To the right, there was an image of our Frank on a banner. Gulp.

The teams lined-up.

A shrill noise.

Football was back.

Alas we were back in the odd away kit. From a long way away, it looks reasonable, but up close I can’t say I am too fond of the stencilled lion nonsense on the light blue / turquoise hoops. This overly fussy design, which is mirrored in the collar of the home kit, resembles a great aunt’s frock design from 1971 far too much for my liking.

Me, bored rigid on a family outing, stifling yawns :“Yes, I’d love another piece of fruit cake please auntie”…but thinking “your dress looks ridiculous.”

To be honest, in the pre-release glimpses, the colour looked more jade green than blue. Eck from Glasgow, sat to my left, must have been having kittens.

Both teams were wearing white shorts. I think that ruling has changed only recently.

The game began. I was immediately warned by a sweaty steward to not use my camera. In the ensuing moments, Eck leant forward and shielded my illicit pursuits. It worked a treat.

As the game started to develop, the away crowd got behind the team, but with the lower tier of the Bullens outdoing the top tier. I must admit I didn’t sing too much during the whole game; I am getting old, eh? Soon into the game, I experienced chant envy as I couldn’t make out the Koulibaly song being sung with gusto in the lower deck.

Goodison has been an awful venue for us of late. Our record was of four consecutive losses.

But we began as we often began with the majority of possession.

The first real incident involved Kai Havertz who picked up a wayward clearance from Jordan Pickford after a poor back pass from Ben Godfrey. Rather than pass inside, he lashed the ball against the side netting. Attempting to tackle, Godfrey injured himself and there was a delay of many minutes before he was stretchered off.

There was a swipe from Mason Mount that Jordan Pickford managed to claw away. At the other end, a deep cross from Vitaly Mykolenko was headed goal wards by James Tarkowski but Edouard Mendy did ever so well to tip it over.

Everton occasionally threatened, but our defence – the veteran Dave especially – were able to quell their advances. N’Golo Kante, right after a Chelsea attack, was able to block an Everton shot back in his own penalty area. He had no right to be there. The man was starting the season as our strongest player.

Next up, Thiago Silva – the calm and cool maestro – cut out an Everton break down our right, and this drew rapturous applause.

A shot from Kante was fumbled by Pickford but although Raheem Sterling pounced to score – a dream start? – he was ruled offside. It looked offside to me, way down on the other goal line. Who needs cameras?

To be truthful, despite corner after corner (or rather shite corner after shite corner) that resulted in a few wayward headers, it wasn’t much of a half. The home fans were quiet, and the away section in the upper tier were getting quieter with each passing minute.

But corner after corner were smacked into the Everton box.

“More corners than a Muller warehouse.”

I noticed that the movement off the ball was so poor.

I chatted to Eck : “Without a target man, our forwards need to be constantly moving, swapping over, pulling defenders away, allowing balls into space.”

There was sadly none of it. I couldn’t remember two white-shirted players crossing over the entire half.

I had visions of a repeat of the dull 0-0 at Stoke City that began the 2011/12 campaign.

In injury time, Abdoulaye Doucoure manhandled Ben Chilwell on a foray into the box. It looked a clear penalty to me.

Jorginho.

1-0

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now, like.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds, like.”

It was the last kick of the half. Phew.

As the second-half began, the sun was still beating down on us in the upper tier. I was getting my longest exposure to the sun of the entire summer. But the game didn’t really step up. The noise continued to fall away. If anything, Everton threatened much more than us in the second-half.

A shot from Demarai Gray – after a mess up between Silva and Mendy – was thankfully blocked by our man from Senegal.

Celery was tossed around in the away section and some local stewards looked bemused.

Some substitutions.

Christian Pulisic for a very quiet Mount.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Chilwell.

Reece swapped wings and Ruben played wide right.

It was pretty grim and pretty tepid stuff this. A tough watch.The practised attacking patterns needed more work. It just wasn’t gelling at all. And during that second-half we allowed Everton a little too much space in key areas. It is early days though. But I have to say it as I saw it.

I could lose myself in this honesty.

More substitutions from Thomas Tuchel.

Armando Broja for a weak Havertz.

Marc Cucarella for Koulibaly.

I wasn’t too happy about us singing Frank’s name during the game.

It took bloody ages for us to get an effort, any effort, on goal. It came on eighty-one minutes, a James free-kick, tipped over. Then, just after a pass from Cucarella to Sterling and a shot deflected for a corner.

To be fair, Pulisic looked keen when he came on and added a new dimension to our play. Cucarella looked mustard too. He looked neat, and picked out a few lovely passes, zipped with pace.

“He’s from Marbella, he eats Bonjela” wasn’t it?

And it was a joy to see Broja on the pitch, charging into space, taking defenders with him, a focal point. I hope he is given a full crack of the whip this season.

In the eighth minute of extra time, Conor Gallagher made his debut and I caught his first touch, at a free-kick, on camera. I see great things for him.

It ended 1-0.

Outside, I bumped into Sophie, with Andy her father, and remembered that she was soon off to Milan, with a side-visit to Como after talking to me in the pub at the end of last season.

“Did you know Dennis Wise is the CEO at Como?”

It made Sophie’s day. Dennis is her favourite ever Chelsea player.

We walked back to the waiting car and shared a few thoughts about the game. It was no classic, but we were all relieved with the win. Tottenham, our next opponents, won 4-1 at home to Southampton and I admitted to PD :

“I’m dreading it.”

“I am too.”

Out

I made good time on the way south, only for us to become entrenched in a lively conversation about all of the players’ performances just as I should have veered off the M6 and onto the M5.

“Isn’t that the Alexander Stadium? Bollocks, I have missed the turning.”

A diversion through the second city was a pain, but I was eventually back on track. As the three passengers fell asleep, I returned to the ‘eighties and Gary Daly.

And I wondered what I should call this latest blog.

Some people think it’s fun to entertain.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Conor Gallagher

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

Tales From Game 71/208

Tales From The Munich Men

Tales From A Happy And Victorious Afternoon At The Vitality

Tales From Another Tough Watch

Tales From The Wrong Seat

Tales From A Long Day At The Start Of A Long Month

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms