Danny Welbeck | CHELSEA/esque

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 27 September 2025.

After four consecutive away games, the boys were back in town.

And after driving a total of 768 miles on Saturday and Tuesday, I was bloody happy about it. As PD mentioned, “this will seem like a five-minute flit up the M4.”

Indeed.

We were all pleased that we were back to our first “Saturday 3, o’clock” fixture of the season too.

It was an easy trip east. The 120 miles took me a few minutes shy of three hours and, at the suggestion of Tim from North Bristolshire, I parked at a new location, on Moylan Road, which seems to be as close as I can get to Stamford Bridge to enable me to still park for free on Saturdays.

After a breakfast on the North End Road, there was a rendezvous with the usual suspects at “The Eight Bells” for a couple of hours. Allongside me were Jimmy the Greek, Nick, Salisbury Steve, Ian, Bobby, PD and Parky. My two Brighton mates Mac and Barry called in to see us all and of course I enjoyed seeing them both again. Minnesota Josh called in for a couple of scoops, too. However, the guests of honour were Lorna and Rich, from Edinburgh, on a Chelsea and Oasis weekend. I decided to head off to Stamford Bridge relatively early. I left with Josh at around 1.45pm.

There was a stand-off at the security – “is that a camera? – but I was in at 2.15pm. My SLR, therefore, would thankfully be used at a game for the first time this season. I was determined to take some decent shots, having made do with the inferior Sony “pub camera” in the previous six games.

Elsewhere in the football world, it was the day of the third qualifying round of the FA Cup. Frome Town were to play at AFC Totton, now two levels above my home town team, at the same time that Chelsea were to start in SW6. That would be a very tough match and I never really expected too much.

However, our local neighbours Westbury United, for who my old Chelsea mate Mark is the club chairman, were kicking off at 12.30pm at home to Farnborough, who are from the same division as Totton. There was a great deal of “buzz” locally about this match, as Westbury had been picked by the BBC to show via the red button, and a massive crowd was expected.

I had texted Mark a “good luck” message in the morning.

That game began at 12.30pm, and a workmate was keeping me updated. Farnborough had a player sent off on the hour, and Westbury were holding on. Sadly, at 2.40pm, just as I was getting ready for our game at Stamford Bridge, I saw that Westbury conceded a late goal on ninety-eight minutes.

Ah, bugger.

As I was waiting for a few people to arrive in The Sleepy Hollow, I was able to glance at a friend’s match programme. In the obituary section, I spotted the face of Albert, who used to sit in front of me in the years since 1997, but who sadly passed away last May.

I include it below.

Bless you Albert. You are missed.

The troops rolled in. First was Ollie, a lad from Brighton, who is the son of my long-time mate Andy. We go back to the promotion season of 1988/89 when we used to drink in “The Black Bull” aka “The Pensioner” and now “The Chelsea Gate.” Clive arrived, fresh from a drink with Gary, and then PD.

None of us really knew what to expect from this match. We had walloped Brighton 4-2 at home back in October but had lost 1-2 and 0-3 in a horrible week of away games in February.

“Without Cole Palmer, we’re not much of a team, are we really?”

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Hato – Cucurella

Santos – Caicedo

Estevao– Enzo – Neto

Joao Pedro

This eleven featured no fewer than four Brighton players, with Buonanotte the most recent addition not involved on this day.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

At three o’clock, the game began, as did the one in Totton just outside Southampton.

We began brightly. This is a familiar phrase that I use. To be truthful, I am sick to death of it, especially since it implies that our play often fails to live up to a good start, and the sad fact is that this is true; that our play often then struggles to maintain its momentum.

There was a crisp free-kick from Enzo Fernandez, playing in the hole – or “the ten” in modern parlance – that drew a smart save from Bart Verbruggen, who sounds like the destination of a cross-channel ferry.

“Good save, son.”

Marc Cucurella then flashed a shot wide.

Next up, it was Reece’s turn from a free kick, from a greater angle, but his effort was parried by Verbruggen.

Brighton threatened a little, but nothing too sinister.

There was an impudent nutmeg performed with aplomb by Estevao on Lewis Dunk very close to the half-way line and the pacy wingman raced away down the right-hand side of the pitch. It seemed almost inhuman that the wiry and lithe Brazilian should attempt such a clever dink against Dunk, who has the turning circle of the QE2. Estevao, urged on by us all, neared the goal but was still at an angle and his low shot was blocked.

Soon after, in a very similar position, he tried again but it the outcome was almost the same, an easy parry.

I noted to myself that the stadium, despite some decent football being played before us all, was like a morgue. There had been virtually no singing, not stimulation from the crowd; it was all very dispiriting.

I hate modern football.

The two wingers, like at Lincoln on Tuesday, then swapped flanks.

Halfway through the first-half, I realised that nobody had updated me with score updates from Totton, so I did so myself. It wasn’t good news. Frome were losing 0-2.

Ugh.

A mere two or three seconds after, a brilliant ball from Moises Caicedo was played into the path of Reece James. He took a couple of paces and floated a great ball towards the goal. The cross took a slight deflection off the leg of a Brighton defender, but the ball sat up sweetly for Enzo to rise unhindered at the far post to knock in with the easiest header of his career.

We were 2-0 down one minute and we were 1-0 up the next.

An odd sensation.

And an even odder sentence.

Football, eh?

With us coasting, and on top, playing well, Clive changed direction.

“How old is Boris Becker?”

“How old is Lance Armstrong?”

“What’s this nonsense, Clive? Shall I have a go? What’s Franz Klammer’s shoe size?”

Clive responded with “how old was Larry Grayson when he died?”

It must be noted, here, that Clive visits nursing homes, and provides games, music and quizzes for the residents, hence his odd trio of questions.

Answers :

57
54
Not a clue.
71.

The game continued, and we enjoyed most of the ball. Brighton’s attacks were rare. Their fans were subdued and quiet too. On the balcony between their two tiers of supporters, I spotted a joint Hearts and Brighton flag – “Brothers In Arms” – and I wondered if Rich had spotted it. Hearts are his team in Edinburgh.

We were pretty content at the break at Stamford Bridge. Down in Totton, it was still 0-2.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, and the atmosphere was still deadly dull and quiet. I was tempted to think it was the worst-ever.

The.

Worst.

Ever.

Think about it.

Not long into the second half, there was a heavy touch from Andrey Santos, and this put us under pressure. Trevoh Chalobah raced back alongside Diego Gomez, and there was a coming together of players just outside the box.

It was a shame, because Santos had impressed me in the first-half, alert and well-balanced, doing the simple things effectively.

VAR was called into action. After an age, the referee spoke into his mic.

Off went Chalobah.

Maresca chose to replace Santos with Josh Acheampong.

From the resulting free-kick, Gomez blasted over.

What now?

With around half-an-hour to go, who could possibly say?

At least this sudden adversity stirred the Chelsea supporters into life and a loud “CAREFREE” boomed, momentarily at least, around Stamford Bridge.

On the hour, there was a spritely run from Kaoru Mituma and his shot ricocheted across the box. The ball could have gone anywhere. We were starting to lose control.

On sixty-three minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Estevao.

Shortly after, there was a change from the Brighton bench too, and one of the substitutes was Danny Bloody Welbeck, and thousands of Chelsea fans around the world uttered the immortal lines “he always scores against us.”

On seventy-two minutes, Welbeck screwed a shot just wide.

There was a roller from Enzo that did not threaten. This was a rare threat from us.

Sadly, on seventy-seven minutes, Yankuba Minteh raced past Gusto and pinged a swift cross into the six-yard and that man Welbeck headed home emphatically.

Well, bollocks.

On eighty minutes, Maresca had clearly decided that all of the meaningful action would be taking pace in our half and changed things again.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Hato.

Romeo Lavia replaced Neto.

Thinking to myself : “you know we’re in trouble when Badiashile” comes on as a substitute.”

Sometimes I wished that Todd Boehley’s Lamborghini had broken down near Lyon or somewhere.

Malo Gusto, urged on by everyone, was sent free and as I reached down to pull up my SLR to record a goal, he decided to pass.

The frustrated crowd groaned.

This whole match was drifting away from us.

I thought, as did many, that a very high challenge on Gusto on Minteh would lead to a penalty, but after another VAR delay – how boring – we were let off, somehow.

There was an argy-bargy down at The Shed End but I was too far away to see who was pushing who.

The referee signalled eleven extra minutes and Stamford Bridge collectively sighed.

After two minutes of injury time, Acheampong booted out a ball cheaply for a corner, and from a short corner, a deep cross was hooked in from their left and I was aghast to see two, or even three, Brighton players unmarked at the far post. Mats Weifer was on hand to head the ball back across the box…we all experienced a fear of impending doom…and Maxim De Cuyper was one of two players free who headed home.

The scorer raced over to celebrate in front of Barry, Mac and co, and I felt ill.

In the tenth minute of stoppage time, with us trying to navigate the ball out of the box with Brighton players swarming, the ball was stolen and – guess who? – Wellbeck was sent through and calmly slotted home past Sanchez.

Well, bollocks.

By now, a good three-quarters of the Stamford Bridge crowd had left, some spewing words of anger at the manager and players alike.

Ollie, and Big John, but not many others, remained to the very last whistle.

Down in Totton, Frome had lost 2-4.

It had not been a good day at all.

I felt like saying “would the real Chelsea step forward and make themselves known please?”

You know what, it might take us all season long to discover who the real Chelsea are, and there isn’t a punchline.

Next up, two more home games, Jose Mourinho’s Benfica and champions Liverpool.

Excited?

No, neither am I.