Tales From Somerset And Dorset

Posted on September 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 14 September 2024.

Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.

My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.

Games on!

And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.

I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.

Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.

I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”

Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.

Thanks mate.

I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.

Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.

Or maybe not, eh?

Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.

First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.

“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”

Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.

On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.

In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.

During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.

I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.

Fackinell.

Back to 2024.

Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.

We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.

Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.

We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.

I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.

There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.

Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.

…little did we know.

The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.

“Is that a professional camera?”

“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”

“OK.”

I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.

I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.

Kick-off soon approached.

Flames, flags, smoke.

“Make some noise for the boys.”

Pah.

Us?

Sanchez

Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Veiga

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

First thoughts?

“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”

Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.

The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.

The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.

We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.

It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.

Sigh.

Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.

“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.

Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.

The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.

A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.

On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.

Penalty.

One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.

“Yeah, right.”

Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.

It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.

Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.

We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.

On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.

Tosin for Disasi.

Joao Felix for Madueke.

The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.

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

Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.

Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.

Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.

Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.

The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.

On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”

The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.

“Thank God there is no Game Three.”

Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.

Goal.

We exploded.

Talk about a “fox in the box.”

What a finish.

Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.

“Need to get a photo of this.”

I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.

I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.

Snap.

Phew.

I took the money shot.

There was still time for another Sanchez save.

The Sanchez and Sancho Show.

At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.

But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.

“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”

Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.

I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.

Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.

The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.

Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.

“Chim-chimeny, chim-chimeny, chim, chim, cher-oo.”

See you then, see you there.

Tales From The First Day Of Autumn

Posted on September 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 1 September 2024.

Since we last spoke…

…two Frome Town matches.

On Bank Holiday Monday, a healthy 738 assembled at Badgers Hill, but the home team unfortunately went down 0-2 to our cross-county rivals Taunton Town. Frome weren’t outclassed but just lacked a killer punch in front of goal. Of note in this game was the return of Jayden Nielsen, who Frome signed from Bristol Manor Farm in the summer – a top signing in my opinion – but who then returned to his former club after only a few friendlies as a Frome player. Lo and behold, the player then quickly signed-for Taunton Town after only a few games for Manor Farm. I can only hope that Jadon Sancho has a bigger impact at Chelsea than Jayden Nielsen at Frome Town.

On the Saturday before the Crystal Palace match, I drove through the shires of Southern England to attend the FA Cup game at Easington Sports, who sound like a Sunday pub team and play in Banbury. They had defeated Bristol Manor Farm, of all teams, in the previous round and so would not be taken lightly. Frome conceded early, but equalised via a nice lob from striker James Ollis. Despite several excellent goal-scoring chances in the second-half, the away team could not put the game to bed. A replay would take place on the Tuesday after the Crystal Palace game.

The new season has been tougher than we had hoped at Frome Town but I am undoubtedly enjoying the games. They bring me great pleasure.

With games in August and September over one weekend, it seemed like I would be taking a footballing journey from summer into autumn. Whereas the Saturday match involved a journey through new pastures, new roads – some of them bumpy – and a new ground, not to mention sightings of detectorists and steam engine enthusiasts, and a few other Bank Holiday oddballs, the Chelsea game at home to Crystal Palace on the Sunday seemed very normal. With a 1.30pm kick-off, there would be another early start for us, but we still love our Chelsea trips even after all these years.

I dropped PD and Parky off at the bottom end of Fulham and then parked up near Normand Park. I darted into the “Memory Lane Café” at the bottom of the North End Road for a quick bite to eat. I have decided to keep my forty-year retrospective look at 1984/85 going throughout this season, but will tend to concentrate on the twenty-two games that I saw in person during that memorable campaign.

By the time of the first day of September in 1984, I had seen Chelsea play three games that season. I have briefly detailed the friendly at Bristol City and I have far-from-briefly mentioned the league opener at Highbury in the last edition. The next game to talk about is our home opener against Sunderland, complete with former Chelsea winger Clive Walker, which took place on 27 August, another Bank Holiday game.

After the tumultuous events of the Saturday game at Arsenal, here was another long-awaited occasion; our first match in England’s top flight since a home game against Arsenal – another 1-1 draw – in May 1979. I travelled up with my parents for this one – my father drove – and I paid for the three West Stand tickets at £6 a pop. I had worked all summer long in my first-ever job – packing yogurt at a local dairy – and so must have been feeling flush. My diary informs me of a couple of things that I have long forgotten. My father evidently bought us a couple of small lagers in the old West Stand bar – that long room at the south-western corner – and our small instamatic camera, that I obviously wanted to use to capture the historic occasion, unfortunately chose not to work, though this was probably because my father had dropped it on at least two occasions during the day. If only I had a photo of my father and I from that moment, supping on lagers, making small talk, having a giggle. It would have been priceless.

Our seats were very close to the sprawling North terrace, half-way down. I popped down to say “hello” to the four lads that we had met on The Benches during the latter part of 1983/84, and it thrills me to say that I am in contact with all of them to this day.

Alan – he sits next to me at all our games, we go everywhere.

Paul – I see him at a couple of times each season.

Mark – I see him at loads of games each season, he goes everywhere.

Leggo – I saw him at Luton last season, and we talk a lot about Frome Town and Bedford Town.

A helicopter – how flash – arrived on the pitch before kick-off with the Second Division Championship trophy, and it was thrilling to see John Neal smiling as he held it. Alas, the gate was only 25,554, and I was expecting at least 30,000. Sunderland had around five-hundred in one pen. Apparently we gave the returning Walker a fine reception.

There is a photo of Stamford Bridge on this day, no doubt from the helicopter, that often appears on the internet and it’s a real beauty, showing the shape of the stadium at that time. We took the lead early in the game when Paul Canoville shook off two defenders and touched the ball past the on-rushing ‘keeper, the ball only just making it over the line. Kerry Dixon had a goal cancelled for offside and Canoville then hit the bar. Our play weakened in the second-half, but I reported that my man of the match was Colin Lee, resolutely defending at right-back. Forty years on there is still a feeling of disappointment that we couldn’t breach the 30,000 barrier for this match.

One thing is for certain; my diary was not full of the myriad of nerdisms that followers of football now earnestly use as they describe modern football. No overloads, no pockets of space, no low blocks, no high lines, no high presses, no patterns of play, no transitions, no turnovers, no re-cycling.

It was a simpler game in 1984, undoubtedly more naïve, but I bloomin’ loved it.

On the return journey, we stopped off for more small beers at “The Pelican” pub on the A4, and another “Axon Family Chelsea Day Out” was in the books. Looking back, with hindsight, there wouldn’t be too many more over the years; a handful, maybe Arsenal at home 1987, Wednesday at home 1987, Swindon away 1988, Charlton 1988, Everton 1991. But these are just lovely memories from forty-years ago. Just to be able to share a lager with my Dad once more…at Chelsea. Bliss.

To complete the 1984 story, on the following Friday, on the last day of summer, Chelsea played Everton in an evening game at Stamford Bridge. I did not attend, but my diary tells me that I travelled in to Frome to watch the game – it was live on TV, a treat – at a mate’s house. Again, I was disappointed by the attendance – just 17,734 – as Everton, playing in swish silver Le Coq Sportif shirts – won 1-0 with a goal from Kevin Richardson. Later that night, in the pubs of Frome, I bumped into Glenn who was wearing a Pierre Cardin roll-neck that he had purchased for £3 “off the back of a lorry.”

Fackinell.

Forty years on from these seminal moments in our lives, we had all assembled in the pubs, bars and cafes around Stamford Bridge once again. I had a little flit around the stadium before going down to the local. Dave – another of The Benches “crew” from 1984 – dropped in to see LP, PD, Salisbury Steve and little old me at “The Eight Bells” and we had a lovely pre-match for a couple of hours. We discussed the Europa Conference draw and especially the three away trips. All of our eyes are locked on an away day to Kazakhstan, with Greece a possibility and Germany unlikely. Dave saw the team and set me up for guessing it.

“It’s the team most of us would pick.”

I guessed it correctly, apart from me forgetting we had signed Pedro Neto and opting for Mykhailo Mudryk instead.

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

With industrial action taking place, we then had to wait a while to catch a delayed train from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. We got in just before the teams entered the pitch. Before I knew it, I was at my seat alongside PD – alas no Clive nor Alan on this occasion – and the players were soon doing their pre-match huddling.

The game began. Bright sunshine. Yet the floodlights behind both goals were on; answers on a postcard. Three-thousand away fans, one flag – “Whyteleafe Palace” – and not too many empty seats anywhere after the late arrivals finally settled.

The first fifteen minutes all belonged to us. We played some decent progressive stuff. Cole Palmer was the first player to go close, curling a sweet low shot just past the far post that I managed to catch on my pub camera. The appearance of my “reserve camera” was all due to the weather. I have no need for a jacket on hot days like these, so there was no way to smuggle my usual SLR in. Have I told you all how much I adore modern football?

Adam Wharton, who apparently plays for England, forced a save from Robert Sanchez on fifteen minutes.

“Ah, I see Will Hughes, the albino, is playing for them. I remember him at Derby years ago.”

On twenty-one minutes, Wesley Fofana’s long ball – good, let’s switch our ways to attack – found Noni Madueke and he advanced into the box, but with defenders chasing him, he was unable to replicate a successful prod like Paul Canoville’s from forty years ago. The ball skidded past the far post.

Just after, Neto to Enzo and a lovely lofted ball towards Madueke, whose clip on the volley was well-saved by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson. Brilliant football.

Then, twenty-five minutes in, a great move. Levi Colwill won possession deep in his own half and released Madueke on the right. He raced past his man, advanced, and steered the ball inside to Palmer. I shouted “Jackson’s free” and he must have heard me. A pass to our striker and a neat finish at the far post. The linesman kept his flag down. I instantly dismissed the threat of VAR.

I punched the air.

“GET IN.”

Half-way through the half, a drinks break.

Two cold lagers with my Dad would have been lovely.

There was more decent play from us as the first period continued. I noted how Neto was hugging the left touchline, but was probably underused. A lot of our attacks came down the right.

On forty minutes, there was a fine through ball from a Palace player – Hughes I think – that was beautifully cut out by Madueke in his own box. The ball was collected and played inside to Colwill who was striding into the midfield. In a split second I thought of the phrase of “Total Football” and I had visions of Ruud Krol playing right-half while Johann Cruyff covered him. The ball was played from deep right to far left, and the move was a joy to watch. It all ended with a cross from the left and a header from Jackson which was saved by Henderson. Alas, no goal, but the move of the match.

PD was purring; “brilliant.”

It had been a good half of football, no doubt. It warranted more than the one goal.

There were none of the usual moans at half-time in The Sleepy.

These were saved for the opening moments of the second-half when Hughes, already booked, pulled down the advancing Palmer in a central position. No second yellow. The resulting free-kick, on film, drew another fine save from Henderson, arching his back to tip it over. From the corner, Colwill headed down and wide, clawed away by Henderson, also on film.

From that moment, our play fell apart and we looked a poor shadow of ourselves. The away team got going and we looked second best.

Rob, from Melksham, had joined us in the second period, and he commented “we’ll need to score two or three to win this.”

On fifty-three minutes, Wharton shimmied into the box, and the ball rebounded out to Cheick Doucoure. His shot was blocked by Fofana but the ball fell nicely to Eberechi Eze, who immaculately dispatched a curler into the goal, past the despairing dive of Sanchez, who quite possibly was reacting to a shot five minutes earlier. Anyway, he was late for this one too.

It was 1-1.

Bollocks.

The Stamford Bridge crowd – quiet, of course – at least responded with a defiant “CAREFREE” but then went back to our normal noise levels and our normal behavioural patterns.

I have grimly noticed, especially at home games where I am almost always sat, that my watching position at Chelsea games these days is often with my arms semi-crossed, with one arm up to my chin, looking like a prize knobhead, like a connoisseur at an art gallery or museum, or an adjudicator at an intensive interview session, or a chess player awaiting the next move from an opponent.

What a prick.

What have I become?

“Just old, mate.”

At least I wasn’t holding a pair of glasses in my hand and chewing on the tips like an ultimate art gallery wanker.

I wish I was more animated and involved but football these days can invariably be a dull sport and a dull spectator sport.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

Thank God for the odd moments of spontaneity, of intuition, of grace and beauty, those moments that get us agitated and off our seats.

The game grew scrappy. The rangy Palace attacker Jean-Phillipe Mateta was developing quite a battle with either or both of our centre-halves. I like a good old-fashioned battle.

On 58 minutes, a substitution.

Joao Felix for Neto, quieter now.

We were exposed on a couple of occasions as Palace ran at us.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the injured Malo Gusto.

This necessitated a shift in personnel that took me too many damn minutes to work out.

“Can you buggers stand still for a minute?”

On seventy-six minutes, another rapid Palace break and the ball was played inside to Daichi Kamara. His powerful shot was hit straight at Sanchez, but it appeared that his butter fingers had lost the ball. Thankfully, there had been enough of a block for the ball to deflect over. Phew.

Felix floated around but flattered to deceive. Palmer was crowded out and forced to come deep for the ball. He would later, in frustration, kick the ball against the hoardings and get booked. It was one of those days.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

The game continued on, and we all grew nervous. What had happened to the Chelsea from 1.30pm to 2.15pm? Enzo, who started well, had been a metaphor for our demise.

In the eight minutes of extra-time, the game came to life. Eze went close but Cucarella blocked. Then, Nkunku raced forward centrally and passed to Jackson who smashed the ball against the side netting.

Late on, a beautifully clipped ball from Enzo in his own half was played ahead of Jackson. He raced in on goal but his shot – on film, just – was parried by Henderson.

Bollocks.

So, a weekend of 1-1 draws.

Next up, Bournemouth away at 8pm on a Saturday night, but before that there will be four Frome Town games in 2024 and two Chelsea games in 1984.

See you there, or then.