Wrexham vs. Chelsea : 7 March 2026.
The Football Gods had shone on us once more. After FA Cup away trips to Charlton Athletic and Hull City, we were blessed with another rare venue; a trip to North Wales to see us play Wrexham.
To be honest, there are so many different strands to this cup tie, it’s difficult to know where to begin.
How about a little bit of history?
Well, there isn’t a great deal. The two teams first met in the old Second Division in August 1979 and would do so again at that level for three seasons. This period represented the high-water mark in Wrexham’s footballing path at the time, and it hasn’t been matched until now. I saw Wrexham once in that period.
I visited Stamford Bridge for our game with them on Saturday10 October 1981. This was a memorable day for me as it was the first time that I travelled up to London by myself, by train from Westbury station, aged sixteen. It’s likely that PD – who would be travelling with Parky alongside me forty-five years later – was on the same Paddington-bound train that morning. I was in the Lower Sixth at the time, drifting along, with my love for Chelsea far outweighing my love for academic study. I had newly subscribed to the home match programme that season and every Monday morning I would be so excited to receive the latest edition. Chelsea won 2-0 on that autumn afternoon, with goals from Colin Lee and Mike Fillery in front of 14,710. It would be the last time I’d see Petar Borota in goal.
Later that same season, the teams met in three FA Cup games in early 1982. On 23 January, a crowd of 17,226 saw a 0-0 draw at Stamford Bridge. This necessitated a replay at Wrexham three days later. On this occasion, 8,655 witnessed a 1-1 draw with a goal from the much-maligned Alan Mayes. In those days, we had second replays and this took place five days later on 31 January. We triumphed 2-1 on this occasion, in front of a gate of 10,647. The goals came from Mayes, again, and Micky Droy. Incidentally, we met Hull City in the previous round that year, just as we did last month.
We went on to beat European Champions Liverpool in the fifth round at Stamford Bridge before losing to Tottenham at home in the quarters. The two gates for those games of 41,412 and 42,557 were huge at the time. Our average gate in the league that season was just 13,132.
Between those two games, we lost a run-of-the-mill league game 0-1 at the Racecourse Ground on 27 February 1982. By then, I think both sets of supporters were sick to the back teeth of seeing each other. Just 3,935 attended.
And that was our last game against Wrexham until those two recent hideous friendlies against them in the US. In 2023, we beat them 5-0 in North Carolina, and a year later we drew 2-2 in California. At the time, it felt that we were bit-part players to a reality TV show and those two games didn’t sit right with me. I remember watching the first few minutes of the first match on TV and I have never seen a more tepid atmosphere at a football match. Why the hell were we playing Wrexham? They were hardly at our level.
Oh yeah, I know why.
By then, of course, Wrexham was a global football phenomenon after the take-over by Messrs. Reynolds and McElhenney. Their rise through the football pyramid has been one of the “feel good” stories in recent years and although it is tempting to be churlish and mock this amazing story, there is no doubt that the town seems to have been energised since the two North Americans strode into town.
I just find it a little odd that Americans loved the connection between the Wrexham team and its community; they seemed surprised and shocked, as if this sort of bond doesn’t happen in the US. This was my big take on all this. But then I wondered if high school football teams have the same bond with their communities? And, if so, maybe that is the only comparable example. Maybe in US pro-sports there is no sense of belonging. No sense of local pride. Or a shared brotherhood. I can’t imagine a sporting culture like that.
When I was in the US last summer, I lost count of the number of Americans that mentioned the word “Wrexham” to me, and it all got rather tiresome.
And all because of a TV programme.
Crazy, tedious and amazing all at once.
Chelsea was given 1,330 tickets for the game and I must praise Wrexham for not hiking the price of tickets to silly levels. My ticket cost just £27, no doubt a lot less than those two games in Chapel Hill and Santa Clara.
I set off from Frome at 9am and the day stretched out in front of me. The kick-off wasn’t until 5.45pm, but I fancied a nice long day following the love of my life. Neither Parky nor PD had visited Wrexham before, so this had all the makings of a cracking day out. It was a misty and foggy start to the day. We wolfed down a McDonalds breakfast at Melksham, then headed up on to the M4, onto the M5, before stopping at Frankley Services just south of Birmingham. There, we bumped into Chelsea stalwarts Allie and Nick. We touched the M6 for a few miles and then veered off onto the M54. PD and I drove this way to a League Cup game at Shrewsbury in 2014. It is not used very often on my travels around the country following the team.
The traffic lessened as I headed north, and the countryside grew flat. Just over the Welsh border, we stopped at Bangor-on-Dee, just a few miles south of Wrexham. It was 1.30pm. This little village, with a quaint cobbled bridge over the River Dee had one pub, “The Buck”, and we stayed there for forty-five minutes. The Mansfield Town vs. Arsenal cup game from Field Mill was on TV and seemed to be entertaining the locals – somehow. Maybe they had been fans of “Robot Wars”. It seemed Arsenal were struggling a little but edged it 2-1.
A few summers ago, drinking with my mate Chris in Washington, County Durham – a lovely summer sesh at a sports bar – I met up with his mate John, a Wrexham fan. We spoke about the Wrexham and Chelsea connections; Eddie Niedzwiecki, Mickey Thomas, Joey Jones, John Neal. We got on like a house on fire; we stayed in touch. Over the past few weeks, John was able to tip me off with a few nuggets of local information for my day in Wrexham, and he had advised a pub to aim for, just across the road from the Racecourse Ground.
The Racecourse Ground. It first came into my consciousness one day in May 1980. I was playing cricket for my school team in Shaftesbury, Dorset, and was aware that England were playing Wales at Wrexham in the home internationals. Wales defeated England 4-1 that day; a real shock, back in the days when I cared about the national team. There was a memorable Mark Hughes volley at the Kop End against Spain in 1985, and a Mickey Thomas screamer for Wrexham against Arsenal in the FA Cup in 1992.
I had mentioned to John and Chris that while travelling up to Glasgow from Stoke to see Rangers in March 1987, three Wrexham nutters got on the train at Crewe, and they were on their way to support Celtic in a game at Hamilton. To be honest, they were proper psychos and were part of Wrexham’s Frontline firm at the time. I mentioned that the main lad, who I was sat opposite, had ginger hair.
Chris and John said at the same time “that was Neil.”
It must be a close-knit community in Wrexham. I figured that Neil was the leader. One of the three went with Chelsea a fair bit. A lad from Cardiff was on our table, on his way to Ibrox too. The conversations between them were quite an eye-opener. It seemed that they were totally and unequivocally devoted to football violence. John and Chris had mentioned that Neil had quite recently passed away.
Later that night in Washington, we were joined by John’s mate from Wrexham, Scoot, who is the lead singer in the Declan Swans, a local band that has featured in the Wrexham TV series. Having never seen the series, I was oblivious, but after meeting Scoot, I found myself playing their signature song “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” non-stop for a few days. What a catchy song.
We moved on and I headed into Wrexham. It’s a city of around 45,000 people, and I am a little annoyed that I didn’t really get to see too much of it. I dropped the lads off at “Maesgwyn Hall”, then parked up at the nearby university. My car was only around seventy yards from the away turnstiles; “tidy” as they say somewhere.
I fell in love with the angled European-style floodlight pylons as I navigated my way around three sides of the cramped stadium. The old Kop is no more; a void sits in its place, waiting for a new 7,500 structure that will bring the capacity up to around 18,000. I suspect that the local supporters would be happy to host games hosting such a number. It seems about right for a city of Wrexham’s size. Should the owners over-egg it, and aim for a higher capacity, one wonders if the indigenous support would be able to support it. A reliance on a global – OK, US – support should not be taken for granted. There’s a difference between supporters’ buses coming in from Llandudno and Rhyl and planes arriving from Los Angeles and Philadelphia.
Out on the Mold Road, the new Macron Stand isn’t particularly appetising; it’s cladding resembles that of a trading estate warehouse. However, tucked in a corner is the famous “Turf” pub – where the club was formed in 1864 and because of its many appearances in the TV series – which now boasts a lovely mural of the late Joey Jones on one of its walls. There is the famous clenched fist, so beloved by the Chelsea faithful when Joey played for us between 1982 and 1985.
I, like many others I think, was not too happy when Joey joined us in 1982, amid a terrible season, for just £34,000. He seemed well past his best – he was a European Champion with Liverpool, remember – when we picked him up from lowly Wrexham, with whom he played before his big move to Merseyside. I was even less impressed with him when he was sent off on his debut at Carlisle. However, over the next two-and-a-half years his passion and commitment to our cause, under former Wrexham manager John Neal, allowed him to become a Chelsea legend.
As I began taking some photos of Joey, who should appear but Allie and Nick. I took a photo of then in front of Joey. They took one of me.
Mission accomplished.
I was calling this game “The Joey Jones Derby” and I had my photo with him.
I was happy.
I made my way over to the pub at 3pm and we stayed the best part of two hours. It was full of friendly locals, many wearing Wrexham favours. I sat with PD and Parky and – a rare treat – I decided to reward myself with two pints of cider. Our friends Youth and his son Seb sat with us. There was a rugby union game on the TV, but I avoided it.
Tommie from Porthmadog dropped in for a short stay, buzzing that a Chelsea game – for once – only took him an hour and forty minutes to get to. I first met Tommie in Bratislava in 1997, and he is a good friend. Tommie and Chris are brothers. Tommie mentioned that Scoot had ‘phoned him earlier in the day and had teased him about “not singing about sheep-shagging”.
We had a great pre-match.
The team news came through. We weren’t happy. For some bizarre reason, Liam Rosenior had chosen us to line up in a 3/4/3 formation.
Robert Sanchez
Mamadou Sarr – Tosin Adarabioyo – Benoit Badiashile
Josh Acheampong – Andrey Santos – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato
Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Alejandro Garnacho
Just before I left, I shook hands with the two Wrexham fans next to me and said, “good luck in the next round.”
I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not. We all smiled.
This honestly felt like a huge banana skin had been placed under our football boots.
Unlike at Villa, there was no bag search and my SLR was in. The stand at Wrexham was cramped, and I struggled to edge my way along to my seat.
It was 5pm.
So far, a perfect matchday…now, it was up to the lads.
Gulp.
The consensus among a selection of some very familiar faces next to me in the stand was that the new formation, and mass-changes, was a negative. My annoyance was Rosenior’s changing of the goalkeeper and centre-backs. They had played well at Villa a few days before. Change other personnel, but keep those three in place, to attempt to try to get some sort of continuity. Jorgensen, Fofana and Chalobah made way for Sanchez, Badiashile and Tosin.
The Chelsea section creaked with the closeness of 1,330 supporters. There were familiar faces everywhere.
Before the entrance of the teams from the off-centre tunnel down below, a mosaic on the far side was displayed, but the words were not clear. I only later realised that the cards spelled out “OH JOEY JOEY”.
So, the Joey Jones Derby was recognised by the home team; super. I had hoped for Mickey Thomas to appear on the pitch, at half-time maybe, but he never did. A shame.
Soon into the match, a chant from the locals in the Tec End to my right, a nice bit of banter.
“National League Champions, You’ll Never Sing That.
Off the pitch, there was a frenzied atmosphere, with the home fans bubbling over with enthusiasm. You felt their passion from the off. This felt like a classic Cup Tie already. There was an edginess to our play in the first quarter of an hour and we didn’t seem comfortable.
Being so close to the goal, I kept thinking back to that screamer from Mickey Thomas in 1992. It was lovely to be visiting a famous stadium for the first time after seeing it so often on TV through the years.
On twenty minutes, a catastrophe. A long ball out of the Wrexham defence from Callum Doyle was perfectly weighted for Sam Smith to chase. The twin centre-backs had been caught out and scurried back in desperation. There was no surprise when I saw the shot from Smith – through my camera lens – evade Sanchez and end up in the goal.
The home support erupted. To my right, bodies jerked and spasmed in all directions at once, and the home stands roared.
“Here we go” I thought.
A VAR check – new to this lot – did not stop the goal.
Wrexham 1 Chelsea 0.
Llffackwynll.
After the commotion had died down, out came a chant from the Tec End.
“1-0 to the Sheep Shaggers.”
And another one, heavy on self-deprecation.
CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.
CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.
I had a little chuckle.
What of our play? We couldn’t get going and our passing was slow and lacked invention. I found Pedro Neto particularly frustrating; forever carrying the ball, but to nowhere in particular. It was if his Sat Nav was broken.
Leigh was stood behind me, and he had seen the manager and the team up close in a Chester hotel the previous night. He had mentioned that Rosenior looked unduly worried and nervous ahead of this match.
Perhaps he was right to be.
Wrexham were playing to their strengths; tight marking, tough tackling, direct when needed. Joey Jones would have approved.
Our chances were rare. There was only one half-chance involving Neto and Garnacho.
At the other end, the gaping void where The Kop once stood, there were a couple of Wrexham chances. On the half-hour, Smith slipped at the last minute, thank the Lord. Just after, a fine reflex push-away from Sanchez at the near post.
Phew.
Wrexham had undoubtedly produced the better football thus far, but we were slowly getting into the game in the closing section of the half. On forty minutes the ball was punched forward to Liam Delap by Andrey Santos. Thus far he had received service but had been woeful with what he had been given. On this occasion, he was fantastic, beating off a challenge and turning, running into space. He passed to Alejandro Garnacho who raced on and shot at goal. I captured his shot through my camera lens, but how the ball ended up in the net was a matter of confusion. Just after he reeled away – minimal celebration, good to see – there was an announcement that there had been an own goal from Arthur Okonkwo in the Wrexham goal.
So be it.
Wrexham 1 Chelsea.
There was great relief at the break. This game was, of course, being shown on free-to-view national TV on BBC1, and the viewing millions were surely enjoying this classic Cup Tie. Well, I am sure they were enjoying it more than I was. We had been poor, but now we needed to push on.
Lo and behold, the second half began with two chances from the home team in front of us at the Tec End. A shot over the bar, a shot at Sanchez.
Then, at the other end, on fifty-three minutes, Delap set up Garnacho on the left, but he fired wide.
I almost missed it, but the Tec End sang the chorus from “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham.”
“Less than a mile from the centre of town.
A famous old stadium crumbling down.
No-one’s invested so much as a penny.
Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.”
On fifty-eight minutes, Rosenior made a change; Marc Guiu for Sarr, and I tried to work out the jigsaw puzzle of players and positions but soon gave up as the match became even more intriguing.
Sanchez erred, clearing to a Wrexham player, but the ball was hoofed away.
On sixty-two minutes, Neto set up Hato and the latter slammed a ball just wide of a post.
Just after, two more changes.
Marc Cucurella for Lavia, still to play a whole game.
Dario Essugo for Hato.
There was a run and a shot from Neto that went just wide. But Wrexham were creating chances too. I turned to Leigh and Ben and grimly admitted that “all this pressure is going to pay off, isn’t it?”
In the very next passage of play, a corner was swung in, and cleared, but only as far as a Wrexham player outside the box. Josh Windass kept the ball low, and it was deflected in via a neat touch by Callum Doyle.
Wrexham 2 Chelsea1.
Bwyllocks.
Seventy-nine minutes were on the clock. This was dire.
However, just three minutes later, a loose ball in the Wrexham box was won by Santos and he played in a teammate. I caught a shot on film, and saw the ball slam into the net, though was unsure of the scorer.
Wild celebrations now.
What a Cup Tie.
Wrexham 2 Chelsea 2.
The scorer was Young Josh.
BOSH.
Just after, Sanchez saved well from George Thomason, and a header then flew wide from Windass.
Phew.
Two more substitutions.
Malo Gusto for Acheampong.
Joao Pedro for Delap.
On eighty-six minutes, Neto slammed a shot against the crossbar.
Ugh.
The game edged into six minutes of additional time. Soon into that period, Garnacho was chopped down on the left wing. The yellow for George Dobson was changed by VAR to a red. The defender was sent marching.
The home support screeched about VAR, and of course they have a point.
Just after, an absolute blooter was hit right at Sanchez.
On ninety plus extra-time, it was level and so the game continued for another thirty minutes. Here was a modern-day equivalent of that 1982 three-game marathon.
In the first period of extra time, it was all us. In the sixth minute, Essugo played the ball out to Garnacho, in a not-too-dissimilar position to where he struck before, and he volleyed at goal. From my angle, it looked like the ball had hit the near post. Nobody reacted. But we then saw Garnacho running away, his arms held high. The referee was pointing at the centre-circle.
Goal? What?
I don’t think the Chelsea support has ever celebrated a go-ahead goal as quietly as that ever before.
Very strange.
Wrexham 2 Chelsea 3.
Now in front, the Chelsea support changed the tune from urging the team on to a dig at our own US-based owners.
“We don’t care about Clearlake.”
Jesse Derry replaced Neto.
As the second period of fifteen minutes began, I turned to Leigh and Ben.
“Boring half coming up.”
Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I?
Five minutes in, a Wrexham free kick was sent narrowly over.
Eight minutes in, a block from Tosin stopped Kieffer Moor’s goal bound header. From the corner that followed, Moore flicked the ball on, and Lewis Brunt, loitering on the far post – surely offside, ref! – poked the ball in. While the locals, and large swathes of the US, celebrated, we waited for the correct decision.
VAR.
Offside.
Yep.
There was still five minutes of injury time to play; this tie simply did not want to end.
One minute into this, a curler from Lewis Brunt swept just past a post. The looks on our faces told of relief and disbelief in equal measure.
I must say that Joao Pedro looked fantastic in his short cameo appearance, full of beautiful hold-up play – he’s not exactly Mark Hughes, but he knows how to shield the ball – and gentle prods to others.
Thankfully, he was on hand in the last minute to sweep a ball in, again on film, and we howled our approval.
Wrexham 2 Chelsea 4.
Our deficiencies were never far away, but we hauled ourselves over the line, and into the hat for the Quarter Finals.
It was hard work, but what a pulsating Cup tie.
It was an absolute classic.
We were back at my car within two minutes, and I began the long drive south.
Thanks Wrexham.
What a great day out.
Joey would have loved it.
It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham
He ordered a medium doner kebab.
Saving a tenner to pay for his cab.
Seems no harm in jumping the queue.
Showing the owner his latest tattoo.
Guy in his forties is rolling a joint.
Pleased his team has rescued a point.
A wicked deflection in time added on.
Can see in his eyes he was totally gone.
Less than a mile from the centre of town.
A famous old stadium crumbling down.
No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.
Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.
King Street was calm on a Saturday night.
Apart from the usual worrying sight.
Of zombie-fied corpses parading the streets.
Arched over flower beds slumped across streets.
Mass the bus stop for Moss and Brynteg.
Zombie apocalypse modern day plague.
A stone’s throw away or a two second ride.
Wetherspoons locals are smoking outside.
Less than a mile from the centre of town.
A famous old stadium crumbling down.
No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.
Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.
