Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2026.
I was at the end of my own little personal stretch of eight consecutive games in London: four at HQ, one at Charlton, one at Fulham, one at Palace and now this one at Arsenal. During the day, I was asked about my thoughts of the outcome of the League Cup semi-final second leg at the Emirates. I wasn’t sure about guessing a score, but my prediction was that we had a 25% chance of progressing to the final at Wembley. After the first-leg loss, Arsenal would be a tough nut to crack.
Unfortunately, Parky had failed a late fitness test, so just PD accompanied me on this occasion.
We had been given almost six thousand tickets for this game, and I was delighted that Arsenal had not charged us an exorbitant price for tickets. Unlike the £60 for my ticket at Stamford Bridge, I paid just a little over £30 for this one at Arsenal.
The drive east in the afternoon was not easy. I drove through rain and spray on the M4. I had felt tired, at times, during my shift at work, and after getting up at the loony time of 4.30am, I was obviously dreading more tiredness both to and from London, but hopefully not at the game. Only time would tell on that one.
For years and years, we have parked for free on the road adjacent to Barons Court tube station – Margravine Gardens – for aways against Arsenal, Tottenham and West Ham, conveniently just off the A4, but I happened to notice new parking regulations were in place. Free parking used to be available in after 5pm on weekdays, but now it was after 10pm every day. This was a big kick in the teeth.
Here was the first “fackinell” of the day.
What did this mean?
It meant that I had to divert south to where I park for midweek home games, and we then had to walk over half-a-mile to West Brompton tube station. This wouldn’t normally be an issue, but Paul struggles with such distances. And this is yet another example of how the pleasure that comes from a day at the football is slowly being eroded.
However, we made the best of it and stopped off at my favourite restaurant on the North End Road for a couple of pizzas and then continued a rather wet walk to West Brompton. There was a change onto the Piccadilly Line at Earl’s Court, and then the thirty-five minute journey, through thirteen stations, to Arsenal.
I heard occasional shouts of “Carefree” further down the carriages, but the train obviously contained a few Arsenal supporters too. A family of five were positioned to my left and caught my eye. They stood and sat close to PD, and they each wore a different Arsenal replica shirt. I caught PD’s eye and shook my head. You just don’t see that at Chelsea; a whole bloody family kitted out in club shirts. The father even wore his home shirt over a normal sweatshirt – a real sartorial own-goal in my book – and topped it off with a bobble hat. He couldn’t have looked more gormless if he had tried. And talking of replica kits, the three sons were certainly replica kids – absolute spitting images of their parents – but it worried me that their mother and father looked alike too.
Let’s leave that there, eh?
Up through the tight tunnels at Arsenal, and out into a miserable wet North London night. Rather than turn left as we did when we used to visit Highbury, we know turned right and headed up the long stretch of Drayton Park, past an impressive amount of souvenir stands. PD was still struggling with walking. Eventually we turned right towards the stadium, opposite the Drayton Park Arms – still an away pub I believe – just in time for a few young Arsenal and Chelsea to lads take a pop at one another.
The neon colours of the stadium were reflected in the puddles outside and helped create a photogenic, if watery, feel to a smattering of photos that were taken.
We were in quickly, out of the rain, at 7.20pm and took our seats not long after. PD was seated right next to the three seats of “no man’s land” between us and the Arsenal support, while I, thankfully, was further away, and in row eighteen, well under the roof. Those sitting in the first few rows were in for a soaking.
There were many familiar faces dotted around this lower tier. The split was three thousand in the lower, and a further three thousand high up in the top tier to my left. It annoyed me that away season ticket holders were denied choosing the upper tier. I would have loved to have watched the game up there for the first time, as – I am sure – would many.
Nice work Chelsea, you fools.
The players were on the pitch going through their pre-match drills. They were wearing a homage to the worst Chelsea kit of all time, the hideous tangerine and graphite monstrosity from the mid-‘nineties, complete with the most hated badge of all time, that nasty Millwall lookalike.
Nice work Chelsea, you fools.
The place filled up, and – what a surprise – yet another club has chosen “London Calling” as an intro before the teams stepped foot on the pitch.
We then had to endure the historic “Good old Arsenal” ditty which I always forget about until I hear it at their stadium. It certainly doesn’t have the lasting resonance of the theme from “Z Cars” at Everon nor “Marching on Together” at Leeds, to name but two.
Next, a light show…oh please stop this…let’s get to the football.
The teams eventually appeared.
I was surprised how many Chelsea clapped Noni Madueke when the team line-ups were named. Nobody clapped Kepa Arrizabalaga.
Us?
It took a while for me to work it all out. In fact, I needed to see the players on the pitch before I had a chance.
In goal?
Easy, Robert Sanchez.
It then got a little difficult.
It looked like three central defenders.
Wesley Fofana on the right, in front of us, then Trevoh Chalobah in the middle, then Jorrel Hato on the left.
We then had Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella out wide.
OK, that was the easy part. Kinda.
Andrey Santos and Moises Caicedo were playing, holding things together.
It looked like Enzo Fernandez was playing a little higher up the pitch.
But we then had Joao Pedro in attack alongside Liam Delap, but with Delap drifting over to the right wing at every opportunity.
Blimey. A rather unorthodox system, eh?
We dominated the early possession, much to my pleasure, and in the sixth minute, Delap came in from the right but scuffed a snapshot well wide of Kepa’s right-hand post. That the striker then kept to the right flank for the rest of the half certainly caused a stir among the Chelsea faithful.
Arsenal forced a series of corners, and we watched as three of our attackers raced out of the box at the last minute, dragging some Arsenal players with them.
This lad Liam Rosenior certainly has some “left-field” – or maybe “right-field” – ideas that he is not afraid to use.
For a while, there was a commotion above and behind me as some Chelsea lads tried to pin a beautiful blue flag – featuring the 1984 two-tone colours – on the top balcony wall. That kit is synonymous with us at Highbury, and I loved that the flag was being given an airing at Arsenal’s new pad. By now, that top section was crammed full of our supporters, and I noticed that every single seat was being used in my section, a fine showing.
Robert Sanchez palmed away an effort from Piero Hincapie, whoever he is, and Gabriel Martinelli made a mess of the rebound.
The home fans weren’t particularly loud once they had settled down after their warbling to the “North London Forever” dirge before kick-off.
North London forever, you say? Not until 1913, you mean. It took until then for the Woolwich Wanderers to settle.
On twenty-six minutes, Moises Caicedo shot wide, well wide.
Wesley Fofana enjoyed an absolutely top-notch purple patch over ten glorious minutes, heading away, recovering well, tackling, playing it out with calmness personified. Excellent work.
The Chelsea choir asked, “is this a library?” and I wondered if the home support were saving themselves for another corner before they might get excited.
On thirty-three minutes, we were all concerned when Gusto let Martinelli get past him, but he recovered so well and saved the day with a bloody superb tackle.
Chances dried up at either end. Although Chelsea seemed to edge possession, there was a paucity of efforts on goal.
At various times in that first-half, that promised so much but delivered so little, Delap managed to fall over the ball, fall over his legs, fall over his marker’s legs, and sometimes run in the opposite direction to the ball. His continued presence in that position confused me, but I – at least – gave some sort of credit to Rosenior in his attempts to confuse the opposition too.
In the forty-third minute, at last a shot. An effort from Enzo was dramatically punched away by Kepa.
It was 0-0 at the break, and I have to say that the mood within the packed away support was positive. I think that many of us solemnly expected that we might get torn apart, so I think that the fact that were still very much in the tie helped us battle our overall feelings of dread.
The rain still fell as the second half began with Chelsea attacking the two zones of Chelsea support in the Clock End.
In the very first minute, Enzo came over to take a corner right in front of us. The ball dropped in to the near post area and the ball was stabbed at goal, took a deflection, but still went wide.
The game became a little scrappy, with niggling tackles all over the pitch, but the Chelsea support remained loud, giving the team some excellent support. When it got going in both sections it reminded me of our support at an FA Cup tie at Villa a few years ago – Enzo’s finest game in a Chelsea shirt – and at Arsenal on this wet old night the usual Chelsea songs were defiantly sung with passion and, er, gusto.
Joao Pedro was putting in a very strong performance all game, showing some neat touches of skill, and a surprising amount of strength when needed. He is impressing me of late.
Again, we were still in this tie.
A little secret; on the drive up to London, wary of a potentially long night ahead, PD had asked what we would do if we were losing 0-3 at half-time. Would we leave? My response was that we would hang on to the hour mark.
On sixty-one minutes, we saw Estevao and Cole Palmer appear on the far side, and they replaced Delap and Hato. A bloke in front of me, who had just returned from the loos, asked his mates who had come off.
I leaned forward and replied “Delap came off twice.”
So, was this Rosenior’s game plan? Get Arsenal used to a cumbersome lump on the wing for an hour, then replace him with a spritely wing wizard, and change the shape too, plus the bonus of Cole Palmer?
If this came off, I was ready to doff my non-existent cap.
We increased our possession with the two additions, and in one move we had the agreeable sight of both Palmer and Estevao attacking down the left within yards of each other. A shot from outside the box from Cucurella curled just wide.
If only we could hit the bloody target.
On sixty-four minutes, the best move of the match, but Enzo shot wildly over. This followed nice wing play from Estevao following a perfect pass from Palmer.
Joao Pedro fell after a challenge from Gabriel but it looked like a dive to me.
“Fucking embarrassing”.
The bloke in front agreed.
Arsenal made some quality substitutions of their own; on came Leandro Trossard and Kai Havertz, who was booed by a sizeable proportion of our support.
I whispered “fasten yer seatbelts” to the bloke to my left.
The mercurial Alejandro Garnacho appeared after seventy-five minutes, replacing Santos. He took his position on the left with Estevao flipping over to the right. This was a case of “do or die” now, but Chelsea found it difficult to squeeze the ball through the packed home defence. Too often the ball was played into the middle, expecting too much from Joao Pedro, and our wingers were not utilised as much as I, for one, wanted.
On eighty-one minutes, another Enzo corner and a Fofana flick, just wide.
Then, just after, an Arsenal break but a beautifully timed sliding tackle by Chalobah as Martinelli looked to exploit some space on the right.
I pleaded with Garnacho to run at his defender and make something happen, but I don’t think he ever did. And virtually every time that he chose to cut back and cross, the ball was blocked.
After eighty-seven minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.
The game continued, but the Chelsea players still tended to slowly move the ball from player to player with the fans being the only ones showing the right amount of passion. I wondered if it had sunk in that a place at bloody Wembley was at stake here.
On eighty-nine minutes, Enzo shot over again.
Fackinell.
There was frustration everywhere in our ranks, but I was pleased and proud to note that hardly any of us were disappearing early. We would see this out.
Six minutes of injury time was signalled.
“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”
We continued on.
Alas, Arsenal broke on ninety-six minutes, and they had spare men.
I spotted who was free on the right.
“Oh no, Havertz.”
We all watched in agony as he touched the ball past Sanchez and neatly slotted the ball home.
It was, awfully, not unlike a goal he scored one night in Porto.
Bollocks.
The referee blew up, and that was that.
Our travels had taken us to Lincoln, to Wolverhampton, to Cardiff and London, but there was no silverware in the League Cup this season.
With a deep sense of resignation that we never really gave it a go until very late on, we turned and began the slow shuffle towards the exits. I did that thing where I faced away from the pitch, but semi-turned to clap the players as they walked over to our support.
It was a very slow, and wet, walk back to Highbury & Islington tube station. For about fifteen minutes, we did not move an inch as we waited on the Holloway Road.
The Arsenal fans were jubilant and one bloody song kept repeating.
“60 million down the drain, Kai Havertz scores again”
I always remember reading a fan’s reminiscences about walking down the Seven Sisters Road after two consecutive semi-final defeats to Arsenal in the FA Cup in the ‘fifties – it was probably Scott Cheshire, that great Chelsea historian – and how depressed he felt. These were in the days when Chelsea, almost fifty years old, had not won a single thing, and so just imagine how those defeats must have hurt.
This hurt, but it was absolutely nowhere near the same scale of sadness.
At least it meant we could enjoy a first-ever visit to Everton’s new stadium on a Saturday rather than a Tuesday night.
We reached King’s Cross at 11pm, and we eventually got back to West Brompton. I shot off to pick up the car, and collected PD outside the station bang on midnight.
I eventually reached home at 2.20am.
I am never one for hitting the sack straight away; I need to scan my photos to see what I had taken, plus there is the inevitable late-night chit-chat with pals in the U.S.
I fell asleep, eventually, at 3.30am.
4.30am to 3.30am.
Bloody hell, Chelsea.
