Tales From An In-And-Out Mission

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2026.

I have previously penned ten match reports involving Chelsea away games at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace and I suspect that in each one of them I have mentioned the difficulty in reaching the stadium via whatever means possible.

It’s just not an enjoyable journey by train nor car.

Also, once the immediate area of the stadium is reached, there is only one pub that is hospitable to away fans.

For these reasons, and for the fact that the kick-off time on this Sunday in January was 2pm, it was soon decided that this would be a simple “in-and-out” trip with no pre-match, and a hopefully quick exit after.

PD had recovered from his ailments that forced him to miss Pafos, and I collected him at 8.30am, and Parky at 9am. Bizarrely, my sat nav took me east into very familiar territory – Fulham Broadway – before I shot over Wandsworth Bridge and straight south to a pre-paid parking spot to the north of Selhurst Park on Holmesdale Road, from which the Palace home end is named.

I spoke to the lads about my trip to Bristol the previous day to see my first Frome Town game of the year, and my first for over six weeks. My home town team defeated our old rivals Bristol Manor Farm 3-2 and are now, quite remarkably, a massive eleven points clear at the top.

This last section of driving took me a full forty-five minutes, and it honestly felt that I had driven on every street in south London. In the last couple of miles, my car climbed to the summit of Beaulieu Heights – and the views over a misty south London caught my breath – thus placing me within a hundred yards of the famous TV mast that has peered over Selhurst Park for decades.

Every time I see that mast, it takes me back to my first-ever visit to Selhurst Park in August 1989 when we lost 0-3 to tenants Charlton Athletic, my last Chelsea game before I disappeared off to North America for ten months. Emotional goodbyes to a loved one, surely, should never be that crap.

I dropped the lads off as close to the away turnstiles as possible, and was parked up at 12.30pm, a full four hours after picking up PD.

I had been expecting a typically soggy Selhurst, especially since I was in the front row for this game. However, on the walk to the away end, I was amazed how mild the weather was, and that the rain had held off.

There is an impressive mural in honour of Wilfred Zaha on the end of a house that overlooks that top corner of Selhurst. It sets the scene nicely. There are street vendors, vloggers, and both sets of fans milling around. You really get a sense of how the pitch was dug into the hilly contours of the area, much like at Hampden Park and Molineux. The rising line of houses on the hill at the far end evokes memories of players such as Don Rogers, Alan Whittle and our own Charlie Cooke playing for Palace in the early ‘seventies. It seems that Selhurst Park will always be set in the past, despite a flash upgrade on the main stand being given the go-ahead recently.

Inside, I soon bumped into PD and Parky – with the famous Druce brothers – and spotted the Kentuckians who were still in town. They were amazed how Selhurst sat cheek-by-jowl with tight residential streets. The visitors had seen Bromley play – and win – on the Saturday. They were looking for three straight Chelsea victories on this trip. There was also time for a photo with Stuart, a Chelsea season ticket holder from a nearby village to me. Lastly, a chat with Dave from Alsager in Cheshire, who has recently started penning some entertaining match reports this season.

I reached my seat in good time. Damn that winter sun shining bright above the main stand. And damn the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car.

I was joined by my mate Stephen from Belfast, via New Orleans, and we had a good old natter.

After years of awful sightlines in the away end, I was just happy to have an unimpeded view of the entire pitch, even the corner flag away to my left, an object that I only ever presumed existed having not seen it since a visit to see us take on Wimbledon – another tenant – in 1998 when the Chelsea fans were lodged behind the goal that was to my right.

The kick-off approached.

Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James

Benoit Badiashile

Trevoh Chalobah

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Estevao William

Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Flames, fireworks, and the sky was flecked with red, white and blue plumes of smoke.

Crystal Palace were in the latest version of their red and blue stripes and Chelsea were in the off-white ensemble but with those muted green socks.

The Chelsea lot were in good voice as the game began.

We attacked the curved roof of the Holmesdale Road Stand, but the first chance for either team took place at the Whitehorse Lane End. The much-derided Badiashile lost possession, and the striker Jean-Phillippe Mateta struck a firm effort goalwards. Thankfully Sanchez was in fine form, the ball hitting his right-leg, and then flying away to safety.

As against Pafos, we watched a succession of James corners being flighted towards the near post. There was a shot from Enzo, centrally, that was fired over the bar.

Mateta was a towering presence, and he was involved with a few good battles with Chalobah as the half-developed.

The home team had been going through a tough time, with their manager deciding to let on that he was feeling perhaps too claustrophobic among those narrow and overcrowded Selhurst streets and that he would be away in the summer. Their form had dipped prior to this game. There seemed like a degree of tension from their fans.

We goaded them with chants about their “famous atmosphere.”

It was a mixed start to the game with dull build-ups from us, but then occasional rapid breaks. Both Stephen and I noticed that Estevao was quiet in the first twenty minutes.

I tended to become nervous when the ball was played to Badiashile. I always feel that his left boot is on his right foot, while his right boot is on his left foot.

Meanwhile, Cucurella was charging around, covering the inadequacies of others with his usual terrier-like dynamism.

Limited chances were exchanged. Both teams struggled to find their feet, and the game took some time to really get going.

On thirty-four minutes, a defensive mistake in front of the old main stand – an errant back-pass from Jaydee Canvot, whoever he is – and Estevao was away, racing at top speed towards the Palace ‘keeper and captain Dean Henderson. I thought that he had taken the ball too far, but he lashed it past the ‘keeper and the Chelsea crowd roared.

FACKINGETIN.

Huge celebrations from us all, and I turned my pub camera towards my fellow fans in the front row.

Euphoria.

From a few yards away to my left.

“THTCAUN.”

Alan was at the game, fantastic.

The home team improved after our goal, and it became a decent contest.

There was still time to annoy Palace though : “where’s your famous atmosphere?”

Stephen commented “give it to Estevao, he’s more of a threat than the rest put together.”

Five minutes before the break, Estevao took off on a brilliant run, racing past his marker with aplomb, but we watched in agony as his low shot whizzed past the far post.

Fackinell.

At half-time, I was happy. The players had improved in that first forty-five minutes. With them attacking us in the second period – and with me in the front row with my camera – everything was looking positive. The rain was still holding off.

The players “huddled” before the second half, and I wondered why.

Four minutes into the second-half, Chalobah won a battle with Mateta and intelligently passed to Joao Pedro, who passed to Enzo. Enzo passed to Estevao who lofted a beautiful first-time pass towards Joao Pedro. He sold Adam Wharton a dummy, cut inside and struck at goal. I saw the ball fly up and into the roof of the net.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

More noise.

I felt a hand push me forward from behind – “here we go, these celebrations at Selhurst can get ridiculous” – but that was it. I steadied myself, as best I could, and snapped away.

We were 2-0 up and our play improved further as the second half continued. This was very enjoyable.

Estevao – “Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o!” – then let fly at Henderson who kept him at bay with an acrobatic one-handed save.

On sixty-four minutes, Henderson got a hand on a cross from Enzo, and the ball fell to Joao Pedro. He shot, but it was blocked. Play continued, we thought nothing of it.

Then after the best part of a minute, VAR chirped up.

Another minute.

Why do these fucking reviews take so long?

The mic’d up referee Darren England spoke…

He first talked about an “accidental handball” but then pointed to the spot, and I could not have been more at a loss as to working out the modern laws. The “accidental” bit saved him Canvot – yes, him again – from a red.

Enzo collected the ball from down in front of us, placed it on the spot and steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

He shot.

I shot.

Goal.

We were 3-0 up.

GETINYOUBUGGER.

More up-close-and-personal photos.

Lovely stuff.

I had not noticed Wharton’s first yellow, but on seventy-two minutes he fouled again and a voice nearby went up :

“Second yellow!”

Indeed, the referee agreed and off he went.

This reminded me of the away game at Manchester City at the start of the month when a nearby wag shouted “second yellow” every time a City player tackled a Chelsea player with extra aggression. Ah, that terrace humour.

On seventy-four minutes, changes.

Wesley Fofana for Caicedo.

Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

On eighty-one minutes, another change.

Jorrel Hato for James.

On eighty-five minutes, a final change.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Bizarrely, being down to ten men seemed to inspire Palace and they enjoyed a surprisingly positive end to the match. On eighty-eight minutes, Sanchez saved well from a Jefferson Lerma header, but Chris Richards was on hand for a consolation goal.

A huge nine minutes of extra time were signalled, and yes – of course – this caused ripples of concern in the Arthur Wait stand.

But we saw them out.

The players came over to milk the applause, and shirts were hoisted into the away end.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

I am warming to the bloke.

Outside, I met up with a few mates and eventually Parky joined PD and myself. We trundled back to the waiting car.

We were happy as hell.

It had been a fine day in deepest South.

Tales From A Lukewarm Start On A Hot Summer Day

Posted on August 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 17 August 2025.

Just five weeks had elapsed since the mightiest of endings to season 2024/25 in New Jersey, and now we were facing the first league game of the new campaign.

Fate had dealt us a relatively kind hand with our first four league fixtures set to take place in London. After our extensive travels and travails of the previous season, perhaps this is just what we all needed; the chance to ease ourselves back into everything.

That these four league games would still entail a total of around nine hundred miles of travel for me is hardly important. I am used to these numbers by now. Last season, though, surely set a personal record. It encompassed a perfect century of live football games, from Rio de Janeiro to Almaty and all places in between, from Newcastle to Wroclaw, from Merthyr Tydfil to Ipswich, from Liverpool to Gosport. The international segment of this amounted to 34,000 miles alone. Add in 10,500 domestic miles with Chelsea and around 2,500 with Frome Town and it all equated to around 47,000 miles.

Fackinell.

After returning from the USA, I did my best to try to relax, although if I am honest the two match reports of the games against Fluminense and Paris St. Germain hung over me like the sword of Damocles for way too long. Eventually, I managed to complete them both, and I was rewarded with my highest ever monthly viewing total; 12,000 in August thus far.

It looks like my 2024 total of 54,000 will be smashed, and I thank every one of you for this patronage. It does, believe me, make all the toil so worthwhile.

I didn’t attend the two friendlies against Bayer Leverkusen and Milan. I needed that rest. Instead, I gently eased myself into the new season with a small smattering of Frome Town games spanning a period of three weeks; a home friendly against Chippenham Town (lost 0-1), a triumphant home league opener against Tavistock (won 3-0), an away trip to the New Forest against Bashley (won 3-1) and a tight FA Cup home tie against Newquay (won 2-1).

I am hopeful that this coming season will evolve into successful campaigns for both teams that are closest to my heart. I would love to see Chelsea challenge for the top places in the league, and maybe win more silverware, and I am hopeful that my local team will return to the Southern League Premier under new and exciting ownership.

I will try not to deviate too far from the main subject matter here, but there will – I am sure – be regular mentions of Frome Town if I feel it is either interesting or relevant. Many have expressed their enjoyment in reading the pleasures that I get out of experiencing football at different ends of the spectrum, so I hope to keep that going.

Before we leap into the first match of 2025/26 – my fifty-third season of watching Chelsea – let’s take one last look at the previous campaign.

On a personal level, I loved the fact that six games featured teams from Brazil. These encounters book-ended the season for me; three in Rio in July 2024, plus three in the USA in June and July 2025.

It was an undulating season in terms of enjoyment and team performance, and tested my patience at times, but Chelsea games – trips – were always the highlight of every week.

I am sure that I am not the only one that saw a similarity between the 2011/12 and 2024/25 seasons. At the end of 2010/11, the club discarded with the services of the much-loved Carlo Ancelotti. However, just over halfway through 2011/12, we were going nowhere under Andre Vilas-Boas, and our beloved team was sleepwalking to a season of relative mediocrity. Come May, under Roberto di Matteo, we had won the FA Cup and the Champions League, and the turnaround was the stuff of legend.

Last summer, we parted company with the – perhaps – surprisingly liked Mauricio Pochettino and the untested Enzo Marseca took over. In 2024/25, again at the same point as in 2012, we were really struggling. Oh, those two games at Brighton in the same week. A real nadir. But then things changed, and by the end of the season, we had reached a top four position in the league, triumphed in the Europa Conference League and had won the Club World Cup.

In both campaigns, we did things the Chelsea way.

“Write us off at your peril.”

It was all very Chelsea-esque,

Which brings us nicely to Sunday 17 August 2025.

It was a typical start for me. I was out of the house at 6.50am, I collected PD at bang on 7am and we then motored over to pick up Lord Parky at 7.30am.

This trip was so easy. I dropped the lads off, then parked just off Lillee Road, devoured a great breakfast on the North End Road and then spent a little time around Stamford Bridge.

It was around 11am when I entered the West Stand forecourt, but to my surprise and annoyance, I was asked by two stewards to show them my ticket at this early hour. I fancied a little verbal jousting and made out that I wasn’t going to the game but instead wanted to visit the megastore. This absolutely flummoxed them. In fact, one of them suggested that I should return on a non-match day.

I told them that I had plenty of money to spend in the megastore and wondered what Chelsea FC would think of such a suggestion.

With that, more embarrassed shuffling from them, and I could hardly bare to watch. I flashed my QR code at them and went on my way but told them to talk to their supervisor about contingency plans for those visitors that might want to visit the store but not be so lucky to have match tickets.

This is just another example of how the club is trying to squeeze as much fun out of the match day experience as possible.

Ticket checks three hours before kick-off, bag checks, no left luggage options, no cameras, the imminent anxiety of disappearing QR codes, the difficulty in passing tickets on, “don’t do this, don’t do that”. It all chips away at the sense of fun that used to exist in SW6.

I spotted the new signage on the West Stand that depicted us as World Champions. I also spotted an echo of the never-liked Chelsea Collection club crest from 1986 to 2005 being used on one of the large panels and it immediately struck me as messy.

I bumped into Donna and Colby, and we decided to peek inside the revamped ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway tube station that was opened up as a bar during the summer by Wetherspoons and renamed “Walham Green.” It was already busy, and under the glass of the ceiling, it resembled a greenhouse, and we soon felt uncomfortably hot. We soon decided against having a drink, and left, but not before I bumped into Allie once again, who I last saw leaving MetLife after the final.

In the end, I spent an enjoyable hour in “The Eight Bells” – shocker – with Even from Norway, Dave, Salisbury Steve, Parky, PD, Ian, Jimmy and Paul. Dave had shared a train carriage with non-other than Kerry Dixon on the way down from Luton and was full of glee.

In all honesty it did not feel like we had been away. All the familiar faces. All the usual laughs. It’s a great boozer.

However, I was rather anxious about the new digital ticket procedure, and despite the QR code already appearing on my Chelsea App, I was keen to get to HQ early in case there was teething trouble. Considering this I left twenty minutes before the others.

I wandered past the first barrage of ticket checkers out by the Fulham Road at just before 1pm. So far, so good. Then a mate sidled up to me to say that many QR codes had suddenly disappeared from phones and supporters were now lining up at the ticket office to get them resent.

Fackinell.

With that, as I walked past the Ossie Statue, it took me fifteen swipes to get my bloody phone to open, irrespective of any issue with QR codes. Maybe my phone could sense my anxiety. Were my palms more sweaty than usual?

I hate modern technology.

I walked a few more paces, tapped on the “my tickets” icon on the phone and I was overcome with worry when I was directed to the “Play Predictor” screen, whatever the fuck that is. So, deep joy, my deepest fear had surfaced; my QR code had fucked off to some un-navigable part of cyber-space unknown to man or beast.

However, while I stood bemused and angry, the QR code suddenly reappeared once more, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Right, let’s get in before it fucks off again.”

I ascended the steps to the MHU, the “CFC” newly painted, and glided past several small groups of supporters who seemed oddly reluctant to enter the turnstiles. It took me back to my youth when, as under-age sixth formers nervously awaiting to be served at pubs, we would wait for the eldest looking of the group to appear like a hero to get the drinks in.

I guessed that their QR codes had disappeared and were currently doing a tour of duty somewhere. I wished them well as I brushed past.

A quick scan and I was in.

Thank heavens.

It was 1pm, a full hour before kick-off.

The ground took a long time to fill, and it did feel so strange to be in so soon. I’ll admit to being relieved to be inside, but I absolutely dreaded the thought of having to get to Stamford Bridge an hour early for a while. Our next home game is at 12.30pm on a Saturday lunchtime. Do I really have to get inside for 11.30am? God forbid.

I chatted to some good friends, and flicked through the programme, which I decided to buy for a change. I wanted to read one particular page.

After last season’s 1984/85 retrospective on this site, I feel saddened to have to report that one of the lions of that era, Joey Jones, sadly passed away on 22 July. Everyone loved Joey at Chelsea in those mad days of Second Division struggles against relegation, redemption and promotion the following year and then consolidation in the topflight in three crazy seasons. His clenched-fist salute to us on the terraces was so iconic and adeptly epitomised the bond twixt players and fans of that time. Sadly, I never met Joey face to face, but we were “Facebook” friends before my old account was hacked in 2024, and several good friends at Chelsea became really friendly with him in those times. I include the piece in the programme here.

Joey Jones.

Once a red. Always a blue. RIP.

The place slowly filled. There was a new addition to the pre-match selection of Chelsea-centric songs. At 1.45pm, “Our House” by Madness filled the Stamford Bridge air.

There had been the promise of an “unveiling” before kick-off, but this amounted to nothing more than two banners being exposed on the brick walls behind The Shed.

To the left, the Millwall lion from 1986, and to the right “World Champions.”

I know which I preferred.

I was saddened to see two unknown tourists sitting in front of me. These seats belonged to dear Albert, who passed away last Spring, and his brother Paul. We were hoping that Paul would renew this season, but we guessed that he hadn’t.

Oh boys, we will miss you both.

The minutes ticked by.

“Blue Is The Colour” was played, galvanising us all.

As the teams appeared, the right-hand side of The Shed got going with their flag-waving, and a lovely gold on blue “Champions Of The World” banner was draped majestically over the balcony, just above Parkyville.

What with the gold of that, plus the gold of the other CWC signs, how nice of Crystal Palace to complement all of this with a gold kit that seemed to perfectly match the pantone reference of the gold banners above The Shed.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Acheampong – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Pedro Neto – Palmer – Gittens

Joao Pedro

As for the visitors, there were a few familiar names in their team, with Marc Guehi, Eberechi Eze and Jean-Philippe Mateta possibly the targets for other teams. I’ve no cross to bear with Palace to be honest, Peter Taylor 1976 aside. I was happy that they beat Manchester City in last season’s FA Cup Final. They have never really been rivals or even quasi rivals in the way that Fulham and QPR see themselves.

The Stripey Nigels, bless ‘em.

At 2pm, the game began.

We attacked The Shed, they attacked the Matthew Harding.

We began brightly enough with new boy Joao Pedro looking lively and the initial action was towards The Shed. Very soon into the game, a near post header by Marc Cucurella from a corner was goal bound but was headed away by a Palace defender.

We then drifted a little and the away team slowly got it together. We were treated to a smart Robert Sanchez save, a grab at the near post.

On twelve minutes, a free kick was awarded to Palace centrally in the “D”, and I noted what seemed to be a clear gap in the centre of the wall. I guessed that this was the strategy for such kicks, leaving the ’keeper with clear vision in the middle of the goal.

I raised my pub camera to my eyes – the SLR is resting at home for now until I can smuggle it in undercover – and took a shot of Eze slamming the ball straight and hard and true, and seemingly right over the head of goalkeeper Sanchez.

Oh bollocks.

Well so much for the wall.

They celebrated away, all gold kits shining in the sun, and we all groaned.

Then, God knows why, VAR was called into action, and I foolishly presumed that it was for the initial foul, which even I thought was rather far-fetched. Nobody in the stadium really had a clue why the goal was then cancelled, but there was eventually a reason given; something along the lines of “wearing a loud shirt in a built-up area” or some such nonsense.

Anyway, I didn’t join in with the cheering, why would I?

On eighteen minutes we were treated to another Sanchez save.

In the stands, everything was quiet.

It took me a full twenty-five minutes for me to utter my first song or chant and the 1985 me would have been very dismayed indeed.

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

On the half-hour, an effort from seemingly right under the bar ended up right over the bar, by whom I forget.

There was some ‘eighties side chatter between Clive and myself about Keith Jones and Mike Fillery, and it seems ridiculous to say that I can still remember how both of those players moved around the pitch. Jones was a workaholic runner, whereas Fillery slowly glided past players.

For a moment, I was lost in time.

We loved how Josh Acheampong made two thunderous tackles, back-to-back, and as is usually the case here in England, if not in more refined parts of the football world, this resulted in a loud and guttural reaction, at last, from the home support.

To the tune of “Amazing Grace”, Stamford Bridge rallied.

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

There were half-chances from a smattering of players, but Dean Henderson was not really troubled in the Palace goal. With the loveliest piece of skill of the entire half, Cole Palmer took a ball down from the air with consummate ease, but his shot was blocked. From the rebound, Cucurella blazed over.

It was 0-0 at the break. It had been a disappointing first forty-five minutes of the new campaign.

“It’s hot out there, mind,” said PD.

“Bloody hell, you are mellowing, mate.”

Clive chuckled.

PD’s usual response to any sub-standard performance by any Chelsea player is to decorate the air with as many words detailing female genitalia as possible, so this was indeed a surprise.

“I think it’s the tablets” I whispered to Clive.

The second half began and play resumed.

On fifty-four minutes, a substitution. Debutant Jamie Gittens had not really impressed too much, and he was replaced by another new kid on the block, Estevao Willian. With almost his first involvement, there was a jinking run down the right from the kid from Palmeiras and a cross that was just slightly too high for Pedro Neto to reach. With the substitution, Neto had switched wings to allow Estevao his preferred right-wing berth.

We loved the way that Estevao tried his utmost to wrestle the ball away from a Palace player on that far side, showing real determination to win the ball.

“That’s street football for you right there” proclaimed Clive.

“You’re right, mate. Not exactly Mike Fillery, is it?”

There was a trio of chances initiated by the industry of Pedro Neto down below us. A corner was headed over by Joao Pedro. Then a cross that Palmer met, but the resultant shot was blocked. Then, Neto to Palmer and a lob towards Estevao. He delayed slightly and his touch took the ball away from him. His hurried shot went high and wide.

Three more substitutions.

74 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

79 minutes : Andrey Santos for Enzo.

79 minutes : Malo Gusto for Reece James.

Enzo had been quiet, and we hardly noticed him, a worry.

Chelsea dominated the second half, as they had done the first, but Palace are no fools and defended resolutely by reducing the space for us to use. They never stopped closing us down. On eighty minutes, a shot from Eze was thundered in from distance and Sanchez pushed it over.

Delap had a half-chance in the final minute after a strong and forceful run, and then two identikit corners from Estevao on the far side were slung in towards the near post. The first one almost snuck in; the second one was headed away easily. Late on, in injury time, Santos smashed a ball over the bar and that was that.

From our viewing position in the MHU, in the shade, and with a little air, we had no real idea of how hot it had been for the players. However, as I walked out into the mid-afternoon sun, I was shocked at how blisteringly hot it was. I felt for Pedro Neto, who had stayed on the pitch for ninety minutes, and had given his absolute all, and I was immediately in awe of his performance.

PD was right. It had been hot out there.

Was this the real reason for our rather sluggish performance during this season opener, or had the extension of the last campaign left the players tired and lethargic?

Maybe against West Ham United, away on the following Friday, we would find out further.

JOEY JONES : REST IN PEACE

Tales From The Famous, The Famous Chelsea

Posted on January 10, 2025 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2025.

As the weekend drew near, and as I struggled to quell an irritating hacking cough, there were reports that snow was on its way to most parts of England. As if the thought of an away trip to Crystal Palace in the first week of January wasn’t bad enough, the added threat of snow just about topped it. More often than not, the weather is crap at Selhurst Park, and our usual viewing position is towards the front, in an area not covered too well by the stand roof.

The drive into Selhurst can be tiresome too, so as the short working week ended, I was hardly relishing this game. I just hoped that my cough didn’t develop further, and that there were no sore throats, headaches and shivers to come.

In light of my far from perfect state of health, I allowed myself a little lie in. I picked up PD at 8.30am and Parky at 9am for our “first footing” of the New Year. Thankfully, although far from perfect, I felt reasonably OK. As I headed south and then east, down towards the A303, there was a certain degree of peace and calm in the car, and I was more than happy that I was not barking out coughs every five minutes. The fields and hedgerows were dusted with frost and looking pretty photogenic, but I was happy to be in my self-contained bubble of warm air.

We stopped for a couple of breakfast rolls en route, and I was soon heading off the M3 and onto the M25.

The plan was to attempt a couple of pubs pre-match. At midday, I parked-up near “The Old Fox & Hounds” near West Croydon station, and we spent an hour or so with Clive who sits next to me in The Sleepy Hollow at Chelsea. The early afternoon’s entertainment involved Tottenham scoring an early goal against Newcastle United, but then managing to lose 2-1. Lovely.

My round consisted of “two pints of Carling and can you boil up some hot water for this Lemsip please, love?”

From here, I drove the two miles north to a pre-ordered parking space near Thornton Heath, and our route took us right past “The Pawson Arms” where we had enjoyed a pint before last-season’s game. I parked on Woodville Road and then met up with some pals at “The Prince George” which is just about the only away pub at Palace these days.

As I approached the packed boozer, I was a little taken aback by the sight before me. Not only did I not recognise a single Chelsea supporter on the pavement outside the pub, but there were impromptu fences set up outside, primarily to stop the clientele from encroaching onto the busy road, but it looked a brutal sight all the same. It brought back memories of fans being caged in at stadia back in the ‘eighties.

“Please do not feed the animals” came to mind.

Thankfully, near one of the doors I spotted a gaggle of faces I knew. Clive had disappeared but came back with a lager that I didn’t really want but supped all the same. Amongst familiar faces was a new one, Caroline from South Africa, her first-ever Chelsea away game, and I could hardly imagine how excited she must have felt. My first away game was at Eastville, the home of Bristol Rovers, in 1975. In Tim Rolls’ excellent new book “The First Time” I love that a supporter from mid-Wales was able to detail this match as his first game. It brought back a few memories from almost fifty years ago. Thank you, Mike Davies.

Talking of games long gone, my retrospective look at season 1984/85 – Chelsea’s first season of top-flight football since 1978/79 – has now reached the New Year.

On Tuesday 1 January 1985, Chelsea were at home against Nottingham Forest. On this occasion, I went up to London with Glenn via my father’s car. At such times, Dad was called into action, and I suspect that at the time I took it all for granted, as teenagers are wont to do. My parents would have gone off to partake in a mixture of sightseeing and shopping while we were at Chelsea, but the truth is that their whole day out was to enable me to get up to London for the football. Now, this fills me with a deep feeling of love for them both. My father would have been sixty-one at the time – not too older than me now – and although the roads were not so busy in the ‘eighties, it still represented a heavy day of driving. And of traipsing around London from shop to shop, from site to site, from sight to sight.

We left Frome at 9.15am and were parked up at Ealing Common, our usual destination to enable us to catch a train to Fulham Broadway, at 11.30am. There was a pre-match pie and chips on the North End Road and we were inside Stamford Bridge at 1.15pm.

The “Back Benchers” on New Year’s Day 1985?

Alan, Simon, Dave, Paul, Glenn, myself, Leggo and Mark.

Although we were by far the better team, this wasn’t a great game at all. We had to wait until the seventieth minute for cult hero Pat Nevin to provide the inspiration. He jinked past a defender, reached the goal-line and sent over an exquisite cross that cut out the ‘keeper Hans Segers. This allowed another crowd favourite Micky Thomas to dive-in with a header. I gave my man of the match award to Eddie Niedzwiecki. I was relatively pleased with the gate of 21,552. My diary reported that Forest only brought around three hundred. Stamford Bridge was a fearsome place for away fans in those days.

After the game, we walked right back up the North End Road, probably the first time for me, and at West Kensington station, Glenn nervously spotted one of the Chelsea fans who had attacked him after the United game a few days earlier. Back at Ealing Common, we had an hour to wait until my parents finally arrived back at 7pm.

On the way home, we stopped off for a drink at “The Wagon & Horses” at Beckhampton on the A4, and it fills me with joy that we still occasionally stop off here for a post-Chelsea drink forty years on. All of these little examples of drinks with my parents are gorgeous gifts from the past as I delve into my old diaries. If I am honest, I am still thrilled that I had enjoyed a pre-match beer in August 1984 against Sunderland with my father in that old West Stand bar, a moment previously long forgotten.

Our pre-Chelsea drink completed in 2025, Clive and I drifted away for the short march up Whitehorse Lane to the away turnstiles, the last of the group to depart. It was approaching 2.30pm.

Thankfully no rain, nor snow, but a long old line at the turnstiles. A couple of formidable faces from our violent past barged in and we all smirked.

“Nobody is going to stop those two buggers pushing in Clive.”

We were in, and we had thankfully missed all of the tedious pyrotechnics and associated gimmicks that accompanies top level football in the UK these days.

I had swapped tickets; Clive had mine in row eleven, I was further up in row eighteen just in front of the Gloucester lads and just behind Ali and Nick. This enabled me a slightly better view, I hoped. Well, I hoped it vain. It was still shite.

The game kicked off just as a loud and proud “One Man Went To Mow” boomed around the Arthur Wait Stand.

I caught up with the starting eleven.

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Very soon into the match I heard a chant that is not often aired : “We are the famous, the famous Chelsea.”

It’s only us and “The Geordies” that sing that from memory. I have always liked it.

Playing in that off-white kit, Chelsea immediately took control of the ball and dominated the play. Not long into the contest, Josh Acheampong won the ball with a beautifully cushioned touch that set us off on a lovely move, coursing through the middle of the park with pace and verve. I hoped that it would set the tone for not only the youngster’s performance but for us as a team too.

I was already bobbing about in the Arthur Wait Stand like a fishing float, unable to see much of the play to my left, when the ball was pushed forward by Marc Cucarella towards Jadon Sancho. I just about saw the player shape to take the ball but then move away, but the detail was lost on me as I was attempting to watch the game through a hundred bodies. There was, however, an appreciative purr from the supporters – the taller ones at least – around me. I joined the dots and realised he had carried out a perfect “dummy.”

However, for the next few seconds, I simply had no idea what was going on.

Sancho could have stuck the ball up his shirt and ran with it between Palace defenders while sticking his tongue out and laughing uncontrollably, I would not have known.

However, I then saw the ball end up at the feet of Cole Palmer, who I saw advance and slot the ball in at the far post, past the despairing Dean Henderson.

GET IN.

The away section roared.

Palace 0 Chelsea 1.

I tried my best to capture one, just one, decent photo of the scorer’s familiar celebration, as the crowd roared around me.

“Palmer again, Palmer again, Palmer again ole, ole.”

There was some nice follow-up football from us as we dominated the play. There was a lovely piece of old-fashioned wing play from Pedro Neto deep into the Palace box, and shots from Nicolas Jackson and Enzo. The impressive Josh headed over at the far post from a corner. He looked calm and in control. An excellent first-half from him.

The home team had a little flurry, and then came again just after the half-hour when the mobile Jean-Philippe Mateta advanced but shot wide.

At times our approach play was a little slow – Levi Colwill, I am looking at you – but we continued to boss the game. There was a fantastic through-ball from Palmer that hit Jackson’s run to perfection. He strode on, confident, but the shot with the outside of his right foot blazed just past the left-hand post.

During the first half we were treated to a couple of unorthodox saves from Sanchez, just to keep us on our toes. At times the man looks like a defender asked to go in goal when all other options have run out, at other times he hints at being a top class ‘keeper.

A 2-0 lead at the break would have been totally deserved, but it was not to be.

At half-time, virtually all spectators at Selhurst Park ignored whatever nonsense the Palace cheerleaders were up to on the pitch.

Puke.

Soon into the second half, with the home team energised, there was a break down the Palace right. I barked out “too easy” a nano-second before a fellow spectator yelled out the exact same two words. We watched as a cross from Daniel Munoz found Ebere Eze but were relieved to see him prod the ball wide.

“Fackinell Chels.”

Just after, pure Sanchez. Another ridiculously unorthodox save, followed by ridiculous distribution and a – thankfully – spurned Palace chance.

The second half continued, and it was a far less convincing performance from Chelsea. I was hoping to whirl my camera into action to capture wave after wave of attacking verve in front of me, but it was all rather stop-start.

Neto was sent sprawling in the corner of the penalty box and we were all howling obscenities at the referee, the lino, the crowd, Stockley Park, the Premier League, UEFA, FIFA, the United Nations, NATO, but nobody was listening.

At 1-0, we were nervous and worried.

We tried to apply some worthy pressure.

On seventy minutes, two shots in quick succession. Firstly, there was a firm effort from Enzo. Then, after a pass from the always impressive Moises Caicedo, Jackson spurned a chance, the ball sliding wide after Henderson managed a touch.

Palace were in it though. There was a Mateta shot but Colwill blocked to deflect over.

On eighty-one minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Jackson and tried his best to run himself into the game.

Just after, the Chelsea supporters sang “is this a library?” to the home support and it made me realise how ridiculously quiet they had been. Apart from a volley of noise at the start, and maybe a little flag-waving from the centrally located Holmesdale Road Ultras, the home support had been almost non-existent.

Alas, we lost possession when Sanchez passed to Palmer, quite deep. To our horror, the ball was pushed to Eze who selflessly passed inside for Mateta to thump home.

Palace 1 Chelsea 1.

Now the buggers made some noise.

However, after only a few seconds, modern football took over, and it made a few of us feel quite nauseous. Rather than let the home support generate its own noise and let off steam in their own way, there was an obnoxious intrusion of the infantile “Boom Boom Boom Boom” that sounded like something that might be heard at a teenager’s birthday party or at a Butlin’s weekender. I gazed over at the terrace to my right and saw more than a few fully grown adults shaking away to this musical monstrosity.

Modern football. Simply fuck off.

Late on, Noni Madueke replaced Sancho, but it was all too little and all too late.

Our recent struggles continued; this was just our second point out of twelve.

We sloped back to the car, then headed north through the streets of south London, and inevitably found ourselves heading over Wandsworth Bridge and up to Fulham Broadway before heading out west on the A4 and M4.

Out towards Swindon, the snow finally came and the driving became slower, and more difficult. Despite speeding restrictions, cars sped past us, and if that isn’t a decent enough metaphor for us as we continue to slip down the league table, I had best give up.

Next up, an FA Cup tie against Morecambe at Stamford Bridge in 2025 and an FA Cup tie against Wigan Athletic in 1985.

See you later.

Tales From Three Little Points

Posted on February 15, 2024 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 12 February 2024.

As we travelled up to South London for the away game at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace, we wondered if the performance of the season at Villa Park would turn out to be a solid stepping stone for the rest of the campaign. Or just a mad “one-off”.

Selhurst Park is a real ball-ache to reach. Driving up from the West of England, we are at the hands of the Sat Nav Gods. It’s basically a case of “top, middle or bottom.”

Top – up the M4 as far as the familiar turn off down the North End Road, past The Goose, then down to Wandsworth Bridge and then south-east in a straight line to Crystal Palace Football Club.

Middle – up the M3, around the M25, along the A3, almost as far as Kingston-upon-Thames, then through the B-roads of South-West London, nudging due east to Selhurst Park.

Bottom – up the M3 and then all of the way around the M25 to “six o’clock” before a dead straight route north up the A23 to the stadium.

On this particular afternoon, at just after 2pm in Melksham, the GPS went for the middle option. It suggested a journey of three hours. In reality, hit by traffic at a few key places, it became four hours. I had sorted out some parking at a private house just off Holmesdale Road, which runs north-south behind the home stand at Selhurst Park, and over the last few miles we tried to spot a pub to base ourselves for an hour. We had almost given up on finding anywhere, but I happened to spot a pub – “Pawson Arms” – a short drive from my parking space. There was even a free parking space right outside the pub.

Perfect.

It was a home pub – full of Palace fans, full of Palace photos and memorabilia on the walls – but we sidled in and stood next to the bar. It was busy but not ridiculously so. It was nigh-on perfect, as away pubs go. Andy – a friend of a friend – arrived at about 6.45pm and I passed over a spare ticket. A few minutes later, we hopped in the car and I drove to my JustPark location, just a few yards off Holmesdale Road. The Selhurst Park floodlights were easily visible. We began the march up the hill to the ground.

“Don’t remember it being this bloody steep last time.”

It took me a long time to visit Selhurst Park for the first time. My first visit was in August 1989 and a game against the then tenants Charlton Athletic, a match we lost 0-3. I watched from the middle of the Holmesdale Road terrace. My first game against Crystal Palace was in October 1991, a dull 0-0 draw, and the Chelsea support for that game was in a horrible corner section of the Arthur Wait Stand at the Holmesdale Road end. I include a few grainy photos.

We turned left at the top and began the slow walk down to the away turnstiles. I heard a young American lad, bedecked in a Palace scarf, ask where the fanzone was. I felt like saying to him “bollocks to the fanzone mate, get yourself down the “Pawson Arms” for an authentic pre-match experience”.

Three spares were handed over to other lads and at about 7.40pm, we made our way in.

I was down the front – row five – with Parky, John and Gary. Our usual match day companion Alan was convalescing after a health scare a few miles away in Anerley. We hope and pray that he can re-join us for a Chelsea game soon. Selhurst Park doesn’t change too much does it? However, for the first time I spotted a press box, illuminated, in the rear reaches of the old sand opposite, beneath the corrugated roof. This was my first evening game at Selhurst for ages and ages. I remember a FA Cup replay against Wimbledon in 1995, but nothing since.

More bloody flames. More bloody fireworks. Oh dear oh dear.

While the Holmesdale Ultras displayed a variety of stark messages for the club’s board to ignore and the general public to perhaps spot on the TV feed, the Chelsea away support was rocking.

Our team? Thiago Silva came in for the injured Benoit Badiashile. Raheem Sterling was again not chosen to start.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher– Jackson

Palmer

The home team were without Michael Olise and Eberechi Eze, their fleet-footed forwards. On the far side, Roy Hodgson looked frail while Ray Lewington lent on a post near the dugout.

Fine singing from the away section of the Arthur Wait Stand continued as the game began at 8pm. We dominated early possession. However, as the first-half continued, unfortunately our old habits resurfaced way too easily. We were passing the ball from side to side, but with no incisive passes to hurt the Crystal Palace defence. In fact, it was the home team who dominated the early chances, often breaking through our lines with ease. A shot from Jean-Philippe Mateta was saved by Djordje Petrovic.

It seems almost sacrilegious to say it, but Thiago Silva continued to slow things down. In his defence, there was little movement in front of him, but it was still so frustrating. It was if he was suffering from the football equivalent of “the yips” or the dart player’s worst nightmare of not being able to release the dart.

Elsewhere Cole Palmer was anonymous.

On the half-hour mark, a Palace player attempted a Paolo Di Canio scissor kick but the ball was not cleared. A calamitous scene ensued. Moises Caicedo and Noni Madueke colluded to get in each other’s way.

“Get rid! Get rid!”

The ball was picked up by Jefferson Lerma, who dropped his shoulder and curled a magnificent effort wide of Petrovic but not wide of the goal.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 0.

“Glad All Over” rang out.

Bollocks.

As the rest of the dour first-half continued, we became aware that we had not engineered a single effort on the Crystal Palace goal. So, after all, maybe Villa Park was indeed a mad “one-off” and this was the real Chelsea. We tended to attack down the right where there was an awkward alliance between Malo Gusto and Madueke. Their fine performances the previous Wednesday were not able to be repeated. On the left, Ben Chilwell and Nicolas Jackson struggled. The whole team struggled.

On forty minutes, Moises Caicedo lost possession and an almighty chase took place. Thankfully, a typically well-timed sliding tackle by Silva saved the day.

On forty-five minutes, a meek shot from Conor Gallagher was scuffed wide of the far post; our first shot of the game. Bloody hell.

At the break, Mauricio Pochettino replaced Madueke with Christopher Nkunku.

Nkunku was stood at the centre-circle, awaiting the restart. But, all of a sudden, several players were seen knocking footballs around between them. What was going on? Was this post-modern football here?

“Don’t bother with the game, nor scoring, just pass the ball to each other. Just enjoy yourself. You will still get paid.”

We tried to work out why there was a delay. We then realised that the football match was missing a key ingredient; a referee.

What could the matter be? Was the referee was stuck in the lavatory? Did nobody know he was there?

In an odd attempt at humour, the Palace PA played “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley.

“Don’t worry about a thing ‘cus every little thing is gonna be alright!”

I wondered if this was, or had been, a Palace song. It certainly was a Chelsea song. It first appeared way back in 2010 and I specifically hearing it first during a 5-0 win at Fratton Park.

The Chelsea fans soon latched onto it.

“Don’t worry about a thing ‘cus every little thing is gonna be alright! CHELSEA!”

After an age, the ref Michael Oliver appeared. The game restarted.

And how.

After just two minutes of the second-half, with “Three Little Birds” still bouncing around the Arthur Wait, a fine ball from the hot and cold Caicedo found Gusto on the right. His pull-back to Gallagher was cleanly despatched despite the ball bouncing high as it approached him.

Screams. Shouting. Mayhem. The players raced towards us. I was pushed, lost my footing, and almost lost my glasses. Photos were an impossibility until everything had died down.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 1.

It seemed as if the momentum had switched. We had witnessed a ridiculous few minutes when a song had rejuvenated the support and – possibly, probably – had sparked life into the team.

I wondered if the Palace DJ would be awarded an assist for the equaliser.

The support roared on. With Nkunku in the middle, we caught a lot of Palmer as he drifted right. Chelsea dominated the play, with much of the action right in front of us. On a few occasions, I held my camera ready for Gusto or Palmer or Gallagher to break free.

Palmer went close.

At the other end, Silva heroically blocked a shot from Matheus Franca but stayed down. He was replaced by Levi Colwill.

An hour had passed.

Efforets from Chilwell and Jackson went close.

At the other end, a rare Palace break and a fine save by Petrovic from Franca.

On seventy-eight minutes, Raheem Sterling replaced Jackson.

On eighty-three minutes, Alfie Gilchrist replaced Gusto.

A chance for Sterling but he needed extra touches and the chance went begging. A Disasi header was parried by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson.

Time was passing.

We entered injury time.

John mentioned that the last two visits to Selhurst Park had resulted in ridiculously late winners; Hakim Ziyech in February 2022 and Conor Gallagher in October 2022.

Well…

On ninety-one minutes, a fine break. Sterling found himself in space and passed to Palmer. I clicked. The photo shows Gallagher and Enzo racing through in support. Palmer advanced and adeptly slid the ball to Gallagher. The finish was exquisite, a slide-rule pass into the goal. It showed Jimmy Greaves levels of calm.

Pandemonium in South London.

Fackinell.

The players raced towards us all again.

Football – I fucking love you.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 2.

John and his late winners.

It got better.

Two minutes later, we broke from our own box, the ball steered out to Palmer once more. He raced away, Nkunku occupied the thoughts of a key defender, and the ball was perfectly pushed into Enzo. He steadied himself, took a moment, then clipped the ball high into the net. I snapped that goal but not the ensuing madness in front of us once again.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 3.

Game over.

Phew.

The away section was on fire by now, and the supporters were a heady mixture of joy and disbelief. We sauntered out, regrouped and walked up and then down the hills of Selhurst to get to our car.

The getaway was ridiculously quick and the Sat Nav chose the top route to head back. It felt odd driving within half-a-mile of Stamford Bridge on the way home.

It had been another long day. I returned home at 1.40am.

Next up, yet another away game, the third in a row.

Manchester City await.

See you there.

1991

2010

In the last few minutes of the game, my ears registered a new song emanating from the rowdy fans to my right. It didn’t take long to work out that it was a few lines from a Bob Marley song. More and more Chelsea joined in as our brains deciphered it. It had been an easy night, so we needn’t get carried away, but the song provided a nice uplift…a positive vibe for once.

“Don’t worry – CLAP CLAP – about a thing…CLAP CLAP CLAP – ‘cus every little thing – CLAP CLAP – is gonna be alright.”

2024

Tales From Fool’s Gold

Posted on April 2, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 April 2023.

April Fools Day In Fulham

There are three games to detail in this edition; two from 1983 and one from forty years later. Let’s do things chronologically.

On Saturday 19 March 1983, Chelsea played a London Derby against Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park. With Chelsea eager to pick up as many points as possible from the remaining games of the Second Division season to stave off relegation to the Third Division we could only eke out a 0-0 draw.

The Palace team included on-loan full-back Gary Locke who had played over three-hundred games for Chelsea after his debut in 1972. Locke played more games for Chelsea than Gianfranco Zola, Graeme Le Saux, David Webb, Micky Droy and Gary Cahill, but I fully expect there are folk reading this who have never heard of him. I guess this is normal, if not a little sad. I spoke with Bill from Toronto before the Everton game about this. He confirmed that many of the newer Chelsea supporters that he encounters simply have no care in the world to learn about parts of our history.

Gary Locke played in the very first Chelsea game that I ever saw in March 1974 and his performance is the only one that I can honestly remember much about; in the second-half he was playing right in front of me in the West Stand Benches and I recollect a succession of well-timed sliding tackles to thwart Newcastle United’s attacks down their flank.

Also playing for Palace was Jerry Murphy, who would make a move in the opposite direction in 1985. I was getting good at the “guess the gate” sideshow. I predicted 14,000. It was actually 13,427.

A week later, on Saturday 26 March 1983, Chelsea played Barnsley who were managed by the former Leeds United defender Norman Hunter. In the “Forward Line” section – it took the place of “The Talk Of Stamford Bridge” for programme aficionados – there was a desire for the club to finish in a better final placing than the twelfth spot of 1982. The club was currently in thirteenth place, but just six points above a relegation spot. There was news that our star player Mike Fillery was seeking a move to a team in the top flight and was therefore recently placed on the transfer list.

In the 1981/82 and 1982/83 seasons I subscribed to the home programmes and I eagerly awaited their arrival right after games. These days we are bombarded with official club information via the internet and endless social media offerings. In those days, the programme was everything. It was our only link to the club. I devoured those small match day magazines with an absolute passion.

In the Barnsley edition, there is a two-page spread featuring Paul Canoville who had recently scored two against Carlisle United. Needless to say, these were the first goals scored by a black player for Chelsea. Until then, Canners was our only black player. Sadly, the letters page contained two pieces from supporters complaining about racist abuse aimed towards Canoville at recent games.

On this day, Barnsley went in 1-0 up at the break and went on to win 3-0. My diary doesn’t detail any great shock nor surprise at this reverse. The gate was just 7,223. It was getting easy, so easy, to guess our home attendances. The most recent five home fixtures produced depressing figures.

Cambridge United : 7,808

Derby County : 8,661

Blackburn Rovers : 6.982

Carlisle United : 6,677

Barnsley : 7,223

Our substitute was debutant Keith Jones who replaced Clive Walker. Not only was Jones our second -ever black player, but he was the first player to reach the Chelsea first team who was actually younger than me. He was born on 14 October 1965, three months after me.

I was seventeen, coming up to eighteen in July. I remember that this game provided a particularly sobering moment for me; that someone younger than me was now playing for my beloved Chelsea. I found it hard to cope with the thought that I would be supporting and cheering on a lad who was younger than me.

At that moment, I may well have uttered my first-ever Chelsea “fackinell.”

As an aside, I had played football for my school teams from 1976 to 1982, but had drifted away from playing in 1982/83. There may have been occasional games within the school, but I think my competitive football came to an end in 1981/82. Regardless, the presence of Keith Jones in the Chelsea team had undoubtedly meant that I had missed the boat to become a professional footballer or a footballer of any standing whatsoever. That a lad younger than me was infinitely better than me at the tender age of seventeen had left me somewhat deflated. I still find it hard to forgive him.

Forty years later, our underwhelming season was starting up again after a fortnight break with another 5.30pm kick off at Stamford Bridge.

Aston Villa, who have won only twice in twenty years at Stamford Bridge, were to be the visitors.

There was no great sense of enthusiastic anticipation as I made my way up to London in the morning. The driving was tough going – “hello rain, hello spray” – but I made good time and dropped PD and Parky outside “The Eight Bells” at around 11.45am. All of us were not expecting much of a spectacle. In fact, the mood was pretty sombre. Sigh.

“Just can’t see us scoring” was a familiar lament as the day developed.

I was parked up on Bramber Road at around midday and the first three hours of my day at Chelsea would be spent meeting up with friends from Edinburgh, New Orleans and Dallas. But first, I wanted to involve my third passenger in a photo that I had been planning in my head for a month or so.

I have written about the Clem Attlee Estate before and how it has undoubtedly housed thousands of local Chelsea fans since its inception in the late ‘fifties. The tower block that overlooks the Lillee Road, consisting of three wings, dominates the first few minutes of my walk down to Stamford Bridge. I’ve taken a few photos of it in the past. On this occasion I wanted to pay homage to our gritty past and so I arranged for Ron Harris to stand in front of two of the building’s wings.

I hope you like it.

For the next few hours, I chatted with some pals.

First up, Rich from Edinburgh, visiting Chelsea again, this time with his uncle’s son Matt, on an extended holiday from his home in Perth in Western Australia.

A few former players were milling around.

There were plenty of laughs as Bobby Tambling told a lovely story about Terry Venables scaring Eddie McCreadie to death at a hotel in the Black Forest while on tour in West Germany. McCreadie was apparently scared of ghosts, so Venables borrowed a pair of Bobby’s black pyjamas and hung them outside McCreadie’s window as a storm was raging outside. A window was rattled, and McCreadie pulled the curtains back and screamed in horror much to the amusement of those in adjacent rooms.

Next up, Jonathan from Dallas, a chap that I was meeting for the first time, but who has been reading these ramblings for a while, and whose daughter was to be one of the team of mascots for the day’s game. The wait was long; eleven years. Initially his son was on the list, but COVID got in the way of his turn and was now, sadly, too old for mascot duties. The baton was therefore passed to his sister. I enjoyed chatting with Jonathan about a few topics. We briefly touched on the recent rumours, unproven, about Chelsea re-igniting the option of moving to Earls Court. Although a stadium upgrade is likely, and needed if I am honest, I’d prefer the current regime to sort the bloody team out first.

Lastly, my good friend Stephen – visiting from New Orleans with his wife Elicia and her friend Makeda – arrived at about 1pm and I handed over tickets that I had been keeping warm. I last saw Stephen in his home town of Belfast ahead of the Super Cup game. It would be Madeka’s first-ever Chelsea game.

As ever, Ron gave the same welcome that he gives to all Chelsea virgins : “if we lose, you’re not coming back.”

It was a pleasure for me to have the briefest chats with Ken Monkou. I first saw him play in August 1989. He would go on to become our player of the year that season.

At about 2.30pm, I sped off down to Putney Bridge tube to meet up with the lads – and lasses – again. There was subdued talk of the game. Bill from Toronto was back for another match, this time with his wife Beth Ann, her first one too.

I chatted mainly to Andy and Sophie. We centred on the current state of affairs at Chelsea, but also yakked about Vincent Van Gogh, my relatives’ migration to Philadelphia in the nineteenth century, visiting Canada and our combined love of Bournemouth. It’s not all about football.

Despite the desperate state of our play at the moment, I loved Sophie’s reaction to the news that she had been sorted with an Arsenal ticket. It is surely a mess of a club right now, but nothing beats going to a game. She punched the air and smiled wide.

I had earlier said to Andy that “I can’t understand people who say they want the season to end. I bloody don’t. It’s what I live for, this.”

Andy was surprisingly upbeat. Sophie and I questioned his sanity.

There were a few Villa fans on the tube back to Fulham Broadway. They were full of song and were singing praises of Unai Emery and John McGinn on the train and as they alighted at our destination. I inwardly sniggered. Well, you would wouldn’t you?

I was in at 5pm. The troops slowly appeared. My chat with Oxford Frank was predictably down beat.

“Just can’t see us scoring.”

The team?

Don’t ask.

Kepa

James – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Enzo – Chilwell

Felix – Havertz – Mudryk

The appearance of not only Reece James but Marc Cucarella in a back three while both Benoit Badiashile and Trevoh Chalobah were on the bench was unfathomable. This forced Ruben Loftus-Cheek as a far from convincing right wing-back on us yet again. Oh my life. I was hoping for a better performance from Mykhailo Mudryk in this game than in recent others. I wanted to see more of the Anfield Mudryk than the post-Anfield Mudryk. At least Enzo and Felix, two bright points surely, were playing. I prepared myself to be frustrated by Kai bloody Havertz yet again.

Before the teams appeared, a brief chat pitchside with John Terry and Roberto di Matteo, chatting about a “Legends” match versus Bayern Munich to raise money for the Royal Marsden Hospital, where Gianluca Vialli received treatment in his battle against cancer. John Terry joked he would play in his full kit.

There was a decent crowd; less empty seats than against Everton a fortnight earlier. Of course Villa had the standard three thousand. I was eerily aware that this was all happening on April Fools’ Day. I wondered what sort of headlines were waiting to be written. Our last game on this day of the year was the achingly depressing defeat to Tottenham in 2018.

The game began.

We were back to normal, attacking The Shed in the first-half. Without knowing it at the time, a wild effort from Mateo Kovacic after just two minutes set the tone for the rest of the evening. I can barely remember a shot from relatively close to goal that ended up so high in the upper tier. Soon after a shot from Mudruk inside the box was blocked by Emiliano Martinez. We were dominating the early exchanges but with some irritating early evidence that things might not go our way. Kai Havertz took an extra touch inside the box, as he often does, and invited an easy block. There was a scissor kick from Kovacic, similar to his fine goal against Liverpool last season, but on this occasion the effort almost went out for a throw-in.

Off the pitch, this game began quietly and continued the same way.

On the quarter of an hour, Ollie Watkins slid a shot wide in the visitors’ first attack. Just after, John McGinn slammed a shot from outside the box that hit the bar. A minute later, a ball was lofted towards Watkins, but two Chelsea defenders were drawn to the ball. It was my opinion that Kalidou Koulibaly, seeing the whole of the play, should have shouted down Marc Cucarella’s hurried chase to head the ball. Instead, the Spaniard’s touch just set the ball up nicely for Watkins, who had run from deep, to lob Kepa.

A voice nearby blamed Kepa, but it was hardly his fault.

So here we were again, dominating possession, finding it hard to finish, and a goal down.

The rest of the half continued in much the same way. If I am honest, our approach play was quite decent at times. Two players took my eyes as always; Enzo showed an eagerness on the ball and an ability to spray passes into space. And Felix exhibited fine skill at times, his happy feet taking him away from markers in tight areas. On the flanks, there were two different stories. Although he was away in the distance, Ben Chilwell looked to be doing all the right things at the right times, yet Ruben Loftus-Cheek forever looked a square peg in a round hole. His inability to cross the ball was annoying everyone.

The chances mounted up. The fleet-footed Felix forced a save. Then there was a lofted ball to Havertz that he chested down and volleyed, but the shot was straight at the ‘keeper. After a fine pass from Kovacic, a weak shot from the disappointing Mudryk. Loftus-Cheek continued to frustrate on his unconvincing forays down our right. He kept doing the simple things badly.

With half-an-hour played, Stamford Bridge was yet to warm up. I hadn’t joined in with a single song, nor had the majority of others.

We were ghosts again.

Kovacic as playmaker once more, this time a fine lofted ball towards Chilwell who advanced inside the box but slammed an effort against the woodwork. Half-chances came and went as the first-half continued. Chelsea’s approach play continued to hit some nice notes but we had no hint of a cutting edge.

Another Havertz effort was saved by Martinez. Late on, a dink into space from Enzo – becoming his trademark – set up Chilwell to head the ball in.

YES!

Sadly, our joy was short-lived when a tug on Ashley Young – who used to be a footballer – had been spotted.

There were muted boos at the end of the first period.

That a dirge from the hum drum Coldplay was aired at half-time just about summed it all up.

Our finishing had certainly been lukewarm.

I was waiting for a freshen-up – the footballing equivalent of a wet wipe to tidy up our grubby finishing – in the form of substitutions at half-time but there was nothing.

Attacking our end, the Matthew Harding, I was to appreciate the fine play of Chilwell at closer quarters. Soon into the half, he turned beautifully but shot weakly.

Just after, the Matthew Harding woke up, and me too.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I am ashamed to admit that this must be the latest in a game that I have ever got involved.

Fackinell.

On fifty-six minutes, we failed to clear a corner and the ball was worked back to the onrushing McGinn, galloping in at pace. I caught his shot, sadly, on film. It flew into the net, with Kepa well beaten. This was only their fourth or fifth effort on goal yet they were 2-0 up.

Another “fackinell.”

And I was mocking their “we’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn” chant at the tube station.

More fool me.

With that, at last some substitutions.

N’Golo Kante for Loftus-Cheek.

Noni Madueke for Mudryk.

“Off you go, Ruben.”

But, but, but…what of the shape now?

Madueke at wing-back, Reece still inside, but Kante appeared to be playing off Havertz and alongside Felix in a front three.

Oh my fucking N’God.

Our play actually deteriorated.

Madueke cut inside but curled one over. Kante shimmied nicely but pushed a low drive wide. This was desperate stuff. The mood inside Stamford Bridge was horrible. It wasn’t top level toxicity, but the natives were not happy.

Our play and chances continued to frustrate us.

“You don’t know what you’re doing” rung out.

It got worse.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

I thought to myself…”why wait until then?”

And I was only half-joking.

Two more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Christian Pulisic for Cucarella.

In the last few minutes, the setting sun behind the West Stand produced a ridiculously warm glow to the metalwork on top of the towering East Stand and the bricks of the hotel and flats behind the Shed End. It gave the whole place a strange feel, almost ethereal.

Fool’s Gold anyone?

At the end of the match, the boos descended down from those who were still in their seats. Many had left.

I met up with Elicia and Madeka underneath Peter Osgood’s boots and put the borrowed season tickets safely away.

“Sorry that we lost. Sorry it was so quiet.”

“Oh my. There were some angry people near us.”

“I can imagine. I bet you heard some bad words, right.”

“We did.”

It was a grim walk back to the car.

Surely there are not many Chelsea supporters left who would be saddened if Chelsea pulled the plug on Graham Potter?

Next up, a terrifying game with Liverpool at home.

See you there.

Heroes And Villains

Tales From Two Wins

Posted on January 17, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 15 January 2023.

Leaving West London after the away game at Fulham on Thursday, I turned to PD and sighed as I said “at least we haven’t got to schlep all of the way up north for our next game, with it being an easy-to-reach home game against Palace.”

He agreed but then spoiled the mood a little as he mentioned a trip to Liverpool the week after.

We were undoubtedly going through a very tough spell. Not only had we been defeated in three consecutive games, there had also been the sad and traumatic passing of Gianluca Vialli the day after the first defeat. This was a short and difficult period in the history of Chelsea Football Club; eight days full of losses and loss. It was a horrible time.

As we headed towards Stamford Bridge we tried to be as positive as possible about the future, but I think we all knew that the day would be difficult. There would be undoubted sadness as the club paid its respects to our much-loved former Italian player and manager. This would be, I was sure, as emotional as previous similar days at Stamford Bridge when we remembered Matthew Harding in 1996, Peter Osgood in 2006 and Ray Wilkins in 2018.

The day began with a delay. Parky’s village was almost cut off from civilisation due to flooding on two roads but I was thankfully able to head off on a lengthy diversion to reach him. The rain was incessant in that first hour but thankfully the day brightened up and dried out.

We often talk about “must win games” but this one really was. Under-pressure Graham Potter’s charges really needed to triumph against Patrick Vieira’s team.

Was I confident? Only maybe.

Despite the delay at the start of the day, I was still able to drop PD and Parky on Fulham High Street just before 10am. I headed off to take a few photographs of the floral tributes and the mementoes left at the base of the large picture of Gianluca Vialli that had been moved from its usual position on the Shed Wall. This position is at the far left, position number one, and I have always like that. Many players have played more games and scored more goals for us, but very few have ever been as loved as Luca Vialli.

As I stopped by, my camera clicked a few times, but I then needed to stop all that and just be alone with my thoughts in silence. I adsmired the wreaths, the bouquets, the flowers. There were many Chelsea scarves and a few Italian flags. A woman approached and solemnly positioned a scarf on the floor. I noted a touching reference to the white vest that Dennis Wise aired after the 1997 FA Cup Semi-Final win against Wimbledon at Highbury imploring Luca to “cheer up” and this made me smile.

My eyes were moist in the biting winter air.

I met up with the usual suspects down at “The Eight Bells” at around 11am. There were the usual “Only Home Fans” signs back on the windows for this game.

Business as usual.

Unable and unwilling to share an alcoholic drink with PD, Parky, Rich and Matt, I took a leaf out of Andy and Kim’s book and got my kicks via a full English breakfast.

We left bang on 1pm, keen to witness all of the pre-match commemorations.

There were black and white photos of Luca on the way in. The match programme featured a lovely image of the man. Inside, many words were written about Luca.

I was in with half an hour to go before the 2pm kick-off and Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” was played again. I spotted all of the Chelsea players – split into the starting eleven and the substitutes – wearing black tops with “Vialli 9” printed on the back, with the font used being the same as on the 1996/97 shirts, a nice touch indeed.

My mind wandered.

During the last few years of my mother’s life, as she battled dementia with a cheery smile, I got into the very enjoyable habit of attempting to stimulate her mind by using a Chelsea-based word association game :

I would say a first name, my mother would add a surname.

“Ron”…”Harris.”

“Peter”…”Osgood.”

“Pat”…”Nevin.”

“Frank”…”Lampard.”

“Gianluca”…””Vialli.”

“Gianfranco”…”Zolo” (always Zolo, God that made me chuckle.)

I had a wistful smile to myself. Mum never got Luca’s name wrong.

We had been advised to be in for 1.40pm when some former team mates would honour Gianluca Vialli. Well, that time passed with no on-field ceremony and I wondered if it had all happened earlier.

Some chap appeared on the pitch with a microphone and he spoke briefly about Gianluca Vialli, and then asked us to – ugh – “make some noise!!!” (with exclamation marks no doubt!!!) and the Matthew Harding quickly responded.

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

But then, what a mood killer, the PA blasted this into oblivion with “Park Life” by Blur. This was then followed by “Liquidator” and I grumbled away to myself. On a day of remembrance, it would have been lovely to have some silence ahead of the appearance of the teams with the supporters themselves being left to their own way of getting an atmosphere going.

Modern football, eh?

The teams appeared. We were shown a short video of Gianluca Vialli, with a nice voiceover.

“From the day you stepped through the door you set the standard at this club and captured our hearts.”

Goals and games were recounted, two goals against Liverpool in the Cup, one at Old Trafford, four goals at Barnsley, two goals at Tromso. The trophies came.

“Dreams came true under your management and you achieved your dream of becoming a Chelsea legend.”

Those incredible European nights were remembered.

“But above all Luca, you were a wonderful man. Charming, respectful, determined. You had a heart of gold that touched so many. Now our hearts are broken, but how lucky we were to have known you. Luca, we love you and we miss you.”

My eyes were moist again.

I wondered if Luca ever spotted my “Vinci Per Noi” banner that I took to many games from the summer of 1996 as our club became besotted with Italian footballers.

The Chelsea and Crystal Palace players made their way to the centre circle, solemnly followed by some former Chelsea players, of whom only Mark Hughes and David Lee did I immediately recognise.

Two large banners appeared at both ends of the stadium. The Chelsea players were each wearing “Vialli 9” training tops. A minute of applause was heartfelt, loud and respectful.

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

It was suddenly time to think about football. I had missed the team announcements so as the game started I pieced it all together.

“Kepa in goal, looks like a three of the new boy Badiashile, Silva and Cholobah, Hall way out left, Ziyech way out right, a midfield pairing of the immobile Jorginho and the very mobile Gallagher, Mount and Carney supporting Havertz…no wait, Ziyech is too far forward, must be a back four then. No, they are too wide. Let’s see how it plays out.”

There were clear blue skies overhead.

Alas no Alan nor Clive with us today so PD and I stretched out.

The game began.

8 minutes – a subdued atmosphere. I wasn’t sure if this was because of the inherent sadness before the game, the nervousness about our recent play or the fact it was an early kick-off.

9 minutes – there was a rather half-hearted “Vialli” chant that really only got going in earnest thirty seconds into the all-important ninth minute. It dawned on me that Luca last played for us almost twenty-five years ago and I wondered if this was the reason. Are those that loved him in his prime now priced out of attending Stamford Bridge? Or was it indifference? I didn’t want to contemplate all of this.

12 minutes – some decent stuff from Lewis Hall in an advanced role on the left, with a keen readiness to power past his defender.

14 minutes – we enjoyed a decent little spell with Hakim Ziyech showing a willingness to get involved and shimmy down the right wing.

17 minutes – complete silence. The moment lasted for quite a few seconds. It shocked me. No shouts from the crowd. Nothing.

18 minutes – no goal threats at all thus far with Chelsea enjoying more of the ball, but then Palace went close at the far post.

19 minutes – a fine shot from Michael Olise was superbly saved by Kepa and then a “star jump” from Kepa foiled Tyrick Mitchell.

22 minutes – at last an audible “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.

24 minutes – a bout of head tennis in the Palace penalty area was followed by a strong swipe at goal by Thiago Silva but not only did his shot go wide, an offside flag was raised too.

27 minutes – a well-worked foray down our right brought purrs from the crowd but Mason Mount shot weakly at Vicente Guaita.

30 minutes – we had dominated the game but the visitors had easily had the best few chances.

31 minutes – so quiet.

32 minutes – a great deep cross from Ziyech, but Kai Havertz’ slow looper dropped just over the bar.

39 minutes – another good advance from Conor Gallagher, the ball ending up with a shot from Hall that flew just wide.

45 minutes – Kepa was called into action to tip a strong header from Jeffrey Schlupp over the bar, and we then broke and had a couple of late chances on the Palace goal that sadly misfired.

Thankfully there were no boos at half-time and there was even a little applause. I turned to PD and mused on the game thus far…

“We’re playing well, the mood among the fans around us seems to be reasonable, but is that because our expectations are really at not a very high level? You have to say, all our players today, they’re doing alright but are any of them more than a…”

I paused briefly, wanting to say 6, I thought briefly of saying 7, but I went with my gut reaction and said…

“6” just as PD said “6” too.

At the break, new signing Mykhailo Mudryk appeared on the pitch, draped in a Ukraine flag.

“All these runners, we just need a playmaker to hit them” I moaned for the ninety-fifth time since Christmas.

The second-half began.

53 minutes – there was a fine shimmy under pressure and cushioned lay-off from Badiashile that reminded me so much of Frank Leboeuf in his prime. The debutant was impressing me.

55 minutes – a fine punch away by that man Kepa from Wilfred Zaha. That was four great saves at least.

56 minutes – a shot down below us from Havertz but it did not worry the Palace ‘keeper.

58 minutes – the loudest “Vialli! Vialli!” chant of the entire day. Phew.

63 minutes – Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Carney Chukwuemeka.

65 minutes – a corner down below me, some passes twixt Gallagher and Ziyech, a strong cross towards the penalty spot and my camera clicked as several Chelsea players jumped. The ball flew goal wards and the net rippled. There followed a run of relief to the corner flag and by the time Havertz had been swamped by team mates, the MHL was bellowing “Vialli! Vialli!” The header was a downward dab that Luca would have been proud.

66 minutes – Alan and I exchanged “THTCAUN” and “COMLD” via Whatsapp.

69 minutes – Dennis Wise, San Siro, you know the song.

70 minutes – a fine forward pass – honest, I saw it – from Jorginho set up Aubameyang but he was foiled by Guaita’s advance.

74 minutes – Hall set up Aubameyang but a shot was blocked.

75 minutes – the left-back went down with yet another injury to hit us. He was replaced by Kalidou Koulibaly.

80 minutes – a good free-kick was worked with the resulting cross being just too heavy for Havertz to connect.

81 minutes – a fucking superb block by Silva, what a man.

85 minutes – a superb diving save from Kepa thwarted Chieck Doucoure’s effort from way out.

89 minutes – Dave for Kai Havertz and Mateo Kovacic for Jorginho.

90 minutes – Palace continued to pile on the pressure with seemingly endless crosses coming in from their right. This was a nervous time, no doubt.

95 minutes – “Vialli! Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”

96 minutes – a fine block from Trevoh Chaobah.

At the final whistle, I pointed with fore-fingers to the sky.

Phew.

A win for us.

A win for Luca.

A win for Chelsea.

We were OK; in fact, more than that, this was a better performance than in the recent run of games, but there is such a long way to go during this campaign. The match against Palace was our nineteenth league game of the season; only the half-way stage.

But a win is a win is a win.

And talking of wins…

Forty years ago to the day – Saturday 15 January 1983 – in addition to lamenting the recent news about the break-up of Stiff Little Fingers on the previous Thursday and after withdrawing my applications to several universities on the Friday, I was elated that Chelsea had defeated Cambridge United 6-0 at Stamford Bridge. The goal scorers were Mike Fillery with two, Joey Jones, John Bumstead, Alan Mayes and an own goal. The gate however was a disappointing 7,808.

In 1983, all was doom and gloom at Chelsea and SLF were no more.

I need not have worried. Last year, Chelsea were crowned World Champions and I saw SLF play a gig in my home town of Frome.

Next, Anfield.

I’ll see you up there.

Tales From High Noon

Posted on November 9, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 6 November 2022.

After we traipsed back to the car on Wednesday after the win against Dinamo Zagreb, soaked with the rain, we were well aware of the tough task ahead of Graham Potter’s side before the break in proceedings. We were to play three tough, tough, tough games.

Arsenal at home in the League, Manchester City away in the League Cup and Newcastle United away in the League.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

To be blunt, the Manchester City game didn’t bother me too much. I had, in reality, already conceded defeat. I just didn’t want us to be embarrassed. As for the two league games, I soon decided that I would be happy with two 0-0 draws. It was all about getting our feet over the line before the season closed down for a break of forty-five long days. If the 2022-23 campaign looked like an assault on Mount Everest, getting to the second weekend of November would be akin to arriving at a pretty significant base camp.

The home game with Arsenal was to kick-off at midday. This was a ridiculous time for a match. It harked back to times in the early to mid-‘eighties when worries about potential hooliganism forced the football authorities to foist such kick-off times on us all. On opening day 1984, for example, our most famous game against Arsenal in that era kicked-off at 11.30am.

But midday in 2022? Oh boy.

My alarm sounded at 4.45am. On a Sunday. A day of rest? Forget it.

My passengers were soon collected; PD and Glenn at 5.45am, Ron at 6am and Parky at 6.30am. As a matter of principle, I never like being late for any pick-ups. And nor does Ron in particular.

“I was only ever late for tackles.”

We were met with yet more horrific weather as we headed towards London. There was so much standing water on the roads that I wondered that if the torrents continued until kick-off, the game might be postponed. Such was our combined fear of getting turned over by Arsenal, a postponement wasn’t looked on as unfavourably as it might have been at another time.

I dropped the others off and then parked the car. The rain had subsided a little, but as I made my way down a deserted North End Road, stopping en route for a rare McBreakfast, my rain jacket was clinging to me, the rain reluctant to stop.

I joined the lads in “The Eight Bells” at just after 10am. We were in there for an hour. There was no talk of the game being called off. Alex – from last Saturday and Wednesday – joined us and was pleased to meet my fellow Chelsea mates at last. He called them “the Three Musketeers” and me “D’Artagnan.” I will not share what I called him. The usual laughs in the pub, the usual characters. It did feel bloody odd, though, to wish a few friends and regulars “Happy Christmas” as we squeezed out of the boozer.

Bollocks to Qatar 2022. It has ruined our season and it has ruined many lives.

We caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. It just seemed all along like a bloody ridiculous time for a game of football, London derby or not.

Forty years ago – to the exact day, Saturday 6 November 1982 – Chelsea had another home derby. We played Crystal Palace at Stamford Bridge in front of a relatively decent 15,169, but the game ended up as a dull 0-0 draw. I won’t detail the Chelsea team on this occasion but, for reference and as a comparison, let me list the Crystal Palace players; Paul Barron, Gavin Nebbeling, Jerry Murphy, Steve Lovell, Jim Cannon, Paul Hinshelwood, David Giles, Henry Hughton, Ian Edwards, Kevin Mabbutt and Vince Hilaire. I recognise all of these names forty years on, with the exception of David Giles, and if pressed I could probably write short pen pictures of them all. Of especial note is Kevin Mabbutt, a former Bristol City striker, whose brother Gary had gone from Bristol Rovers to Tottenham in 1982 and would soon be playing for England. Their father Ray used to play for Frome Town. I mention all of this because I know damn well that I would be hard-pressed to name many of the current Arsenal team that would be playing us on the same date in 2022. I don’t feel any pleasure in saying this. I guess it is a sign of my changing relationship with football and modern football in particular. Outside of Chelsea, I just don’t see much football these days. Oh well.

Glenn was using my ticket for this game as I had picked up a spare. For a change, I would be sat in Gate 17 at the Matthew Harding. It’s an odd section. It’s actually along the side of the pitch, an adjunct to the East Stand, and was built a few years after the Matthew Harding, and joined the two stands together. To be honest, it’s a great area to see the game. My seat was in the second row, just splendid. I soon spotted Mark Worrell a few rows behind me alongside Young Dave and Pav from Bath, heroes of Munich in 2012 and Amsterdam in 2013. I saw that club historian Rick Glanvill was a few seats away. I also spotted Johnny Twelve and his son in an even better viewing position in one of the middle tiers of the West Stand.

By the side of the pitch, former players Emmanuel Petit and Eidur Gudjohnsen. Oh dear, memories of that 2002 FA Cup Final against you-know-who.

As this would be our nearest home game to Remembrance Day, the Stamford Bridge stadium was set up to honour the memory of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice. The large letters “Chelsea Remembers” usually occupy the corner of the pitch where I was now located but I was lucky in that this display was now in the opposite corner of the northern end of the stadium. It meant that I was still able to capture it all on camera. Above the Shed End, a banner stated “We Will Remember Them” and the crowd waited for the understated pageantry at kick-off. Two Chelsea pensioners placed wreaths, the players lined up on the centre-circle and “The Last Post” was played by a lone bugler. In The Shed, a sea of white mosaics appeared with a large red poppy in the middle. It didn’t feel right to photograph this, I let the moment pass, and kept my head bowed in silence.

The minute of silence was that. It was unerringly quiet. Well done to all.

Our team?

Mendy

Azpilicueta – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Jorginho – Loftus-Cheek

Sterling – Havertz – Mount

Aubameyang

Their team? Who cares.

So, this was it then. A duel at high noon. A shoot-out between London’s two most decorated clubs.

Arsenal : 31 major trophies.

Chelsea : 28 major trophies.

This was my thirty-seventh game against Arsenal at Stamford Bridge. Additionally, I have seen us play Arsenal at six further venues, the most of any club; Highbury, The Emirates, Wembley, Cardiff, Beijing and Baku.

The game began.

From this new vantage point, Stamford Bridge looked different, though obviously familiar. I didn’t like feeling cramped in with spectators to my front, back, left and right. In my usual seat, I have just bodies to my right and in front; to my left steps, a walkway behind. And I took an immediate dislike to the angry man to my left. He quickly annoyed me, telling a chap who was obviously having difficulty to find his correct seat to “fuck off” and soon labelling one of our players with a term that I thought had died a death in the ‘eighties.

On the pitch, Arsenal had begun much the brighter of the two teams and very soon the anger of one man spread to the anger of others. Attacking at will down below me, the chances started to pile up but the Arsenal finishing was errant and did not really trouble Edouard Mendy. An effort from Gabriel Martinelli – I recognised him – flew just over the bar.

We invited Arsenal on, but there was a horrific piece of goalkeeping from Mendy when he almost made a complete hash of passing the ball out of defence. I was reminded of a moment that took place the previous afternoon during the Frome Town vs. Tavistock game that I had watched with a few friends. We were already 2-0 down but we gifted the visiting team from Devon with a third when our ‘keeper made a mess of clearing and an attacker scored his third of his eventual four goals in a shocking 4-0 rout. It was, undoubtedly, the worst Frome Town performance that I had seen for years.

I kept looking at the clock, willing the time to pass quickly. There is no doubt that we had shown a reluctance to piece too many moves together but we were playing a little better than I had feared.

In the midst of strong Arsenal pressure, we enjoyed a rare break. Raheem Sterling ran at pace down our right before switching it to Kai Havertz on our left.

“Go on Havertz, be strong.”

The pace of the move slowed and Havertz methodically advanced. He spotted the run of Mason Mount but a shot was blocked.

Gabriel Jesus – I sadly recognised him too – headed a cross from Martinelli just wide of Mendy’s goal.

Chances were at a premium.

I wanted our support to roar the players on, but it saddens me to say that I could just hear the three thousand Arsenal fans and not us.

That very distinctive “Aaars-e-nal, Aaars-e-nal, Aaars-e-nal.”

The left-footed Odegaard reminded me of Mike Fillery, just the way he caressed the ball forward.

A poor finish from Havertz from a nice move down our right.

“That was a bloody back pass” I moaned.

At the break, there was relief that we were still in the game, despite Arsenal having more of the ball. But, I had to admit it to myself, neither ‘keeper was pressed into a save.

Arsenal still enjoyed more of the possession as the second-half began. Gabriel Jesus forced a near post save from Mendy. From the corner that followed, a slow cross towards to the near post. It seemed to be headed on from the view that I had, and the ball continued on unaided through a forest of players in the six-yard box.

I screamed.

“No!”

Then when the ball was pushed over the line :

“Fuck off!”

Sixty-three minutes had passed.

Then that horrible song.

“One nil to The Arsenal.”

A double substitution from Potter.

Conor Gallagher for the woeful Havertz.

Armando Broja for the equally poor Aubameyang.

I heard the jeering, booing, laughter of three-thousand Arsenal fans.

There seemed to be an immediate increase in our intensity, but for all of the energy of the two newcomers, it was all so disjointed. The Arsenal players were suffocating our midfield and the two in front of the back four – Jorginho and Loftus-Cheek – offered little.

The rain came again, damn it; not another soaking on a wet walk back to the car?

More Arsenal chances, our fight disappeared.

Two more changes.

Christian Pulisic for the almost invisible Mount.

Mateo Kovacic for the disappointing Loftus-Cheek.

Chances in the second-half? I can only think of one, a quick break from Sterling but his cross disappeared into the ether.

The angry man to my left early, and a fair few others left early too. It was a deeply disappointing game for us, and one that left us all wondering about our immediate future. Of our players, only Mendy – several decent saves – and Dave – a steady game in difficult circumstances – were exempt of any negative comments. The rest? Poor. Very poor.

Yes, we got drenched on the way back to the car, but maybe not quite so bad as on Wednesday. Everything was doom and gloom in the first few miles of our return journey.

And I don’t really know how to finish this one. In modern football, everyone reacts to the latest result as if that alone will define our season, our future. That can’t be right can it? I don’t know about Graham Potter. I can’t help feeling that he may not be an upgrade on Thomas Tuchel. But this ain’t his team, maybe not for a while.

The old banalities about time can be trotted out.

We’ll see. We’ll see.

In a moment of whimsy, after I had been back at home for an hour or so, I realised that the quintessentially English phrase “pottering” might well have summed up, cynically, our performance against Arsenal.

“to potter” : verb.

From the Oxford Dictionary : “to do things or move without hurrying, especially when you are doing something that you enjoy and that is not important.”

“Occupy oneself in a desultory but pleasant way.”

“I’m quite happy to potter about by myself here.”

Similar :

Do nothing much.

Amuse oneself.

Tinker about.

Do odd jobs.

Mess about.

Piddle about.

Piddle around.

Puddle about.

Puddle around.

Muck about.

Muck around.

Fanny around.

Footle about.

Footle around.

Lollygag.

Move or go in a casual, unhurried way.

So much for a shoot-out at high noon on this wet and weary day at Stamford Bridge. If it was a shoot-out, somebody must have given us a supply of blanks.

However.

Let’s give the new man a bit of time to sort things out. Rome wasn’t built in a day and other clichés. We were bloody excellent at the San Siro a few weeks ago. We are missing two key players. Maybe three.

On we bloody go.

No midweek trip to Manchester City for me so the next one will be another tough game up on Tyneside.

See you there.

Tales From A Love Story

Posted on August 19, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 14 August 2021.

I don’t think it is too far-fetched to say that there have been few games – few occasions, few spectacles – in the history of Stamford Bridge that have matched our game against Crystal Palace on Saturday 14 August 2021. Sure, the first league games back at the old ground after the Great War and the Second World War must have been emotional affairs. And let’s not forget the gate of more than 100,000 against Moscow Dynamo in 1945 that unofficially signalled the start of a return to football in peaceful times. But this one was different. Everton at home in the early spring of 2020 seemed so distant and never in the history of English football has there ever been such a period of uncertainty and sadness.

Coming not long after my operation in October of last year, the twin games against Leeds United and Krasnodar were out of the question for me in my high-risk state. And I wasn’t really tempted by the home game against Leicester City in May either; I know that many were, and those that went thoroughly enjoyed it. But I wanted my first game back at HQ to be alongside all of my mates, all of my pals, and in a full house. Back with a vengeance, back to normality, back to life.

I returned from Belfast late on the Thursday and battled fatigue in my one day at work – Friday the thirteenth seemed wholly appropriate – but when I woke on Saturday morning, Belfast was still dominating my every thought. It felt as though it hadn’t worked its way out of my system just yet. Belfast was Chelsea game number 1,300 for me and I secretly wished that game number 1,301 wasn’t until the Sunday.

But beggars can’t be choosers, and a Saturday game it was.

I awoke at 6am, ahead of the alarm.

My first task of the new league season was to fill up the fuel tank of my car in a nearby village. As I walked into the shop to pay, I easily spotted a woman who I went to school with as a child. She was – if I am not mistaken – the first girl to ever give me a kiss, possibly when I was around seven years of age, and – again if my memory serves me correctly – this momentous occasion took place on the village recreation ground, in the long grass, no more than a quarter of a mile from where I am typing these notes. I see her around occasionally. I am sure she has forgotten all about me and I can’t say I blame her. The petrol station was, ironically, in the village of my first-ever girlfriend – summer 1982, aged seventeen – and as I set off on the trip to London I smirked about these romantic incursions into the day of me reacquainting myself with the love of my life.

I collected P-Diddy at 7.30am and I collected L-Parky at 8am.

Up the A303, into London, parked up near Queen’s Club at 10.15am.

Bosh.

For those regular readers, my pre-match routine for the opening league game of 2021/22 followed a familiar pattern. We started at “The Eight Bells” at the bottom end of the Fulham Road – Dave from Northamptonshire and Deano from Lancashire soon joined us – before we all decamped to “Simmon’s” at the bottom of the North End Road to join forces with Alan, Gary, Daryl, Ed, Andy and Sophie.

It was the first time that I had seen Alan since that Everton game nigh-on eighteen months ago. I sat alongside him and it felt so good.

On the walk to the second of the two pubs, I had briefly called by the CFCUK stall to say a few words to Marco. On that fateful day in October – with me in the emergency ward at a hospital in Bath – it was Marco, himself having recently suffered heart problems, that kept me going with a series of text messages. We shook each other’s hands and wished each other well. It was super to see him.

I am not going to comment every week on the clown’s clothing that Chelsea Football Club has decided to dress players in this season, but on the walk to the ground it did dawn on me that the 2020/21 shirt – the one that we wore in Porto – was hardly a Chelsea royal blue at all. It just seemed darker than it should be and rather muted with no vibrancy. It never really dawned on me before. I hardly saw anyone wearing this shirt in my home area this past season, and I don’t think I really noticed it in Porto, but it really jarred when I saw it on this particular day.

Maybe next year, we’ll get a clean and crisp royal blue shirt.

Don’t hold your breath.

As far as I could see, nothing had changed too much along the walk to Stamford Bridge, and I noticed that most fans were not wearing face-coverings outside the stadium. My bag was checked, I bumped into a few friends, my COVID19 passport was inspected outside the Matthew Harding and I joined that oh-so familiar queue before using a new style ticket-scanning machine and then…pause for effect…through the turnstiles…click, click, click…and I was in.

I ascended the six flights of stairs to the MHU, keeping to the left – my superstition – as always.

Inside the stand. I was home.

Phew.

Greeting me was Clive, who has taken Glenn’s season ticket.

Glenn finally decided to give it up after twenty-four seasons. But Glenn hasn’t given up completely; he will still go to a game every month or so, depending upon his working patterns and availability of tickets. I have known Clive since around 2003, so he is a familiar face. I last saw him at a New Order gig in Bristol in July 2019.

With the new rail seating in The Shed, everything looked bluer.

I spent a few minutes or more chatting to various folk in The Sleepy Hollow who I had obviously missed the previous year and a half. Albert, who sits directly in front of me, shared an opinion which had great resonance with me. He too has been a ST holder since 1997.

“This football club has been a massive part of my life. But last season, I didn’t really care. Sometimes I’d be watching us play on TV and I would switch channels at half-time but instead of watching our game again, I’d continue to watch the new programme.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

I knew of many season ticket holders who hardly watched us on TV.

It just wasn’t the same.

The teams were announced.

No Romelu Lukaku. Not yet.

Mendy

Chalobah – Christensen – Rudiger

Dave – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Werner – Pulisic

“Park Life” sounded on the PA. There were no crowd-surfing banners due to COVID19. The players, Chelsea in blue, Crystal Palace in Villareal yellow, entered the pitch but instead of walking over to the West Stand – a Chelsea trademark that I have grown to love – they stood on this occasion in front of the East Stand.

And then the two teams linked arms and stood on the centre circle. We were asked to silently remember those who had lost their lives during the global pandemic. On the TV screen around twenty-five names were listed, in groups of four, of Chelsea supporters who had passed away. At the end, a fleeting phrase flickered onto the screen and then faded as quickly as it had appeared.

BLUES FOREVER

One of the Chelsea supporters was Scott La Pointe. I first met Scott in Charlotte in North Carolina in 2015 when, along with his wife and two children, they joined in with some lovely pre and post-match socialising around the game with PSG. His young son Alex memorably entertained the troops with his endearing version of “Zigger Zagger”. It was clear that Scott was a family man who dearly loved both his family and Chelsea. I met up with them all, and many other from the Detroit supporters group of which Scott was a proud member, at Ann Arbor in Michigan the following summer. The game against Real Madrid – to this day the largest official crowd at any Chelsea game anywhere – must have been so special for Scott’s family. It was like a home game for them all. Sadly, not so long after this game, Scott was diagnosed with ALS / Motor Neurone Disease. Scott battled the disease with great strength and great dignity. This was painful for me since one of my Godparents, my uncle Gerald, died from the same disease in around 1988. Scott held out for Christmas 2020 and – amazingly – for the 2021 European Cup Final in Porto too. He watched from his bed in his house in the Detroit suburbs. I often messaged him on Facebook. His last message to me was on the day after the final.

“I really didn’t think I would be here to see yesterday’s match. I can’t tell you how excited I was for them to win. I love your pictures that you posted. Every time the camera went to the crowd, Jamie and I were looking for you. Cheers my friend!”

Scott sadly passed away not long after his forty-third birthday.

He will live on in the memory of all those who knew him.

He was loved by all.

Scott La Pointe : 6 June 1978 to 22 June 2021.

There were a few empty seats dotted about, but not many. The immediate build-up to the game against Patrick Viera’s Crystal Palace was somewhat overshadowed by the very late announcement that some season ticket-holders would not be able to watch from their usual seat in the MHL due to delays in the rail seating. The club must have known there was going to be a risk of this when they sold all other available seats. Surely they should have kept some to one side just in case.

Insert a comment about Chelsea being a well-run football club here :

Before the game began, we heard that Manchester United had walloped Leeds 5-1 at Old Trafford. My mind immediately raced back to forty years ago, opening day 1981, when Leeds lost 5-1 at newly promoted Swansea City, a result that was wildly celebrated at Stamford Bridge as I saw us beat Bolton 2-0. It was the first game that I had ever travelled to independently.

Forty bloody years ago.

Altogether now everybody : “Fackinell.”

Kudos, by the way, to our benign neighbours Brentford on their fine – very fine – 2-0 win against Arsenal the previous night. Fantastic stuff.

We began positively and absolutely dominated possession. Having not seen Palace play for much of the past eighteen months – I found myself not even bothering with “MOTD” in the latter part of last season – I hardly recognised anyone in the Palace team, which was well changed anyway from the last time I had clapped eyes on them. Former Chelsea prospect Mark Guehi took up a position in their defence. I had seen both of his appearances in our colours in the League Cup of 2019/20.

The crowd was in a boisterous and jubilant mood. The time for venom and heated passion will come against more hated rivals.

There was intelligent use of space and we always seemed to have a spare man to stretch the Palace defence. Chances for Dave and Christian Pulisic hinted at a game of goals. There was a further chance from Mateo Kovacic.

There was a succession of corners from our left with Mason Mount pumping the ball in but with mixed results.

Just as we found an attack being thwarted by a foul on Mount just outside the box, I overheard Alan and Clive in a general discussion about a few players. I memorably heard Al say “Alonso worries me” and I silently smiled as I saw the Spaniard place the ball in readiness for a shot on goal.

“Bloody hell Al, that’s tempting fate. This is Alonso territory.”

With that, I snapped as the ball was whipped up and over the wall, curving perfectly away from Vicente Guaita. I saw the spinning ball, through my lens, nestling in the goal. The ‘keeper did not bother moving.

I jumped to my feet – GET IN – and smiled at Alan.

One-nil to the European Champions.

“THTCAUN.”

“COMLD.”

The noise levels then hit stratospheric levels.

On my feet – “Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”

We were back.

And this was perfect Chelsea weather. Memories of opening day wins in recent years against too many teams to mention.

We seemed to be missing an aerial threat in the Palace box, but no doubt the returning Lukaku would remedy that ailment.

A free-kick from Mason hit the wall, but we extended our lead just before the break. A fine move, with Dave setting up Mount with a fine return pass, which lead to the ball being sent low into the box. The ‘keeper got something on the cross but the ball fell to Pulisic, who twisted his body to prod the ball home.

Two-nil to the European Champions.

A late chance for Timo Werner hit the side-netting and we went into the break well on top. In fact, up to the point of our second goal, I could only remember one very rare Crystal Palace attack that soon fizzled out down below me in the area of the pitch that I will forever call Hazardous.

Never could I remember such a dominant first-half performance or rather such a poor opponent (edit : the first-half against Everton in 2016 was exceptional, but Everton were not so woeful as Palace, surely?)

In the back of my mind I was hoping for at least two more goals – maybe more – in the second-half. A trademark volley from Alonso went close.

I noted that – strangely – the song of the night in Belfast, the Belinda Carlisle ditty, was noticeable by its absence in the Stamford Bridge sun. Its time will come again I am sure.

A very rare attack was easily stubbed out by the Chelsea defence. They really were poor. I loved the way that the midfield pairing of Jorginho and Kovacic kept things ticking over in the middle of the park. Werner was in his usual “one step forward, two steps back” mode, looking great one minute and then mediocre the next. Pulisic twisted and turned. He needs a run of games, but I have a feeling that Tuchel is going to rotate a few players behind Lukaku this season. It will be interesting to see how Havertz develops. I really have my eye on him.

Just before the hour, the ball was played to Trevoh Chalobah. He had space to run into, and maybe buoyed by the home crowd chanting “shoooot”, he let fly with a sweet and low rocket. I managed to capture this goal too. The shot was aimed to perfection, just clipping the base of the far post before nestling inside the net.

3-0.

Magnificent.

I also caught the players hugging the excited youngster.

Joyous scenes, eh?

I remember my mate Tom, in his home city of Minneapolis for the Milan game in 2016, coming up with the “He’s Chalobah!” (as in “He fell over!”) chant for Trevoh’s brother Nathaniel.

Let’s get it going again.

I was hoping for more goals but the manager – still without a song, in truth we hardly know him – made some substitutions.

James for Dave.

Havertz for Pulisic.

Emerson for Alonso.

A rare Palace attack on goal – the only one? – from the old warhorse Christian Benteke was easily saved by our man Mendy.

The game ended 3-0.

It was a fine performance, hardly any negatives, but it was only Palace.

I’d score myself 7/10; not as overblown with emotion as others, but I did join in with a fair few songs. I think the football came second to seeing everyone again on this particular day. I am sure that football is still trying to win its way back into my heart if I am honest. But I am equally sure that this will improve with each game and I am bloody sure that I will soon be back to my March 2020 groove before long.

I just need a couple of tough away games to sort myself out and to get myself focused.

What’s that I hear you say?

Arsenal away and then Liverpool away?

OK. Let’s go. Mow those fucking meadows.

The Sleepy Hollow : Season 2021/22 – Chris, Alan, Clive, PD & Gary.

Tales From Youngsters And Veterans

Posted on November 10, 2019 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 9 November 2019.

Like many match days at Stamford Bridge, this was a day that was devoted to meeting up with good friends just as much as cheering the team, and hoping for yet another league win. But it was also, of course, a day that Chelsea Football Club honoured those that have served our country. I am always pleased when we have home matches at Stamford Bridge over Remembrance weekends. Chelsea manage this day so well.

This home game against Crystal Palace came just four days over a complete year since the corresponding fixture in 2018/19, a relatively easy 3-1 win.

This one was a 12.30pm kick-off, a lunchtime kick-about.

It meant that I needed to leave home as early as was feasible in order to squeeze as much out of a Chelsea Saturday as was possible. I had set the alarm for 6am ahead of a planned 7am departure from my dormant Somerset village. Unfortunately, I awake anyway at just before 5am and could not get back to sleep.

I peeked out of my landing window; there was a frost, the first of the year. Winter was with us now.

I collected Simon, a work-colleague, and PD in Frome and then shot over to pick-up Parky. We were soon headed over Salisbury Plain and London was beckoning us. We usually speed past Stonehenge during its normal opening hours, but at around 8.15am the site was devoid of visitors. The historic stones stood alone on a blanket of delicately frosted grass. It was a striking sight. Sometimes I have to blink at the magnificence of our land. It is so easy to take such sights, and sites, so much for granted.

Simon works as a project manager at my place of work; he joined in 1995, I joined up in 2003. Whereas it is my job to deliver our products – office furniture – it is his job to oversee the installation programme.

I’m a Ruben Loftus-Cheek to his Tammy Abraham.

Kinda.

It stayed fine throughout our trip to London, though there were reports of rain to follow later in the day. Our pre-match was at an unusual venue for us, “The Oyster Rooms” which sits above Fulham Broadway.

Dennis and Kazuko, still buzzing from the Ajax game, were already in the bar when I arrived. I had joked with Dennis about them putting other travel plans on hold once they had experienced match day at Stamford Bridge; I was to be proved right. They were already planning on a return visit before the end of the season. The queue for the drinks was heavy. Eventually everyone was served. We were joined by Ben and Christina, husband and wife, from Louisiana. Ben and I first started chatting in Philadelphia in 2012 ahead of our game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania.

I was reminded that Ben was a passenger on the same bus, one of the four school buses that had been arranged to take us to the game, that I was on. It turned out to be quite a fateful journey. I had chatted to other supporters on that bus and these have become firm friends with them since; Karen from Connecticut, and Kathryn and Tim from Virginia. Well, what a shocker – Dennis was apparently on the same bus too. What a small world. That bus ride was such fun. Each of the four yellow buses took turns in overtaking in each other. Fans flicked Vs at each other. Then the Chelsea team bus made a brief and fleeting appearance as it sped past as we headed south on interstate I-95. What a laugh. Phantastic times in South Philly.

There had been little talk of the upcoming game, but we knew that it was likely that N’Golo Kante would step in to take the place of the suspended Jorginho, who – we are sure – took a yellow at Vicarage Road so he would miss the Palace game so he would be ready for Manchester City.

I appreciated that Dennis made a point of shaking Parky’s hand as he thanked him for his service. Both had served in the armed forces. Both were veterans. Indeed, Dennis was in for a treat, if that is the correct word in such circumstances. I am deeply proud of the way that our club goes about honouring our war veterans in the first week of November each year.

For this reason alone, I made sure that I was inside the stadium in good time.

I loved seeing the special banners that Dennis had reported seeing being fastened to the buildings behind the Shed End on a stadium tour during the week. To the left, a lovely photograph of some Chelsea Pensioners, their red tunics and black tricorn hats adding a different colour to Stamford Bridge for this particular match day. To the right, the simple “Chelsea Remembers” backed with poppies, and more red. With Chelsea in blue and white, and Crystal Palace in a ‘seventies-inspired away kit of white edged with blue and white, this day really was all about the colours of the Union flag.

The team news came through.

Indeed, N’Golo Kante came in for Jorginho. Emerson was in for Marcos Alonso. Pulisic kept his place, and quite rightly too.

But the big news, really, was that Reece James was in for Cesar Azpilicueta. Dave has been such a solid regular, almost an ever-present, in this team since 2012 that not seeing him in the line-up was an odd feeling. But after James’ excellent substitute appearance on Tuesday, plus the threat of Wilfrid Zaha, it was a decision that was wholly understandable.

Arrizabalaga

James – Zouma – Tomori – Emerson

Kante – Kovacic

Mount

Willian – Abraham – Pulisic

Two Chelsea pensioners in scarlet lead the teams out, past a huge flag of a poppy and our club crest, and after the teams had gone through all of the pre-match presentations, we stood in silence as we remembered the fallen. Poppies fell against a simple white backdrop on the TV screen above the three-thousand away fans.

Right at the end, a lone voice from the away end.

“God Bless Them All.”

This was not expected, nor strictly something that should be supported, but I was OK with this. It added a dramatic, and unexpected twist, and certainly didn’t detract from the moment in my opinion.

The resulting lone shout of “wanker” from the Matthew Harding Lower immediately after was not so wise.

The game began.

Unsurprisingly, we began on the front foot and dominated so much of the early stages, with the visitors more than content to drop and soak up pressure. An early cross, excellent, from Reece James high up the pitch on the right flank hinted at a productive afternoon from the young defender. At times, I was annoyed that we did not utilise him more. At times he found himself in acres of space. I liked the look of Christian Pulisic, in that inside left position in the main rather than always hugging the line, who showed neat footwork from the off. A shot from him went wide early on. But soon after, Pulisic collected a pass from Willian and showed excellent skill in drifting past a last defender with a shimmy that Eden Hazard would have been pleased, but his shot was saved by the Palace ‘keeper Vicente Guaita.

One of the highlights of the first-half for me was a full-on, rather old-fashioned, race up the right touchline by Reece James. Not only did he show great control, real pace, and spirit, but he stayed on his feet throughout despite a couple of challenges that might well have sent others sprawling.

I was dead impressed.

A free-kick was awarded in a central position.

“Give it to Zouma. He needs shooting practice.”

In the end, the resulting effort from Willian drifted past the near post. Not long after, Emerson tested the Crystal Palace ‘keeper from a similar position, but again wide.

Despite our dominance, the atmosphere was hindered by the early kick-off; in a nutshell, not enough alcohol. A simple truth.

A free-kick from Mason Mount did not clear the wall.

Crystal Palace rarely enjoyed much of the ball at all. On a rare foray up field, they were awarded a free-kick down below us, but it was over hit and screamed past the far post.

“Awful.”

We carved out a couple of chances; a Pulisic header, and then a shot from Tammy Abraham that was blocked by right in front of the goal as the first-half minutes ran out.

There was a hint of deep irony that a full four minutes of added-time at the end of the first-half were signalled.

“Great. Where was that on bloody Tuesday night?”

Just before the break, a truly horrific pass from Kepa to Zouma, with an attacker breathing down his neck, had us all screaming and roaring . Sometimes his distribution is just awful. King Kurt had enjoyed a solid first-half in fact. A double tackle, sliding, perfectly timed, was one of the highlights. Or was that in the second-half? I forget.

It had been, generally, a good half but not a great one. Tammy’s movement was not great, but on a few occasions we did not spot the option of an early ball into space, over the top. There were positives in midfield with excellent play from Kovacic, always involved, and Mount, always running and closing down space.

As an aside, can anyone remember what football was like before pundits, and some supporters – not all, you know who you are – used the word “press” every five fucking seconds?

For goodness sake, talk about buzz words.

There was talk between Alan and little old me at half-time about the possibility of Frank being bold and taking off Tammy and replacing him with Michy at the break. Alan had spotted that Tammy’s body language had been a little “off” during the first forty-five minutes. He had, possibly, become frustrated with the service.

Lo and behold, seven minutes into the second-half, with a noticeable increase in speed of movement on the ball and off it, we watched as a great move unfolded. Lovely interplay between Kovacic and Willian – a simply wonderful flick into space, quite exquisite – played in Tammy. He steadied himself, and slotted home.

Just what he needed.

Lovely.

GET IN.

His face in the celebrations displayed a certain melancholy. The last shot that I took almost hinted at an apology :

“Sorry I haven’t scored before now.”

We hoped that the goal would jump start his confidence.

Elsewhere we began to show greater freedom, greater confidence and greater awareness of others moving off the ball. I loved the way that a player, usually Mason Mount, would “nibble” at a Palace player in an attempt to nick the ball. If the ball was not immediately won, very often the challenge caused the player in possession to miss-control and this tended to result in a second or even third Chelsea player winning the ball. This instilled momentum, and moves developed at pace.

It was excellent.

We improved as the second-half continued, and as the rain eventually arrived.

Pulisic drifted past some defenders and let fly from a central position. His rising drive was admirably saved by Guaita.

The visitors enjoyed around ten minutes just after the hour mark where our play was not quite so solid. There was a perfectly-timed block from King Kurt inside the box. Once or twice, but no more than that, Zaha had the better of Reece James. Generally, the youngster had enjoyed a very fine league debut. Early days, but he looks a very great prospect indeed.

Another shot from Pulisic. This time it flew over.

But the boy from Pennsylvania had impressed me again. He looked confident and keen to take players on.

Michy Batshuayi replaced Tammy Abraham.

With around ten minutes remaining, Pulisic controlled a long cross-field ball with ease and he worked it into Michy. His shot was blocked and as the ball ballooned up into a dangerous position inside the six-yard box, Pulisic was able to react quickly and nod he ball in.

GET IN.

I caught his joyous run and leap on film, snap, snap, snap.

Sadly, more “USA USA USA” claptrap.

The scorer was replaced by Callum Hudson-Odoi.

At the other end, Kepa continued his tradition of late lunges to his left to stop certain goals as a James McCarthy effort was wonderfully pushed around the post.

Was it his only save of note?

We thought so.

Chances still continued, with Willian – enjoying a really fine game as captain – and Batshuayi threatened the Palace goal.

Billy Gilmour was a late substitute for Mason Mount, who had been everywhere. I even saw him buying drinks for Chelsea supporters at half-time. He has an engine that would not be out of place at Silverstone, Monza or Monaco.

The minutes dried up.

It stayed at 2-0.

We improved as the game had developed. There were solid seven and eight of ten performances throughout the team. We were soon to learn on the drive home – into dark clouds and through more rain – that this would be our youngest-ever starting eleven since the Premier League began in 1992.

The kids are alright, as someone once said.

We laughed as Tottenham dropped points at home to Sheffield United as I drove along the A303 towards Stonehenge. Later, Arsenal lost too.

Good times. Again, we are London’s top club.

Later that evening, dried out at home, I watched the Service of Remembrance from the Royal Albert Hall, and the highlight, as ever for me, was the appearance of the Chelsea Pensioners. There was an extra special treat this year, though; an extended rendition of “The Boys Of The Old Brigade” with the fine voice of a lone Chelsea Pensioner leading the way.

It was brilliant stuff.

The boys of the old brigade.

The boys of the young brigade.

On this day, and hopefully in those days to come, Chelsea got it right.

Tales From The Eight Bells And Three Points

Posted on November 7, 2018 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 4 November 2018.

Another Sunday, another game.

I had dropped the lads off at West Kensington at around midday. The arranged “meet” on this sunny November Sunday was “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge. While I went off to park up, the lads – Glenn, PD, Parky – made their way down to the bottom end of the King’s Road by themselves. Once parked up just off Lillee Road, I walked over to West Brompton, crossing over the North End Road, amid many memories of previous Chelsea moments.

Drinks at “The Lillee Langtry” after beating United 3-0 to win the league in 2006. A triumphant drink in the very same boozer after the Champions League semi-final victory against Liverpool in 2008. A late night curry at the “Lily Tandoori” with friends from both coasts of the USA after a debilitating defeat to Inter in the Champions League in 2010. Calling in at “The Prince Of Wales” en route to Wembley with Parky for the 2012 FA Cup Final. Dropping in to “The Wee Imp” after a pizza at “Salvo’s” after a game with Leicester City in 2014 with a mate from Detroit, keen to show him the ultimate Chelsea post-game experience at the time.

And looming over everything was the towering mass of the Empress State Building, one of the iconic buildings that has coloured my Chelsea match-going experiences from 1974, and even before. Before I used to go to games, the triangular-shaped building was often spotted by myself in black and white action shots from Stamford Bridge. I would have spotted it in person away to my left from my seat in the West Stand Benches for the first time in real technicolour – suitably blue and white – at that first game. From The Shed, it looked massive, as did the huge mass of the Earls Court exhibition centre to its east. It was once the tallest building in London. I love it because it forms a constant link to my present-day Chelsea experience to those of my youth. It used to house M15 apparently. I always remembered that LBC used to broadcast from there. Now it is used by the Met Police. Maybe one of these days, we’ll get to experience a different pre-match vibe with a meal – and drinks – in the revolving restaurant at the top. That view must be sensational.

The huge Earls Court building – and Earl’s Court Two – is no more, bulldozed to make way for new residential and commercial buildings. I bloody loved the Art Deco façade of Earl’s Court. Such a shame it had to go. Of course, back in 2011, the club had fanciful ideas about us moving to a stadium on this site. So much for that idea.

The area opposite West Brompton tube has now been renamed West Brompton Crossing, the Prince Of Wales has closed and has been re-opened and a row of trendy shops have taken the place of more working class pubs, cafes, kebab shops and cab firms. Even “The Lily Langtree” was closed for a while. It has reopened again with a classier look and higher prices.

I caught the District Line train from West Brompton to Putney Bridge. It was a mighty odd feeling to be passing through Fulham Broadway without alighting. Putney Bridge is a lovely station – white tiles, green paint – and when I exited the train I looked back to the north and was still able to spot the Empress State Building. The stands at Stamford Bridge, annoyingly, were hidden by buildings.

I had visited Putney Bridge tube station on only one other occasion. I had come down to visit a mate in London in 1985 and we decided to watch a Fulham vs. Charlton Athletic game at Craven Cottage in the old Second Division. The gate was only about 6,000 from memory. It was a dire 0-0 draw. That served me right.

On all visits to Fulham since, I have driven my car and parked in Fulham or, usually, across the river in Putney itself.

I soon found the lads outside the Eight Bells, enjoying the beers and the craic. It is a super little pub. It has the feel of a pub on a village green, the centre of a little community, a local’s boozer. I am a big fan. Joining us were Kev and Rich from Edinburgh, Andy, Kim and Dan from Kent, plus Josh from Minneapolis and Dale from Chicago. It was a typically entertaining time. The pub was ridiculously busy, with Sunday roasts being served amid chatter and laughter. I had not met Dale before, but knew of mutual friends. We spoke momentarily how the future might pan out a few years down the line.

A management team of Frank Lampard and John Terry, anyone?

Best not get too giddy about that. Let’s enjoy the current regime. Let’s enjoy the moment. Whatever will be will be, as someone once said.

We called in for further bevvies at “The King’s Head.”

Alas, it was soon time to head off to the game.

“Bloody football. Getting in the way of a good time.”

We back-tracked to Putney Bridge tube and headed north to a more familiar station. We were soon at Fulham Broadway.

“Home.”

Inside the ground, Crystal Palace unsurprisingly had the standard three thousand. There were a couple of “CPFC” banners, which would mirror one of their chants. The team that manager Maurizio had chosen was the same eleven that walloped Burnley away last Sunday.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Luiz – Alonso

Kante – Jorginho – Barkley

Willian – Morata – Pedro

Before the game, there was a minute of complete silence in memory of those who had perished in the Leicester City tragedy. Rarely have I seen, and heard – or not heard – Stamford Bridge so quiet on such an occasion. It was impeccably observed.

Crystal Palace were wearing a nod to their famous old kit of around forty years ago; the all-white with the red and blue sash across the shirts. I always think of Vince Hilaire when I see that kit. As Alan reminded me, in those days, following promotion in the 1978/1979 season, Crystal Palace were briefly known as “The Team Of The ‘Eighties.” Stop sniggering at the back. This epithet never ever looked like being a particularly prophetic description of Terry Venables’ team. In the following season – 1979/80 – Crystal Palace finished in thirteenth position. I would like to make some pithy comment about them still finishing one place about Tottenham that season, but as Chelsea were still toiling in the Second Division at the time I had best be quiet.

The visitors from South London have been something of a bogey team to us over the last few seasons. In our past five away games at Selhurst Park, we have lost two games. In that same period, we have lost two games to Palace at Stamford Bridge too. But, that said, we all expected a home win. No doubts. Surely our class would tell.

However, we were rather slow getting off the blocks. In the first quarter of an hour or so, the visitors arguably enjoyed most of the better attacking play. Of course, all eyes were on Wilfrid Zaha, and his pace was upsetting our defenders with a few trademark runs. Once in the box however, he tended to take a few extra over-indulgent touches. In one moment of play, his feet were chopping up and down on the ball like a dressage pony. The Palace fans, suitably impressed with their bright opening, then made fools of themselves.

“We’re just too good for you.”

Oh my aching sides.

A free-shot from Meyer ballooned over from the edge of our box. Soon after, David Luiz made a fantastic block inside our penalty area. Thankfully, I noted that the pacey Zaha was not being ably supported by his team mates. Throughout the game, I felt that their forwards were often ploughing lone furrows. Their play would not often mesh together. But we were being tested alright. We needed to up our game.

We began to get into the match. A couple of Antonio Rudiger cross-field passes out to the left-wing were inch perfect and were illustrative of our growing confidence. But there had been a few wayward passes too. The away fans were making some noise, but the home areas were pretty still and pretty quiet. On thirty minutes, the ball was worked in towards Pedro – who had already swapped wings with Willian on a couple of occasions – who had a couple of stabs at getting the ball into a good position. Alvaro Morata was the willing recipient and his neat turn resulted in the ball being poked home.

At last some noise. His joyful run…a hop, a skip, a jump…took him towards Parkyville

I was dead happy that the much-maligned Morata had scored another. I hoped that his resurgence would continue.

Not long after, a Willian goal was disallowed for offside. Morata then headed over. We had edged ahead and at half-time, despite not overpowering the visitors at any stage, all looked rosy. With Liverpool drawing at Arsenal, but with Manchester beating Southampton 6-1, we could at least secure a healthy second-place.

With the evening getting duskier and darker, the second-half began. Sadly, our defensive frailties were evident when Palace exploited a very high defensive line with a couple of quick passes. Andros Townsend was able to run free, and his low shot easily beat Kepa in the Chelsea goal.

“Like a knife through butter.”

“Bollocks.”

At least I was stirred that following the equaliser, the Chelsea fans let out a very loud and defiant “CAREFREE.”

We toiled away for a further ten minutes, but needed the impetus provided by a couple of substitutions to fully get into the game. We had spotted Eden Hazard, especially, warming up in front of the East Stand, and it was with a smile that we saw Sarri talking to him and asking him to take his trackie top off.

It turned out to be a double substitution.

Alan and I had the briefest of discussions about the changes. We don’t always get it right, but this time we were spot on.

Mateo Kovacic for a slightly subdued Ross Barkley.

Eden Hazard for Willian.

Eden’s first real involvement lead to panic in the Palace penalty area. His free-kick from the Chelsea right avoided everyone, and Morata was able to control the ball as he waited – surprisingly free – at the far post. His low left-footed strike flew into the net. And how he celebrated. Hugs all around. Smiles for everyone. It was magical to see the Chelsea players celebrating down below us. Morata and Hazard then came together, and Eden excitedly shook his head like a child, with Alvaro embracing him, sharing his joy. What a gorgeous moment. There is something childlike, not childish, about our Eden. He simply loves playing football, and – my goodness – he is certainly flourishing under our new manager.

For a while, it was all about Eden. Almost immediately bringing others in to the game, Eden made such an impact. His ridiculously broad shoulders were proving to be broad enough to carry his underperforming team mates once more. A touch here, a shimmy there, a pass here, a run there. He immediately attracted extra attention, which in turn freed up important spaces elsewhere.

Not long after, a rapid move down our left resulted in a low cross from Marcos Alonso being slammed into the box. It flew past Hazard and was slightly behind Morata, but Pedro was on hand to whip the ball home. The game was surely safe now. The players raced over to our corner once more – how lucky we are – and the smiles were shared by players and fans alike. Pedro’s toothy green lit up the evening. He was beaming. A few hand gestures, a lick of his thumb – answers on a postcard – and a wave to the cheering gallery. Top man.

Cesc Fabregas replaced Jorginho – Alan and I got that one right too, three out of three – in the eightieth minute.

In the last minute of the game, the ball was won deep in the Palace half and was released early. Morata found himself in on goal. We waited for him to shoot, or to probably go left or right and prod home a la Fernando Torres in Catalonia in 2012. Instead, the striker chose to chip Hennessey, but the ‘keeper had read the signs. Morata groaned and so did we. The hat-trick would have to wait.

Chelsea 3 Crystal Palace 1.

This turned out to be an easy win.

I bloody hope that there are many more to come this season.

Safe travels to all those heading over to Belarus. My next game is the Everton match on Sunday.

I will see some of you there.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Crystal Palace

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