Tales From Forty Years Apart

Posted on December 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 December 2024.

The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.

“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”

My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.

I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.

You know what’s coming up, right?

Saturday 24 November 1984.

It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.

Saturday 1 December 1984.

On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.

I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.

Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.

I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things. There were around four thousand Scousers present.

Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.

This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.

Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.

Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.

Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.

I was ecstatic.

My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.

The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.

Altogether now :

“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”

On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.

Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.

And it was exactly forty years ago.

Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.

My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”

The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.

I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.

Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.

Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.

I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.

The minutes passed until kick-off.

I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.

It made me want to cry.

Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?

Fackinell.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.

The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.

The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.

I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.

Chelsea 1 Villa 0.

Get in.

Just seven minutes had passed.

The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.

I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.

There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.

There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.

Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.

On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.

Chelsea 2 Villa 0.

How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”

Oh we were all very happy at half-time.

Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.

Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.

I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.

And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.

There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.

On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.

Villa made changes themselves.

The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.

Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.

Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.

On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.

Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I spoke to Max, from LA :

“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”

The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.

On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.

It’s a good job he works in ballistics.

Chelsea 3 Villa 0.

Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.

One last change.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.

This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.

Everyone was happy.

We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.

Happy times for Al.

After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.

A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”

“Beatrix.”

“Ivo.”

“Otterley.”

It was the perfect end to a fine day.

Next up, a quick jaunt down to Southampton.

See you there.

1 DECEMBER 1984

1 DECEMBER 2024

Tales From Foxes, Tigers And A Stray Dog

Posted on November 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2024.

With the latest International Break behind us, real football was back on the agenda.

Leicester City would host Chelsea at the King Power Stadium, with an early kick-off at 12.30pm.

I collected the three amigos – PD, Glenn, Parky – by 7.30am as Storm Bert, don’t laugh, hovered in the background and threatened to upset the weekend. The drive north up the Fosse Way was, for once, a mundane affair, with dull grey skies overhead, pounding rain at times, and the glorious Cotswolds were only able to be glimpsed occasionally. Usually, it’s a grand trip up to Leicester, one of the joys of the football season, but this one was only memorable for the laughs that the four of us generated en route. We had stopped to pick up some rations at Melksham just after collecting Parky, and we had these “on the hoof” to save time. My focus was reaching the away pub, “The Counting House”, as soon as possible. I was hoping to be parked outside it just after 10pm.

Soon into the trip, I learned that Frome Town’s home game against Wimborne was off due to the weather. My focus, this weekend, was to just be on us.

I hit a little traffic nearing the final destination but, unlike the last time that I parked right outside the pub in 2022/23, my Sat Nav sent me right past the King Power Stadium. It felt a little odd to be driving so close to it, past the away entrance too.

I was parked up at 10.15am.

As we approached the boozer – it had opened at 9am and a fair few Chelsea were already inside – we spotted some familiar faces waving to us. Their smiles were wide.

Tom from New Jersey was in town. We last saw him at the very last game before Covid struck; Everton at Stamford Bridge in March 2020, a pre-match in the Eight Bells. He was next to Jimmy and Ian, recently mentioned in recent episodes, and they appeared to be sat at the same table. I wondered if they had been chatting and had realised that they had mutual friends that were soon to arrive. As it happened, it was just by chance that they were sitting close to each other. Pints were acquired and we perched together around a high-top table. It was soon difficult to hear conversations as the pub grew loud with the chants and songs of the – mainly young – pre-match Chelsea crowd.

Thoughts were positive in our little group. I think we all fancied a Chelsea win. I had to remind myself that Enzo Maresca was recently in charge at Leicester. Out of sight – in the Championship – means out of mind, I guess.

There was a little question that Ian – and his son Bobby – and Jimmy asked us, and it involved our two greatest, we thought, right backs; Branislav Ivanovic and Cesar Azpilicueta.

“Who was the best?”

Ian and I went with Ivanovic, the others with Dave.

There had been discussions about this on the way up in their car.

It was lovely to reflect on some of the great players that have worn our colours. I guess Steve Clarke, Dan Petrescu and Ron Harris would be in the next bracket.

Ah, talking of history, let’s quickly catch-up.

…to continue the 1984/85 season.

Wednesday 21 November 1984.

There would still be no mid-week game for me at Stamford Bridge. On this Wednesday evening, while I was in my college town of Stoke-on-Trent, Chelsea were playing against one of the previous season’s adversaries Manchester City in a League Cup tie down in SW6. We soundly won this game 4-1 in front of a very pleasing gate of 26,364 – let me emphasise how good this was, I was thrilled by it – with a hat-trick from Kerry Dixon and yet another goal from Keith Jones. This match, however, gained immediate notoriety as it featured one of the game’s all-time shocking penalty misses. During the previous twelve months, Chelsea’s lack of prowess from the penalty spot was well known, but it reached a nadir with Pat Nevin’s terrible “pass back in the mud” to City’s young ‘keeper Alex Williams. If you haven’t seen it, track it down, you will be shocked.

I was keen to get inside the stadium and get the inevitably tense “camera / bag / security check” out of the way. Thankfully, I calmly assured the steward who spotted my SLR that “don’t worry, I won’t take any photos” and I was allowed inside.

The concourse at Leicester would soon fill up, and I quickly chose to join Alan, John and Gary inside, down by the corner flag. PD would watch the game a couple of rows behind me, but Glenn and PD were elsewhere in the throng, I knew not where exactly.

Lecester City have grandiose plans to slap an extra tier on the stand that runs along the touchline to our left, but I wonder if they have the fan base to support it. The capacity would, if constructed, reach 40,000.

Our team?

A few surprises.

Sanchez

Fofana – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Jackson

Gary and I ran through the ever-rowing number of players that have, recently, played for Leicester and then us.

Ngolo Kante

Danny Drinkwater

Ben Chilwell

Wesley Fofana

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall

Of course, I remember Dennis Rofe.

The far side of the stadium was decorated with mosaics celebrating the one-hundred and forty years of the home club.

“Fosse to City. 140 Years of History”.

I soon spotted my Foxes mate Sally who sits in the far corner at all home games.

We always seem to have a good sing-song at Leicester these days, and as the game began, this was no exception. It was a very decent start in fact. Chelsea, in all white, and attacking that far end, absolutely hogged the ball as the first few moments and then minutes passed. The home team did not cause a threat offensively.

At all.

I was happy with our start, as were the noisemakers around me. The contrast between the away quadrant and the home fans close by was stark.

“The Leicester lot are quiet for a change, Gal.”

The former Tottenham player Harry Winks – nicely booed by us at the start, good work – was substituted early on after a knock.

I had already decided that the Leicester City defender Wout Faes was a lesser Fabricio Coloccini, and a much-lesser David Luiz.

We absolutely dominated.

After a couple of attacks, I found myself jotting a few notes on my phone. I looked up at just the right time, and saw a long clearance being chased by Nicolas Jackson but with Faes in proximity. However, the defender seemed to be chasing shadows, or maybe even the wrong ball and the wrong striker. As play developed, Jackson’s perseverance was rewarded.

He was un-Faesed.

After a fortuitous bobble, and with a deft flick of the boot, Jackson fought of a late challenge from Caleb Oko and skilfully lifted the ball past the home ‘keeper Mads Hermansen and into the goal.

Get in.

The away end roared, and I stabbed a quick fist-pump into the air.

“Great goal, Gal.”

I thought Leicester were awful, and their passing especially so. They defended deep, but simply could not muster together any coherent passes if they ever regained the ball. The home crowd were still so quiet.

A wild tackle on Cole Palmer warranted only a yellow card.

Palmer, involved at times but often quiet thus far, often has the appearance of a stray dog. It is a fine quality of his to wander into spaces, away from the pack, unconfined, unperturbed, free from others, and then suddenly become involved at the merest hint of a chance to exploit space.

I invented my own little nickname for him at Leicester.

“Go on the stray dog.”

He is, after all, a long way from Manchester now.

A succession of awful tackles riled the away support further and the atmosphere was stirred. The noise increased.

Madueke sent a curler goalwards, and then had a goal chalked off for offside, which was soon confirmed via VAR.

I spotted that Enzo, so often the subject of dismay at best and derision at worst, was enjoying a very fine game, breaking up play, pressing well, passing well.

“Leicester really are shite, Gal.”

Joao Felix lit up the play with a couple of lovely touches but struggled at times to integrate.

Another stray dog, but without the bite, perhaps.

A couple of passes from Palmer allowed in others, but our shooting was off. Just as it looked like the home team would go the entire half without a single effort of note, with Jamie Vardy looking so quiet, a couple of late chances stirred the home team. Kasey McAteer, whoever he is, mis-fired heroically and how we laughed.

Chelsea missed a fine chance after a delayed corner, a strong leap, but a header that flew wide.

Then, a fine break, Jackson to Madueke, but a fine block from the ‘keeper.

Ugh.

At half-time, I spotted of all the variously coloured flags that are oddly draped on support struts at the back of the stands at Leicester. They appear all the way around the circumference of the stadium, par the away end, just under the roof. They reminded me of the multi-coloured pennants that coach drivers in the ‘seventies used to buy and use to adorn the inside of their vehicles.

Llandudno. Penzance. Weymouth. Blackpool. Tenby. Great Yarmouth. Whitby.

It’s a very odd feature. Unique. Not so sure I understand it though, because all of the flags are bunched up, unable to be properly read.

The second-half started and there was, very soon, a quick break down the middle. Joao Felix set up Jackson, but the ‘keeper saved. The follow-up ran to Palmer whose shot struck Madueke on its way to the target, with Noni’s soft-shoe-shuffle unable to stop the ball hitting him. The ball spun out for a goal-kick.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I admired the honest smile, maybe even a grin, that swept over Palmer’s face. It’s just so refreshing to see a lad enjoy his football in the way that he does.

We still dominated the entire game. Over on the far side, the Leicester manager Steve Cooper looked perplexed. It ate away at me, however, that a single chance could so easily be gifted to the home team and our domination could count for nought.

We ploughed on as the dull skies darkened.

On many occasions, the away corner was able to witness the burgeoning relationship between Palmer and Madueke. I remember, with pleasure, a “no look” pass back from Noni to Jackson. An Enzo shot from outside the box fizzed wide.

With fifteen minutes to go, a cross from the energetic and industrious Marc Cucarella – loved at Chelsea now – found the head of Jackson, but Hermansen foiled him. Luckily for us, the ball rebounded nicely for Enzo to nod home.

The Chelsea end exploded again.

Enzo’s slide towards the corner flag was joyous, but it could have been so much better had he done it in front of us and not in front of Kevin and Sally from Hinckley, Paul and Steve from Loughborough, Aggy from Ashby-de-la-Zouch and Nobby from Narborough.

“Safe now, Gal.”

The away support ran through a few familiar songs of faith and devotion.

“We all follow the Chelsea…”

“Palmer again.”

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Some changes on eighty-one minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Joao Felix.

Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.

It surprised me that Caicedo was taken off, but it was perhaps a sign of how well Enzo, the player, was faring.

More changes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Jackson.

Just as it was looking a plain-sailing 2-0 win, an easy one, Romeo Lavia was adjudged to have clipped the heel of Bobby De Cordova-Reid as he ventured inside our box. After some confusion, VAR confirmed a penalty and Jordan Ayew steered the spot-kick home.

A late late scare?

Not really.

We held on for the last couple of minutes of the five added minutes.

Lovely stuff.

We were mired in slow-moving traffic as we attempted our getaway. For the first time, I drove right past Welford Road, the home of the famous Leicester Tigers, and it felt odd to be driving past that stadium too. As I edged out, I spotted at a large brick wall that was decorated by a huge sprayed-on image of three foxes grappling with the FA Cup, a reminder of a recent game in the combined histories of our two clubs.

On a slow-moving stretch of the main road out to the ring road, in the space of a few minutes, we spotted Rich from Swindon, stopped by the side of the road and attempting to repair a puncture…we then spotted an Ellison’s coach, windows blackened, that almost certainly contained the Chelsea team en route back to London…and as we were stopped in traffic behind a BMW, we watched as a bloke got out of the rear passenger seats and opened-up the boot to retrieve something…it was none other than Joe Cole.

It made our day.

It was a long old trip home. I battled the inclement weather, Storm Bert et al, and while the others slept, I played some soothing music and prayed that the rain would stop.

I was back in Frome at just after 7pm.

It had been a good day.

Tales From The Summers Of 1929, 1984 And 2024

Posted on August 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 17 August 2024.

Welcome to Chelsea 2024/25. This is my fifty-second season of continuous attendance at Chelsea games and the seventeenth year of these match reports. Last season, I celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game and also the first season of attending every single Chelsea match.

For the most part, it was tough as hell wasn’t it? All those new players, a new coach, new ideas. There was a massive disconnect at times – it came to a vitriolic head at Brentford – but at season end, everything appeared to be moving towards a common goal. We were a form team, the manager was getting the best out of his charges, we had reached a domestic final, we had nailed a UEFA spot, Cole Palmer was king.

And then it all fell apart.

Pochettino out, Maresca in.

Change, change, change where there should have been stability.

Over the summer, I felt increasingly disengaged from the love of my life as Chelsea’s bizarre recruitment policy kicked in again. It left me doubting my sanity at times.

The European Championships came and went with dwindling interest from me. It is a worry for me that my relationship with Chelsea Football Club might follow the same pattern as my relationship with England’s national team. I watched some of England’s games, not all. The Euros seemed to be taking place in an odd parallel universe for me this summer.

In truth, from a football perspective, my mind was elsewhere.

My non-league team, Frome Town, won promotion to the Southern League Premier South last season, regaining our place at step three of the non-league pyramid, last experienced in 2018/19. As I explained in these reports, the joy of last season and the sense of anticipation for the new season was a true highlight of the past twelve months. With an influx of new opponents and stadia, Frome’s 2024/25 campaign soon had the feel of Chelsea’s 1984/85 season for this football fancier. All those new away trips, all those new places to visit, the thrill of pitting our wits against teams in a higher level, the comparison was easy.

When the fixtures for Frome were announced, a few weeks after Chelsea’s, I quickly did some logistical planning. The upshot is that I ought to be able to see nine of Frome Town’s first ten league games of the season.

And if I am blunt and honest, I was actually looking forward to the first ten Frome games more than the first ten Chelsea games. Friends at Chelsea often talk about the dwindling connection between the club, the mother ship, and themselves over the past few seasons, but at Frome Town the connection gets stronger with every game.

Over the course of this season, where needed, I will perhaps report on the differing senses of connection and belonging that Chelsea and Frome conjure up.

However, season 2024/25 did not begin for me with a pre-season friendly involving Frome Town. It began at a stadium in Laranjeiras in Rio de Janeiro.

Let me explain.

After my incredible football-centered trip to Buenos Aires in February 2020, I have been mulling over another trip to South America for a while. I almost pushed the button on a trip to Rio de Janeiro last summer but the lingering threat of COVID and a few other issues put me off. In the summer of 2025, when I turn sixty, I am hoping to travel to the Eastern US for the first phase of the FIFA World Club Championships, so I quickly decided that I would look keenly at getting to Rio this summer. We never know how long we have left. It was time to get going.

The fixtures for the Brazilan Serie A were announced in March and I quickly focussed on the weekend of Saturday 6 July. Not only was this my birthday, but the fixture list had Fluminense playing Athletico Paranaense at the magnificent Maracana stadium on that date. Two things to mention here. It was widely rumoured that Thiago Silva would be returning to his first love of Fluminense in the summer and this sent me dizzy. Also, ever since seeing Roberto Rivelino in the maroon, green and white stripes of the Flumimense shirt in the mid-‘seventies, I have been in love with that kit, if not the team itself.

In early March, I decided to go for it. I sorted direct flights from Heathrow to Rio de Janeiro and eight nights in a three-star hotel a block from Copacabana Beach. There would be maybe three games in Rio, matching my three in Buenos Aires. It was all systems go.

And then nature intervened. The floods in Brazil forced a re-arrangement of fixtures and my dream date with Fluminense, and maybe Thiago Silva, was hit. Instead, it was looking like Vasco de Gama vs. Fortaleza on the Wednesday, Flamengo vs. Cuiba on my birthday and Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro on the Sunday. I’ll admit it; I was devastated that there would be no Fluminense game.

I waited for Saturday 29 June for take-off. Of course, Thiago Silva did indeed sign for Fluminense and there was talk of his first game being played in July. My annoyance in missing him play in Rio was palpable, yet I was sure that I was still going to have a superb trip. In the ten days before departure, I contacted Chelsea Football Club about sending Fluminense, temporarily, the huge Thiago Silva crowd-surfer flag that the “We Are The Shed” team created, and which marked his last ever game for us. One of the “We Are The Shed” folk is a friend and for a while it seemed that this idea was a runner. Alas, communication from Chelsea predictably dried up and the Thiago Silva flag has stayed in the bowels of Stamford Bridge. Sigh.

I landed at Rio’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport at 5.30am on Sunday 30 June.

I hoped that I would arrive at my hotel by 7am and I soon caught a cab that took me through a surprisingly grey and rainy city centre. The cab driver pointed out the Maracana to our right, a thin sliver of white amongst the grey buildings. My pulse rate quickened. After a twenty-five-minute journey, I walked into my hotel at 6.59am and so here’s my first “I work in logistics” comment of the new season. I wolfed down a filling breakfast and trotted out onto the nearby Copacabana Beach to get my bearings and to get those first day vibes. The weather was still disappointing but I was overjoyed to be setting foot on such a famous location.

My first football-related task of the holiday involved getting an Uber to take me a few miles north to the well-heeled Laranjeiras district of Rio. Here, the driver deposited me right outside Manoel Schwartz Stadium. This historic ground, dating from 1914 was originally Brazil’s national stadium, and home of Fluminense, founded in 1902, who played here until decamping to the Maracana upon its construction in 1950.

I liked it that I would be visiting the national team’s first three stadia in Rio – Laranjeiras, Vasco da Gama’s Estadio Centenario and Maracana – in chronological order during my stay.

The stadium soon captivated my heart and soul and, I think, was the absolute highlight of my stay in Rio. On that grey Sunday afternoon, I wandered in and out of its stands, and I truly fell in love with the place. There is an extra reason for this.

We need to go back to the summer of 1929.

From 29 May to 7 July of that year, Chelsea Football Club played a ridiculous sixteen games in South America; ten in Argentina, four in Brazil and two in Uruguay. This tour is of significance for two major reasons. Firstly, it represents Chelsea’s longest-ever pre-season tour of any nature. Secondly, no British team has toured South America since.

I had to smile when I heard that the current Fluminense president Mario Bittencourt say that he was so impressed with the way that Chelsea conducted themselves in the Thiago Silva transfer that he is now a Chelsea fan and hoped to schedule a friendly between the two teams at the Maracana at some stage during Silva’s contract.

This might well be silly lip-service, but you never know. Chelsea at the Maracana? Lovely. If I couldn’t see Fluminense on this trip, maybe on another.

I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, at Fluminense’s first stadium and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand, and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I would have probably feinted.

The stadium is still used for training games, and the occasional match involving some of Fluminense’s lesser teams. There is a small club shop, and I bought a few items.

That night I watched Flamengo play against Cruzeiro in a bar on Copacabana. David Luiz was playing for the home team and I felt surprisingly protective towards him. I liked him at Chelsea and I wanted to see him do well. Later, I watched a Copa America game between Venezuela and Jamaica in another bar and got talking to people from Chile and Venezuela. The common language was football. It had been an amazing first day.

The second day was spent touring the city in a mini bus with other tourists and it enabled me to get to grips with the scale and intensity of the city. Rio is ridiculously dramatic. It is a vibrant, sweaty and sultry city. Alas visibility was poor atop Corcovado and Sugar Loaf. There was a fleeting ten-minute stop outside Maracana, but I knew I would be back on the Saturday. That night I watched a game in another bar between Palmeiras and Corinthians, our two World Club Cup opponents in 2012 and 2021, er 2022.

The third day, the Tuesday, was spent on Copacabana, the weather now brighter, and I was so happy. Cristo Redentor looked magnificent against a deep blue sky above the hotels of the beach. I met up with a local guy that I had been put into contact with; Rudson would be my ticket broker for the week. He had texted me during my wander along the beach to inform me that, miraculously, there would be an extra Fluminense game squeezed into the schedule on Thursday. I was so happy. I would get to see them play. It amazed me that the fixture change had taken place only three days out. And we complain in England.

So, a change of plan. I binned the game at Vasco da Gama – in a rough area, and an expensive ticket, plus an odd pre-registration process involving QR codes and facial recognition – as I would now be going to Maracana twice.

I walked west to Ipanema, and ended up in Garota Café, a super-cool establishment once frequented by Antonio Carlos Jobim – yes him again – and Vinicius de Moraes who penned the bossa nova gem “The Girl From Ipanema” in 1964. I shared a photo on Facebook and there would be an online conversation later between a Chelsea fan – Ian – and myself about the bossa nova revival in the summer of 1984 in the UK involving Everything But The Girl and Sade. We talked about how amazing that summer was for us Chelsea supporters.

As I mentioned in the last blog of 2023/24, I felt a comparison between the summers of 1984 and 2024, but for slightly different reasons.

“I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years. Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.”

More of 1984 later.

I had walked four miles from Copacabana to Ipanema and took a cab back to the hotel.

However, events took a dark turn that evening. Unfortunately, I became victim to what I would term “Pele Belly” and was more-or-less confined to my hotel room for two days. I was so worried that I would not be able to chance going to any games. And I was horrified to think what the return eleven-hour flight to London might entail.

Fackinao.

I slept for long periods and raided the fridge for snacks. Thankfully I bought some “Imosec” and things slightly improved. I felt so tired though. On the Thursday, Rudson met me in my hotel lobby – despite living way north of the city, his office is on Copacabana – and gave me my Fluminense ticket. It cost around £30. Gingerly, I caught an Uber to Maracana. Despite still feeling delicate and tired, I absolutely came to life on that cab ride. The Uber driver was a Fluminense fan too.

In my travels around the city, just like I had done in Buenos Aires, I asked the locals if they were Flamengo or Fluminense. In Buenos Aires, it was roughly 60% Boca and 40% River. In Rio, it was weighted far more steeply to one side. It was easily 95% Flamengo, 5% Fluminense. I knew Flamengo were enjoyed the larger support base, but the scale shocked me. Not to worry, it made me dig in and like Fluminense more.

Those colours!

I was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium, unlike on Monday when our visit had taken place by the statue of the Brazil World Cup winning captain Hilderaldo Bellini at the south-east side. I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed comprehendible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one in reality and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had enjoyed a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.

As with the fans in Argentina, there were melodic songs rather than vitriolic and barked chants that the European supporters favour. There were no pointed arms, no staccato clapping, no rapid vocal jousting. The songs from the stands, with occasional flag-waving, were accompanied by rolling arm movements, as in Buenos Aires, and it reminded me of Max Bygraves and his “I wanna tell you a story” arm shrugs. All very floppy. Not aggressive at all.

I caught a cab – a Fiat, there are tons of Fiats in Rio – back to the hotel and slept well that night.

Friday was a quiet day. I visited a local churrascaria steakhouse in the evening and then the Lapa area of the city centre where the bars and nightclubs are centered. I was still 58, but in the UK I was 59. I sank a few beers to celebrate, but if I was honest I still wasn’t 100% and returned home early.

Saturday, my birthday, and a day of contrasts. I stayed in the hotel, again not wanting to chance it, but then booked an Uber to take me to the Flamengo vs. Cuiba game which kicked-off at 8pm. What I found nice about travelling anywhere in Rio was that I was invariably driven past the white walls of Laranjeiras stadium, as if the city was telling me “it all started here, remember.”

Later on, nearing Maracana, the city’s hills spotted with lights, the Uber driver played two Sade songs. This was magical. Truly magical. I instantly remembered the conversation that I had with Ian on the Tuesday. I leaned forward.

“Sade? Sade Adu?”

The driver smiled. I think she was amazed.

“Sade. Yes.”

It was one of those gorgeous moments where life does not get any better.

Sade. The summer of 1984. Rio de Janeiro. The home of bossa nova. The Maracana. Flamengo. The summer of 2024. My birthday.

Music. Football. Travel.

Bliss.

I was deposited in exactly the same spot as on Thursday, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift up to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and actually quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

“Diamond life, lover boy.

We move in space with minimum waste and maximum joy.

City lights and business nights.

When you require streetcar desire for higher heights.”

The second-half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more.

There was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of carioca – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to myself.

On the next day, I revisited Corcovado and took in the magnificence of the view of the city underneath the open arms of Cristo Redentor.

Another magical memory.

To complete the 1984 vibe, Everything But The Girl released a song in 1999 called “Corcovado” and it was in my mind all day long.

“Um cantinho e um vilao. Este amor, uma cancao.

Pra fazer feliz a quem se ama.”

For my final game of Brazil 2024, Rudson had booked me a driver to take me out of the Zonal Sud comfort zone and into the central part of the city. Vincius called for me at 6pm for the 8.30pm start. We made our way out, not only past Laranjeiras, but Maracana too.

There are four Serie A teams in Rio; Fluminense, Flamengo, Vasco da Gama and Botofogo. Interestingly, all originated in the affluent Zonal Sud area, some originally as rowing clubs. Botafoga’s full title is Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas. Botafogo now play at Estadio Nilton Santos – along with Garricha and Jairzinho, its favourite son – which was built for the Olympics of 2016. It’s in a pretty shady area. I was grateful that Vincius was with me. He parked up in a grimy side-street and walked me to the modern stadium.

“After you wait here” and he pointed to a statue of Garrincha.

Botafogo play in black and white stripes – like Juventus, an old flame – and I must admit I fell in love with an old Botafogo Kappa black jersey.

Very Juventus 1990.

There was time to relax and take in the local environs. Again, lots of street vendors, lots of replica shirts, lots of hustle and bustle. Both Botafogo and Vasco advertise themselves as the real clubs of Rio. Think Everton over Liverpool. Fluminense once had a tainted history of elitism and racism but thankfully that has virtually disappeared now. There are smaller clubs elsewhere in Rio. But, still, nowhere near as many pro clubs as Buenos Aires, the city that I constantly felt myself comparing Rio against during my stay.

I wolfed down another Heineken at a street side bar. Unfortunately, hardly anybody speaks English in Rio so although I was bursting to talk to the locals, I knew it was a futile wish. At the turnstiles, a camera took my photo as I entered. And we complain in England.

The stadium is a little odd. With a running track, the spectators are a long way from the pitch. One end was completely empty. In fact, both ends are single story but look like they can have extensions if required. The noisy section of home fans was therefore in the two tiers opposite the main stand where I sat. To my right were around 2,000 away fans of Atletico Mineiro, who now boasted Hulk in their ranks, who I saw play at Stamford Bridge for Porto. He is now thirty-eight.

Unlike at the Maracana, there was a full tifo display here, with vertical strips, a huge horizontal banner, flares and smoke. It was mightily impressive. The home team scored after just thirteen minutes via Luiz Henriques. Hulk’s far from incredible team mate Igor Rabello was sent off on twenty-five minutes, and the home team totally dominated the game. Two late goals from Cuiabano and Jefferson Savarino gave Botafogo a deserved 3-0 win in front of 23,000. I knew that Rudson would be happy.

“I am a humble man. I like Botafogo.”

Soon back at my hotel, I decided on a nightcap and popped over the road for a couple of beers in a small bar. Just like on night one, I lucked-out with some drinking companions. I chatted to a group of kit-wearing Botafogo supporters, a few of whom spoke English – thank heavens – and I had a great final hour of my final match day. They had been sat above me in the upper tier of the west stand. The youngest liked Chelsea – and Barcelona, ugh – and we spoke about all sorts. The group were all from Brasilia and one of them is the owner of a lower league team, FC Capital. It was a cracking end to my stay in Rio de Janeiro.

Nine days, eight nights, three stadia, three games, a few Chelsea moments, a truly unforgettable holiday. Rio truly loves its football. I have not stayed in a city where so many locals wear football shirts as a matter of course, going about their usual tasks. There were Flamengo shirts everywhere. Many wore the famous yellow of Brazil too. In Rio, it remains a working class sport. I hope to return one day.

“A corner and a guitar.

This love, a song.

To make those you love happy.”

The rest of my summer was spent trying to avoid most of the rumours about the comings and goings at Chelsea Football Club; my game plan was to try to get to game one, Manchester City at home, and then make my mind up about what I saw with my very own eyes.

Instead, I spent my time following Frome Town as their – “our”? – pre-season developed and merged seamlessly into the first few games in the Southern League Premier South. My travels took me to friendlies at Clevedon Town, Shepton Mallet and Westbury United, with home friendlies against Yeovil Town, Bath City and Swansea City U21s. There was an exceptional opening game in the league at fancied Gosport Borough – the last time I saw Frome play there in 2018, we lost 0-7 after ignominiously starting with only ten players – where a late Curtis Jemmet-Hutson goal gave us a wonderful 1-0 win. Frome were then brought down to Earth with two home defeats against Merthyr Tydfil – 0-2 – and Bracknell Town – 1-2 – in the week leading up to Chelsea’s league opener.

Before the game at Stamford Bridge, I had a walking tour of SW6. I walked from a new parking spot on Star Road to Stamford Bridge, then out to the Bedford Arms on Dawes Road to see Alan and Gary, then down the Fulham Road and Fulham High Street to see the usual suspects in The Eight Bells. It was a yomp of some three miles.

The Eight Bells doesn’t change. I was there from 2pm to 3.30pm, and although it was packed with Chelsea supporters – maybe sixty inside, maybe thirty outside – I only saw two Chelsea shirts. Both were worn by the younger element; excusable.

I met up with Parky and PD, Salisbury Steve, the Kent lot, and Deano called in too. He is off to Chile in November and I vowed to contact the Chilean family I met in Rio. A barmaid had travelled in South America with two friends for four months since the last time I saw her and there was a heady South American feel to the pre-match.

“Sixteen games in 1929. And we complain about pre-season tours in 2024.”

We caught a tube up to Stamford Bridge. Chelsea have adopted the “CFC – LDN” tagline for this season and there is signage everywhere in and around the stadium. The shite new kit is heavily paraded on every spare inch of Stamford Bridge.

Set aside under a section of the old Shed Wall is a bizarre display called “The Garden Of Eden”, some Xbox or Playstation nonsense involving Eden Hazard, geared towards the EA Sports generation that seems to account for a huge proportion of our global fan base these days. The display could easily have been in honour of Jeff Koons.

The first programme of the new year had a striking cover. It consisted of an “upshot” from the middle of a players’ huddle. It reminded me of the famous scene from Stanley Kramer’s “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” when the protagonists realised that they were at last “under a big dubya” and they peer over the hidden treasure.

I am not so sure what treasure we will find at Chelsea this year, but it will be a mad world for sure.

Inside, Stamford Bridge looked the same, but as kick-off approached, there were a couple of “I Hate Modern Football” moments. For a while now, in addition to the Dug Out Club nonsense, we have been treated to the sight of around twenty well-heeled individuals watching the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from the West Stand touchline. It looks ridiculous. And God knows how much they pay for the privilege. In close proximity to all of this baloney, a young DJ was set up to spin some discs at a booth and my eyes rolled to the heavens.

In that crucial thirty minutes before kick-off, it would be nice to be able to sing our own songs, adding to the atmosphere nicely – just like we used to do decades ago – rather than be voyeurs to some dance music being pumped out to disinterested spectators.

When I showed a photo of this ridiculous scene to a Brentford fan at work, he commented “it looks like a wedding.”

Women in posh frocks, blokes in tailored shirts and trousers, children at play, a DJ booth, the green grass below. It could easily be a scene from a summer wedding.

That ain’t football.

I could hear the cariocas in Rio laughing at us from six thousand miles away.

I shook hands with Charlie and Alan who sit alongside us. Sadly, Charlie’s father and Alan’s brother Gary passed away on 29 May after a battle with motor neurone disease. Gary’s last match at Stamford Bridge was the last game of 2022/23. Along with their father Joe, Alan and Gary had been sitting alongside us since 1997. Glenn and I attended Gary’s funeral in Crawley at the end of June. He will be missed.

RIP Gary Buchmann.

As 4.30pm approached, another new-fangled addition at Stamford Bridge. In addition to flames alongside the East Stand, there were fireworks and blue fumes from atop the East Stand.

As Alan said “we will get banned for bringing in flares, but it’s OK for the club to fill the air with blue smoke.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Caicedo – Lavia

Enzo

Palmer – Jackson – Nkunku

Or something like that.

Even from afar, our new kit looks shite. Maybe I will write more about it later.

We started well with a fair amount of the ball. I immediately sensed that the battle between Marc Cucarella and Jeremy Doku was going to be entertaining.

Decent noise too. The usual songs.

Enzo was ahead of Lavia and Caicedo. The Argentinian began well.

Then calamity, Doku swapped sides and on eighteen minutes, he gained a yard of space and sent in a low ball into the box. It evaded our defenders, Bernardo Silva touched it on, and Erling Haaland fought off a late challenge from Cucarella to stab home.

Here we go.

Chelsea 0 City 1.

Bollocks.

Nothing about the goal looked dodgy, but VAR was called into action. The goal stood, no surprises.

City had three thousand in the far corner and they were chirping away as you would expect.

Just after, the Conor Gallagher song, to be expected really. I didn’t join in. I was already pissed off with our transfer policy and the new season wasn’t even half-an-hour old yet.

City went close again via Kevin de Bruyne, but Chelsea were having a share of the play. The ball was played in as Enzo made a Lampard-esque run into the box. He was clattered but no decision.

At the other end, a shot from Doku was deflected and Sanchez did ever so well to tip the ball over.

I liked the look of Romeo Lavia, breaking up play and physically strong.

A nice move involving Cole Palmer and Christopher Nkunku set up Nicolas Jackson. A lay-off to Enzo, but his shot was blocked.

City were finding angles to play through us, and we had to rely on Sanchez to spread his legs wide to block a shot.

At last some noise.

CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.

“Come on lads, hit the runners early.”

Just before half-time, a goal from Jackson after Ederson spilled a Palmer effort, but I had soon spotted the linesman’s flag.

VAR…no goal.

The spectators watching on, quite bewildered.

There was a lovely through ball by Jackson in to Nkunku but he did not do himself justice.

Boos at half-time, but surely for Anthony Taylor rather than for our performance. I was relatively happy at the break, though. We had played better than I had expected. This was always going to be the toughest of tasks. Lavia had been excellent.

Soon into the second period, Enzo and Jackson became entangled in front of the City goal just as Jackson was about to strike and the Chelsea fans’ frustrations rose.

Sanchez saved well from Haaland at the other end.

We lost our way a little as the second-half progressed.

We became quiet, City too.

58 minutes : Pedro Neto for Nkunku.

He almost got on the end of a chance, close in, with his very first touch, after a fine ball from Palmer to Enzo, whose cross almost reached the substitute.

“CAREFREE – WHEREVER YOU MAY BE.”

A nice rumble of noise again.

Neto then beat his man and sent over a fine cross that Enzo headed on. The move was kept alive, the ball found Jackson whose acrobatic stab at goal was well saved by Ederson.

67 minutes : Marc Guiu for Jackson and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Romeo Lavia.

80 minutes : Renato Vega for Cucarella.

On eighty-four minutes, Mateo Kovacic, who had grown into being the game’s most impressive player, picked up a loose ball from Wesley Fofana and ran with pace through the middle of our pitch. As he aimed at goal, I uttered the immortal “Fuck off Kovacic” and he duly swept a strike past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

The bloke sitting between PD and Alan, who had not sung a single note of support for the team all game, got up and fucked off out, the City fans did a Poznan and that was that.

Chelsea 0 City 2.

Did anybody, anywhere, really expect anything different?

Next up, Servette Geneva in the Europa Conference on Thursday.

See you there.

Estádio Manoel Schwartz, Laranjeiras.

Fluminense vs. Internacional, Maracana.

Flamengo vs. Cuiabá, Maracana.

Botafogo vs. Atlético Mineiro, Estádio Olímpico Nilton Santos.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City, Stamford Bridge.

Tales From 1970 And All That

Posted on March 1, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 28 February 2024.

After the defeat at Wembley on Sunday, we reconvened down at “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham – via a pint at “The Sawyers Arms” at Paddington – and although our spirits were low, a decent evening ensued. We spent three hours or so in the company of Johnny Twelve from California and also Rob and Karl from Hersham. Suffice to say, the drinks flowed and the smiles returned. However, on waking in the Premier Inn opposite the pub the next morning, I could not stifle a brief “I hate football” from flitting into my head.

But these were a busy few days for Chelsea Football Club.

Next up was our first FA Cup tie against Leeds United since the 1970 FA Cup Final and subsequent replay. It was a busy time for me too. As Monday passed and as I toiled over the Wembley blog late into Tuesday, I managed to “let go” of the result on Sunday and I tried my best to look forward to the game on Wednesday.

I was in early at work on the day of the game, but I could not get something out of my head. Back in 1986, Chelsea exited both domestic cups within the space of four days; we lost at home to Liverpool in the FA Cup on Sunday 26 January and at home to QPR on Wednesday 29 January. I sincerely hoped that there would be no repeat thirty-eight years later.

PD and Parky had enjoyed a pub lunch and PD had then picked-up Ron Harris at 1.45pm. At just after 2pm, in the car park of “The Milk Churn” pub in Melksham, I stood with Ron as PD took a photo of the two of us. It seemed right that on the occasion of the first Chelsea vs. Leeds United FA Cup game in fifty-four years, we should mark the start of the drive to Chelsea in this manner.

As I pulled out of the car park, I realised once again how absolutely lucky I am to be able to drive our captain from those glory years up to Stamford Bridge.

1970, eh?

While Ron was busy leading the team to those two classic games, I was just starting out on a football life of my own.

I began my school days at the age of for years and nine months, probably just before the Wembley Cup Final on Saturday 11 April. In the ensuing few months, I would choose Chelsea as my team, although the exact reason or reasons are not crystal clear. In my memory, it’s down to a list of a few motives. It has to be said that until school, my parents told me that I wasn’t particularly interested in football.

Maybe I liked the name “Chelsea”. Maybe, after the replay at Old Trafford on 29 April, some school pals told me that “Chelsea had won the cup” (there is no recollection at all of me watching it, sadly) or maybe I had worked out that Chelsea were a good team. In a nutshell, Chelsea were the talk of the town, or at least the school playground, in the April and May of 1970 and I became a fan.

I’ve had quite a journey, eh?

And here I was, aged fifty-eight and seven months, driving the captain of that team to a game against Leeds United so many years later.

As I approached London, I could not resist asking Ron a question.

“Ron. Of the two games at Wembley and Old Trafford in 1970, what is your one stand out memory?”

“After the first game, Dave Sexton told me that I would swap positions with Webby, who had been given the biggest run-around I had ever seen by Eddie Gray, and in the second-game he never got a kick.”

The response did not surprise me at all. It is the classic moment from both games aside from the goals.

The 1970 FA Cup Final is so iconic, so fantastic, and so important to the history of the competition and to Chelsea Football Club alike. But it is, undoubtedly, so important for me too, although I did not even watch the games at the time.

It was a game-changer.

I knew that Chelsea were issuing a programme for the game that would feature a cover photograph of the jubilant Chelsea players at Old Trafford, with Chopper holding the trophy alongside a few team mates, and I liked that. Sometimes Chelsea get it right.

As time moves on, though, it has been sad to see so many players from both teams pass away over the years. Of the twenty-two starters at Old Trafford, only ten remain.

Chelsea.

Peter Bonetti : 20 April 2020, aged 78.
Ron Harris – aged 79
Eddie McCreadie – aged 83.
John Hollins : 14 June 2023, aged 76.
John Dempsey – aged 77.
David Webb – aged 77.
Tommy Baldwin : 22 January 2024, aged 78.
Charlie Cooke – aged 81.
Peter Osgood : 1 March 2006, aged 59.
Ian Hutchinson : 19 September 2002, aged 54.
Peter Houseman : 20 March 1977, aged 31.

Leeds United.

David Harvey – aged 76.
Paul Madeley : 23 July 2018, aged 73.
Terry Cooper : 31 July 2021, aged 77.
Billy Bremner : 7 December 1997, aged 54.
Jack Charlton : 10 July 2020, aged 85.
Norman Hunter : 20 April 2020, aged 76.
Peter Lorimer : 20 March 2021, aged 74.
Alan Clarke – aged 77.
Mick Jones – aged 78.
Johnny Giles – aged 83.
Eddie Gray – aged 76.

I dropped off PD and Parky at the bottom of the North End Road and I dropped off Ron outside the main gates. As I slowly retraced my steps back to my usual parking place, police sirens were wailing.

Leeds were in town.

At about 5.15pm, I popped into an Italian restaurant on the Lillee Road – “Pizza@Home” – for the first time and I enjoyed some lovely food. I then dipped into “Café Ole” at the bottom of the North End Road once more for a large cappuccino. It was all about staying out of the rain for as long as I could. Funnily enough, there was a bundle of friends at “Café Ole” – Pete, Liz, Mark, Scott, Paul, Gerry, Tom, Leigh, Darren – probably all with the same need to keep dry.

I had a nice talk with Tom, the first one for ages.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at about 7pm. PD told me that, should we beat Leeds, we would play host to Leicester City in the Quarter-Finals.

Mixed blessings.

I was angling for a dream draw of Newcastle United at home on Saturday 16 March as it would mark the fiftieth anniversary of my very first game against the same opposition. But I was relatively happy with a home draw. I hoped that the game would be played on the Saturday though. Outside of a home draw, we all wanted Coventry City. Ah well, it was not to be.

PD ran through the team.

“We’re playing with three wingers. Sterling, Madueke, Mudryk.”

I had swapped out with Parky to allow him a seat next to PD in The Sleepy Hollow. There were around six-thousand noisy Leeds fans in The Shed, their largest away following at Stamford Bridge in over fifty-years, maybe ever.

At about 7.15pm, Ron Harris was interviewed pitch side with club historian Rick Glanvil as they spoke about the 1970 FA Cup Final and its place in football folklore. Amazingly, the replay was watched by 28.49 million people. It is at number six in the list of the highest-ever TV audiences in the UK, alongside royal weddings, royal funerals and England games. Apart from the “Matthews Final” of 1953, it is probably the most famous FA Cup Final of them all.

The usual dimming of lights and fireworks, but then the shock of Leeds in an all pink kit, albeit one with a shirt that resembled a polyester outfit from the ‘seventies that Mrs. Slocombe might wear at a Grace Brothers night out.

Hideous.

Time to sort the team out. I had a look.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Gilchrist

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Mudryk – Sterling

Jackson

I had forgotten that Ethan Ampadu was now full-time at Leeds United after three relegations on loan to Sheffield United, Venezia and Spezia. Eddie Gray’s great-nephew Archie was playing for the visitors. He is the son of Andy Gray, who I remember at Leeds, and the grandson of Frank Gray who I also remember at Leeds.

Conclusion : I am getting old.

The visitors in The Shed noisily shouted “We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds” and Enzo kicked the ball back to a team mate.

We were off.

The pink visitors attacked us in the Matthew Harding. Mudryk was in the “Number 10” slot, the space recently occupied by Cole Palmer. We began on top.

I noted many empty seats during the first few minutes but most filled. There were, however a few hundred unused seats in the top corners of Westview all game.

I was just getting settled, making a mental note of all the songs that the visitors were singing at us, when a lumped ball from deep released Daniel James who had lost the back-tracking Alfie Gilchrist. The Leeds player lobbed the ball just wide of the goal frame.

From the goal-kick following this miss, a typical Chelsea disaster of 2023/24 occurred right in front of me. Sanchez played the ball to Axel Disasi who he chose not to clear his lines, no doubt under instruction from the management. He played the ball into the feet of Moises Caicedo, even though there were three opponents close by. Possession was lost, Jaidon Anthony pushed the ball square to Mateo Joseph who slammed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

The away hordes roared.

After just eight minutes we were one-nil down.

The away end went through a few favourites.

“Should I be Chelsea, should I be Leeds, here’s what she said to me.”

“Let’s go fucking mental, let’s go fucking mental.”

“Marching on together.”

We tried to retaliate immediately, with Sterling setting up Enzo but his low effort flew past Ilian Meslier’s post.

On fifteen minutes, we constructed a really fine move down the right, with a smattering of one-touch passes. Jackson back to Disasi, to Gusto, inside to Jackson, to Madueke, to Caicedo and a killer pass to Jackson, who carefully guided the ball home.

Lovely goal.

It was back to 1-1.

Another shot from Enzo, but easily stopped by Meslier.

“Come on Chelsea, Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

A slashed effort from an angle by Madueke that only hit the side-netting. Another shot from Madueke was so high and wide that it almost defied description. Mudryk went close at an angle. At a corner, Mudryk took Shedloads of abuse from the Leeds fans.

“You’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit.”

Leeds countered occasionally. For some reason, their right-winger James (he scored against us in his first game for Manchester United in August 2019) reminded me of Eddie Gray, his build and his running style.

On thirty-seven minutes, another fine move down our right. The ball was worked centrally at first, Caicedo to Chalobah to Madueke. As so often happens, he chose to dribble laterally, but in doing so encountered some space. He pushed the ball between defenders to Gusto on the right. A touch, a prod into Sterling, and a cutback to Mudryk, and a first-time finish, sweeping it low past the ‘keeper. Another great goal.

He stood in front of his detractors.

“Ви казали?”

We were 2-1 up.

The visitors were not impressed.

“2-1 and you still don’t sing.”

Leeds came again and James fired over from a free-kick. Jaidon Anthony ghosted in from the left and thumped one that just missed the far post.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

At the break, it was time to reflect on the first-half. We had scored two nice goals, but some of our build-up play was just too slow. Moises Caicedo was the best of our bunch, strong in the tackle, decent passing, holding it all together. We had done just enough.

Alas, in the second-half, we didn’t do much at all.

Leeds began the stronger and after a while it dawned on me that we had hardly strung more than two passes together. On fifty-eight minutes, with the Chelsea crowd not involved and docile, Ampadu swung a long cross over to Anthony. I was dismayed that Gusto did not make a stab at the ball, allowing a long cross towards the far post where Joseph was able to leap, totally unmarked, and head down and in.

It was now 2-2.

On sixty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Conor Gallagher for Madueke.

Ben Chilwell for Gusto.

Chilwell to left-back, Gilchrist to right-back, Gallagher to the middle, Mudryk to the left, Sterling to the right.

Our play went to pieces.

“We’re second-best here.”

A shot from Anthony was deflected but its trajectory stayed close to Sanchez.

Our passing was off, our intensity had slowed, we had stopped doing the small things. We looked so tired.

Mudryk crossed high but Jackson was always underneath it.

On seventy-four minutes, more changes.

Levi Colwill for Gilchrist.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Disasi to right-back, Colwill in the middle, Palmer on the left.

We still struggled. We all began to wonder about extra-time and penalties, another late night.

On the ninetieth minute, there was really fine play from Enzo who fought to retain possession on the left and he scurried forward. He spotted the run of Gallagher and slotted a beautiful pass into him. Gallagher’s touch was exquisite and despite being squeezed by two Leeds defenders, he lifted the ball over Meslier.

Get in you beauty.

Now it was our turn to scream and shout.

Stamford Bridge roared, but how I wished that it had been roaring all night.

In injury-time, a debut was given to Jimi Tauriainen, whose first moment of action was to foul a Leeds defender; obviously he had read the script.

Chelsea 3 Leeds United 2.

At the end, “Freed From Desire “ and “One Step Beyond”

We can’t really grumble about getting home draws all of the way through the two domestic cups this season can we? Eight out of eight.

Wimbledon.

Brighton.

Blackburn Rovers.

Newcastle United.

Preston North End.

Aston Villa.

Leeds United.

Leicester City.

During the day, I had joked to a few people about the game against Leeds.

“Yeah, looking forward to it. But what’s the end goal? Get to another Cup Final at Wembley and lose that one too?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Outside, mobs of Leeds made their way back to waiting cars and coaches. I had not seen so many police at Chelsea in years.

On the walk back to the car, Ron Harris explained that Eddie Gray was with the Leeds board at Stamford Bridge and had asked to be linked up with his old adversary from 1970. The two former players spent thirty minutes in each other’s company. In fact, Eddie Gray did the exact same thing on his last visit to Chelsea last season. I admired that. These old warriors must love to meet up and share stories of that game and others.

“How old is Eddie Gray, Ron? Same age as you?”

“Couple years younger, I think.”

“Right.”

We walked on.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. When he played against you in 1970 he was younger. But after the replay, I heard that he aged significantly.”

Ron smiled.

I soon escaped from London and for the first time that I can remember I didn’t stop once until I pulled up at “The Milk Churn” at about midnight. I was home by 12.40am, a relatively early night.

Right then, back to the league now. Brentford on Saturday. See you there.

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 A Crazy Game

Posted on February 11, 2024 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2024.

We weren’t expecting much from this FA Cup replay at Villa Park. Why would we be? In our previous two games we had conceded eight goals. There was, in fact, a real worry that we would become unstuck on a mighty scale.

I had worked an early shift, collected Paul and PD at 2.20pm, and then headed north. We stopped off at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at about 4.30pm. Our modus operandi was that if we were travelling over one hundred miles to watch a football game that we would probably lose, we had best find our fun elsewhere. The three curries, as always, went down a treat.

At around 6.45pm, I dropped the lads off as close to Villa Park that I could get and then double-backed on myself to park up. The plan was to walk all of the way around the stadium to take a selection of wide-angled photographs of the stands and to try to capture the essence of a midweek cup tie.

Villa Park, eh?

This is a ground that became synonymous with FA Cup semi-finals before the FA took the unfortunate step to host all semis at the new Wembley Stadium. We have played a few semis at Villa Park over the years dating back to our first one, a win, against Everton in 1915. There was then a long gap of fifty years followed by three games in quick succession. We then lost to Liverpool in 1965 and Sheffield Wednesday in 1966 before defeating Leeds United in 1967.

However, my first viewing of an FA Cup tie at Villa Park took place in early 1987. I travelled down to Birmingham with two mates from college in Stoke; Bob, Leeds United, and Steve, Derby County. I remember we posed for a photo outside the famous steps of the Trinity Road but the weather was too overcast and my camera was too cheap for the photo to be worth sharing. I had visited Villa Park for a tedious 0-0 draw in November 1986, but this cup tie was a great match. We had about 5,000 fans in a 21,997 crowd on the low terrace behind the goal and in the seats of the old Witton Lane Stand. We watched from the seats. We went 1-0 up in the first-half via John Bumstead but Villa equalised with twenty minutes to go via Neale Cooper. David Speedie then put us ahead on eighty-six minutes only for Steve Hunt to equalise again. We would win the replay at Stamford Bridge.

That game in 1987 was our last FA Cup tie against Villa on their home patch. However, we would play two semi-finals at Villa Park within six years during the Glenn Hoddle to Claudio Ranieri era.

In 1996, we assembled at Villa Park for the game against Manchester United. We were allocated the old Trinity Road Stand and three-quarters of the Holte End. Luckily, we had seats in the very front row of the upper tier of the Holte End, and I decided to take advantage of this position by creating a flag in honour of Ruud Gullit that I could drape over the balcony. Although the great man himself headed us into the lead in the first-half, United came back to win 2-1 with two goals in quick succession a quarter of an hour into the second-half via Andy Cole and David Beckham.

In 2002, our semi-final against Fulham was to be played at Highbury but our opponents took umbrage that the split of the 38,000 tickets at Arsenal’s stadium slightly favoured ourselves. They demanded that the game should be played at a stadium that allowed more equal allocations. Lo and behold, the two clubs from West London were forced to decamp to Birmingham on a Sunday evening with the game kicking-off at a ridiculous 7pm. I travelled up with a car load from Frome and we enjoyed a lengthy pre-match in the “Crown And Cushion” pub at Perry Barr. This pre-match is notable for the first-ever photo of Parky and myself together. We watched in the noisy upper tier of the North Stand as a John Terry goal just before half-time sent us to Wembley. The irony is that the attendance was only 36,147 and Fulham – of course – did not sell all of their tickets.

“Thanks, then.”

I took a few photographs on the walk through to the away end. Three police vans were parked on the roundabout near the Witton train station. Emiliano Buendia drove past in his car and some Villa fans close by went all weak at the knees. Amidst the throng of match-goers, a chap stood in the middle of Witton Lane with a “God Is Love” placard. I took outside shots of three of the stands but I did not fancy the trot down to the Holte End on this occasion. Time was moving on and I wanted to get inside to join up with the lads. I could sense an air of buoyancy amidst the home fans.

“The Giant Is Awake” is the current tagline at Villa Park and I suppose they have a point. They are playing their best stuff in years.

I was inside at about 7.30pm. As I spoke to a few fellow travellers in the concourse and in the seating area of the away section, nobody was confident.

I took my seat alongside the lads. We were towards the back of the lower tier and it was a decent view. Chelsea were given 6,298 tickets for this game as opposed to the standard 3,000 for league matches. It seemed that a fair few were going spare if the announcements on social media were a clue. I just hoped that there weren’t large swathes of gaps in our section. I soon realised that the split was around 3,000 in the usual areas of the Witton Lane / Doug Ellis but with around 3,300 in the top tier of the North Stand to our right.

There were occasional empty seats but this was a magnificent effort from our supporters. While the dynamics have changed – for the worse, for the worse – at home games, thank God that the football calendar can occasionally throw up an occasion like this where the bedrock of the club can get a chance to follow the team en masse.

The minutes ticked by.

There were a few rock anthems as the 8pm kick-off approached. Surprisingly, “Hi Ho Silver Lining” was aired – as it was at Wolves – but then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne took over as the teams were spotted in the off-centre tunnel.

Villa then overdid it a bit. Not only were there plumes of smoke by the tunnel, but flames all along the pitch by the Doug Ellis Stand and – fackinell – fireworks in the sky above the stadium.

Not to worry, the six thousand Chelsea fans had a response.

“CAREFREE!”

On a serious note, all of this manufactured noise before kick-off might well look good on TV and it might excite children, but the problem is that it doesn’t allow for atmospheres to sizzle along nicely resulting in a crackling crescendo of noise – self-generated – at kick-off. Maybe those days are gone forever.

Sigh.

Our team? No Thiago Silva. No Raheem Sterling.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Chilwell

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Jackson

There were a few mumbles and grumbles about the starting positions of Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson, but – noticeably – nobody was bemoaning the absence of Raheem Sterling.

OK. Everyone stood. Not many gaps in the immediate area. A few late-comers. Many familiar faces. I still wasn’t confident, but here we go. I tried to juggle photographs with shouts and applause for the team.

“CAM ON YOU BLUE BOYS.”

The Chelsea players formed a pre-match huddle, and while they waited for captain Ben Chilwell to join them, I spotted Cole Palmer looking over at the Chelsea support in the Doug Ellis Stand. He seemed to be in awe :

“Bloody hell, they have turned up tonight alright. There’s thousands behind the goal too.”

However, not all parts of Villa Park were full. I soon spotted hundreds of central seats in the executive areas opposite not being used. That was just odd.

Soon into the game, with Villa attacking our end, a long cross found Alex Moreno unmarked at the far post, but rather than attempt an effort himself he decided to head the ball back across the six-yard box. A defensive head cleared.

It was a lively start to the game with Chelsea breaking with speed and intensity. Malo Gusto linked with Noni Madueke and worked the ball in to Palmer inside the Villa box at the Holte End. His shot was an easy take for Emiliano Martinez.

There was a header, shortly after, from Enzo but his compatriot Martinez easily fielded this effort too.

On eleven minutes, we won the ball out on our left. I stood on tip-toes to watch the move develop. Inside to Conor Gallagher who spread the ball into the path of Jackson. He ran and ran, and played a low ball towards Madueke. Although surrounded by Villa defenders, he wisely took a touch before knocking it back into the path of Gallagher. The shot rose steeply but we erupted when the net rippled.

Pandemonium.

Bodies and limbs everywhere. I had no hope of taking a shot of the players celebrating away in the corner.

We were winning. Fackinell.

I was so aware that Conor’s lack of goals is often cited by many as a major-downside. So I was doubly happy that the goal came from him. Lovely.

Villa came into the game but Djordje Petrovic thwarted their couple of attempts on goal including an angled volley from Ollie Watkins.

We continued to purr. On twenty-one minutes, Disasi found Madueke in tons of space. He turned and pushed the ball wide into the over-lapping Malo Gusto. His cross into the box – a relatively low trajectory – was met by the leap of Jackson. His angled effort crashed into the goal.

We were 2-0 up, oh my bloody goodness.

I saw the players celebrating through the forest of arms but I managed to cajole a photo or two out of my camera.

The away support boomed as we continued to dominate. I was really shocked by the lack of noise coming from the home areas though.

Nothing. I heard nothing at all.

We, not surprisingly full of it. However, songs about Willian, John Terry, Frank Lampard and Cesc Fabregas? Really? Save those for the last five minutes of games when we are winning 4-0 plus please. The Willian one was a real shocker.

I took great pleasure in seeing Enzo get more and more involved. Just two examples of his play; the first a cushioned control of the ball with his instep that screamed quality, the second, a first-time transfer of the play from left wing to right wing that told me that he was full of confidence.

Alongside him, Moises Caicedo was enjoying his best game for us, adeptly swatting Villa breaks, tacking hard, turning and passing. And then Gallagher, a one-man search-and-destroy unit, full of energy and running. It was a very fluid and powerful midfield indeed.

The natives were restless and I was loving it.

Chilwell, finding himself on the right, moved inside and unleashed a shot that whizzed just past the near post.

On thirty-three minutes, Madueke hugged the far touchline as he accelerated away after picking up a loose ball level with our penalty box. He skipped past a challenge and continued his run. He passed to Palmer whose shot was at a relatively easy height for Martinez to save.

On a rare break, Watkins set up John McGinn, but Petrovic tipped it over.

At the half-time break, there were nothing but happy faces among the travelling army. It had been, no doubt, the best half of the season by far. Against a decent team, too, let’s not forget.

Ozzy serenaded us with “Crazy Train” once again as the teams took to the pitch for the second-half.

The home team began brightly and I can honestly say that after a quick attack in the first minute I heard the Holte End for the first discernible time.

“Yippee-aye-eh, yippe-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

We applauded them.

On fifty-four minutes, a foul on Enzo. The free-kick was a long way out. I wanted Palmer to take it, but Enzo stood with Chilwell. Chilwell peeled away and Enzo took aim. As did I.

Snap.

I looked up to see the ball fly over the wall and dip majestically into the top corner with Martinez beaten.

What a goal.

The away sections again boomed.

Zola-esque.

I snapped his euphoric run down to our corner. I sensed the meaning of his actions immediately.

“Look at me. I’m Enzo. I’m staying.”

Ah, bloody lovely stuff.

I instantly forgave him for the yellow card that followed him taking his shirt off. Sometimes emotion gets in the way of accountability and rational thought.

The Chelsea supporters on the side stand piped up.

“North Stand. Give Us A Song. North Stand North Stand Give Us A Song.”

Lovely stuff.

We were through. And we just could not resist a nod to our next opponents.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

Amongst all this, a word for the much-maligned duo of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Their best games for ages too. There was even a song, only a few days after many for rubbishing his recent performances.

“Brought us back a centre back. Benoit Badiashile.”

We’re a fickle bunch aren’t we?

On sixty-five minutes, a song for a former player that I could fully get behind.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Some late substitutions :

72 : Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

75 : Raheem Sterling for Madueke.

Moreno rose at the far post but his looping header landed on top of the net rather than inside it.

More substitutions.

81 : Thiago Silva for Palmer.

87 : Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

Villa had a late flourish and in injury-time, Moussa Diaby coolly slotted in at the Holte End.

Aston Villa 1 Chelsea 3.

A roar at the final whistle. What a night. Roared on by over six thousand our team rose to the occasion and played some gorgeous attacking football. Why can’t all away games be like this?

Leeds – you are next.

2023/24 FA Cup Round Five

Blackburn Rovers vs. Newcastle United

Bournemouth vs. Leicester City

Chelsea vs. Leeds United

Coventry City vs. Maidstone United

Liverpool vs. Southampton

Luton Town vs. Manchester City

Nottingham Forest vs. Manchester United

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Brighton & Hove Albion

Walking out of the stadium after the game brought back memories of other away triumphs over the years. Everyone was singing – “sign him up for eight more years, Chelsea boys are on the beers” – and I sensed a swagger in our step, that good old Chelsea swagger of old. There’s nothing like it. We walked back to the car and we followed the old rule of being able to walk wherever you want after an away win.

Up to the roundabout, out into the road, the cars can stop for us.

The swagger was back.

1996

2002

2024

1996 – Part 2.

It came to light after the game at Villa Park that a sports photographer – working for “Action Images” – had taken a photo of my “Ruud Boys” flag from behind the goal.

I spotted that a cropped version of it soon appeared in a copy of “Total Football” later that year.

I didn’t ask for royalties.

1996 – Part 3.

The former Wimbledon striker Dean Holdsworth once had an affair with glamour model Linsey Dawn McKenzie. At a game at Selhurst Park in the 1996-1997 season – I wasn’t there – the Chelsea fans were full of rude comments about this romantic liaison. In the “Daily Sport” newspaper – that beacon of journalistic integrity – the following day, there was a photo of Linsey Dawn McKenzie (baring all) with a headline to the effect of “How dare Chelsea fans be rude to both Dean and me?”

The editor chose to illustrate her tirade at the Chelsea fans with a picture of some Chelsea fans, set just behind a large photograph of Linsey Dawn and her quite substantial charms. The photo that the editor chose was from the Villa Park semi-final. It was the photo of my Ruud Boys flag. Or rather, a close-up photo of Glenn and me (looking, strangely, straight at the camera). The story goes that Glenn was sitting with his workmates during a tea break when one of them opened up the middle pages of his “Daily Sport” to exclaim –

“Hey, Glenn – there’s a picture of you and Chris Axon next to Linsey Dawn MacKenzie here.”

Next up, a game at Selhurst Park once again; Crystal Palace away on Monday evening.

See you there.

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

Posted on January 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 23 January 2024.

My seat for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough was in row Q – the rear row all but one – of the Matthew Harding Upper and I was inside with about fifteen minutes to go. There had been a greater queue than normal outside. It was a very mild night in SW6. I was beginning to regret to regret wearing a bulky puffer jacket. Up the other end, in The Shed, were the brightly-coloured visitors from Teesside, around 5,000 of the buggers, their biggest turnout at Stamford Bridge since “that” game in 1988.

While we attempted to overturn a narrow 0-1 deficit from the first leg on this Tuesday night in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, just twenty-four hours later, Fulham would be attempting to overcome a similar result in their semi-final against Liverpool. All of a sudden, our home borough was the centre of attention.

While latecomers took their seats, I remained quietly confident of us advancing to yet another Wembley Cup Final. And – of course – we hoped that Fulham would join us.

On the pitch, the ground staff in matching dark grey puffer jackets of their own prodded away at the wet grass using forks. Then the lights dimmed, and the 1-2 punch occurred.

Firstly, the pulsing electronic beat boomed out of the stadium’s speakers, the strobe lighting began and then the flames flashed into the sky.

Secondly, the “what the fookin’ hell was that?” from the away support.

It was a very colourful away support, with many of the ‘Boro bedecked in red and white scarves and with replica shirts on show under unbuttoned jackets. I remember a similar number of Tottenham fans at our semi-final in 2019, occupying those same two tiers, and with everyone dressed in dark jackets, a large unsavoury mob, almost looking like a European team. This lot were far more brightly attired. There were a few flags dotted around too.

“We Built the World.”

“You Make Me Happy When Skies Are Grey.”

“We Are Boro.”

My Middlesbrough mate Chris texted me :

“You’ll probably win the match, but I’ll be happy if we out-sing you.”

With the players of both teams on the pitch, they then moved to the centre circle and the PA asked us to remember one of our own.

I only ever saw Tommy Baldwin play once for Chelsea. On Saturday 10 October 1974, my second-ever visit to Stamford Bridge, Tommy played against Tottenham in a game that we won 1-0, the goal coming from an early John Hollins penalty.

The Chelsea team that day was :

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins
Micky Droy.
John Dempsey.
Steve Kember
Tommy Baldwin.
Charlie Cooke
Ian Hutchinson
Peter Houseman.

It was also the only time that I saw John Dempsey play. Later that season, Tommy joined Manchester United on loan before drifting away from Stamford Bridge and finishing his career with a few games at Brentford. He had been a stalwart at Chelsea for eight years, playing almost two-hundred games as a bustling midfielder or inside-forward.

I often used to see Tommy Baldwin meeting up with other former players as they congregated together before darting off to engage in hospitality activities on match days. Unfortunately, Tommy had been unwell for quite a while and on Monday we heard that he had sadly passed away. He was seventy-eight. Tommy Baldwin was nicknamed “The Sponge” for reasons that were sometimes debated. There are those that said that it was because of his ability to soak up pressure, attack after attack, in his midfield role. But I suspect that those that knew him better, knew that this was a name derived from his ability to drink. I had read through the detailed obituary that appeared on the Chelsea website on Monday evening; it was a fine summation of his time as a footballer in Chelsea colours and illustrated his often-under-appreciated role in that most revered of Chelsea teams.

Although his name was not widely known outside SW6 circles – unlike Bonetti, Osgood, Cooke, Harris, Hollins, Hudson et al – his role in the functioning of the team was acknowledged by us all. He was as no footballing Corporal Sponge.

While his image appeared in black and white on the two TV screens, both sets of supporters applauded in his memory.

Rest In Peace Tommy Baldwin, The Leader Of The Team.

I scanned our team.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Chilwell

Palmer – Caicedo – Fernandez

Sterling – Broja – Mudryk

We attacked the Middlesbrough fans in the first-half. They were, unsurprisingly, noisy.

“That’s why we sing this song for the ‘Boro all night long.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it seemed like a seamless continuation from the game on Teesside a fortnight ago. They were sat back and we took forever to move the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, while the movement upfront was almost non-existent. A few pumps up field from deep did not hit targets.

There were a couple of worrying signs early on. Raheem Sterling was ball-watching during a ‘Boro attack, leaving his wide man ridiculously free but thankfully the ball stayed on the opposite side. Then, after getting sucked inside, Ben Chilwell had to race back – and across – like an express train as we were embarrassingly cut open down our left.

But we enjoyed a couple of efforts in this period; one from Mykhailo Mudrk, one from Chilwell.

Djordje Petrovic got down well to save to his right.

On fifteen minutes, a swish move down our right involving Cole Palmer and Raheem Sterling set up Armando Broja. From my seat, I could not see the fine detail, but only the ball ending up in the net. We would soon find out that Johnny Howson had stuck out a leg and had scored the goal for us. But, I did not celebrate. Such is the spectre of VAR these days – even when it is not being used – that my celebrations were dulled. Of course, there was no flag, no nothing. The goal stood. It came at just the right time because the supporters in the Matthew Harding were starting to get a little agitated and nervous.

Phew.

The tie was tied.

The rest of the first-half, unlike in Middlesbrough, certainly went to plan.

On twenty-eight minutes, some solid play between Sterling and Axel Disasi down the right set up a chance for Broja. His shot was blocked by a defender but Enzo Fernandez was on hand to slam the ball in. A slide into the corner from Enzo. I could celebrate that one.

Eight minutes later, Disasi broke up an attack with a superb tackle and passed to Sterling. As Sterling, who had enjoyed a mixed opening period, raced on, so did Disasi. Sterling played the ball back to our rampaging defender and his low finish put us 3-0 up. There was another slide into the corner.

“That makes up for the chances we missed in the first-half two weeks ago.”

It was all Chelsea now.

Some were singing “We’re Going To Wembley” but I resisted. It was a little too soon for me.

Middlesbrough tried to keep their shape but they suddenly looked tired.

Despite the away fans dominating the night for most of the first-half – the twin staples of “your support is fooking shit” and “shall we sing a song for you?” were often heard – they were silent now.

On forty-two minutes, Palmer pick-pocketed a Middlesbrough defender and casually, and coolly, swept the ball in to the net.

Chelsea 4 Middlesbrough.

Now I could join in…

“Que Sera Sera.”

It had been an excellent half. After that slow start, we had grown as the game progressed. Petrovic had made the one save when he was needed. It was a joy to see Chilwell patrolling the left flank, and just inside him Levi Colwill looked a steady centre-back. We had been treated to two trademark sliding tackles from Silva. Disasi had enjoyed his best half for ages. In midfield, Enzo and Palmer created a few chances with their intelligent play and Moises Caicedo – not the easiest player to appreciate – was very solid. Broja was steady if not spectacular. Sterling was back on his game. The only negative was Mudryk, as perplexing as ever, a mixture of breath-taking speed mixed with jaw-dropping slowness of thought.

But we were happy at the break.

Fackinell.

At half-time, Nonu Madueke replaced Mudryk.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The second-half began and I wasn’t quite sure how to behave. Did I want us to rampage away and score four more or conserve ourselves for the FA Cup game on Friday? In truth, we controlled the game without causing too much further damage to the scoresheet nor the away team’s morale.

On the hour, for the first real time, the whole crowd sang as one.

“CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

Some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chilwell.

Conor Gallagher for Broja.

On seventy-seven minutes, Gallagher played in Palmer down below me, who did not bother with the burden of an additional touch and – as cool as you like – side-footed the ball in. Soon after, a blue flare was thrown onto the pitch from the MHL. It made for a great photo opportunity if nothing else.

On eighty-one minutes, Gallagher passed to Madueke, who shimmied and danced past a marker before slamming the ball at goal. The shot took a large deflection.

Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 0.

I was impressed that the away fans had been singing in the build up to the sixth goal and continued doing so when the goal came and for a while after too. Fair play to them. The biggest compliment that I can give them is that they reminded me of us when we were in our hey-day.

There was even time for a late debut.

Leo Casteldine – “player number 54 where are you?” – replaced Sterling.

I am unsure if we were being intentionally ironic, but we sang :

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Middlesbrough had two late goals; one annulled for offside but one stood, a fine low effort by Morgan Rogers.

At the whistle, Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 1.

I quickly gathered my stuff and headed out.

“Blue Day” from 1997 blasted out on the PA. As I headed down the multiple flights of stairs at the rear of the stand, I heard the sweet voice of Doris Day. It did not compute. The opening bars just made me think of “that” Leeds song.

I then got it.

“Que sera sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

We’re going to Wem-ber-lee.

Que sera, sera.”

On the Fulham Road, there was some boisterous behaviour, some name-calling, some gesturing, some punches, some arrests.

Outside the town hall, I spotted a female ‘Boro fan, arm in arm with her man – to possibly stop herself from falling over – who pointed at two Chelsea women and shouted “Chelsea Rent Girls!”

Well, I had never heard that one before.

We got back to the car and set off for home at 10.30pm. I would be home by 1am. We hoped that the little brothers from Craven Cottage would do the business in the other semi-final, but our business in our borough was over for a few days.

Next up, Aston Villa in the other cup on Friday.

See you there.

Postscript 1 :

There was a regret that I didn’t hear Tommy Baldwin’s song during the game. Admitedly it is best suited for pre-match beers in the pub or concourse, but we always used to sing it at games.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’re the Fulham Road supporters and we’re louder than The Kop.”

Postscript 2 :

Nice to see my two friends Annette and Mark featured in the evening’s programme. They sometimes act as my unpaid spell-checkers.

Tales From Forty-Four Years And Counting

Posted on January 16, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 13 January 2024.

On the long drive home from Middlesbrough last Wednesday, with the Semi-Final first leg defeat still fresh in my mind, I am not sure if I was overly brutal or just pragmatic about the rest of our campaign.

“Listen, we are a tenth place team. We’ll beat Middlesbrough in the second leg and get to the final but lose to Liverpool once we get there. We’ll lose to Villa in the FA Cup. And that’s our season done.”

However, by the time I had picked up the others – PD, Glenn, Parky, Ron – on the Saturday for the drive to London for the Fulham game at Stamford Bridge, my viewpoint had noticeably softened.

“Well, I saw the highlights on “YouTube” and let’s be honest, Cole Palmer should have scored two. It could so easily have been one of those games where we didn’t play particularly well but squeaked a narrow win. New manager, new players, let’s give it some time. We have seen worse.”

Thoughts turned towards Fulham. We have a bloody marvellous record against this lot and at Stamford Bridge especially. However, although I had recently read that our last defeat at home to Fulham was forty-four years ago, there was absolutely no chance of me mentioning this to the lads in the car, bearing in mind how they had chastised me for talking about my unbeaten record against ‘Boro.

The last home defeat?

Saturday 27 October 1979, a 0-2 loss in front of a very healthy 30,567 gate in the old Second Division.

44 years.

21 games.

13 wins.

8 draws.

0 defeats.

It’s a very decent record indeed. Going back further, to our first home game against Fulham in 1911, the total stats are equally impressive.

113 years.

45 games.

25 wins.

18 draws.

2 defeats.

The only other home defeat?

Saturday 7 March 1964, a 1-2 defeat in front of a disappointing 26,219 in the old First Division.

With the kick-off for the 2023/24 version of the “SW6 Derby” taking place at 12.30pm, the pre-match routine took on a different guise. When I had dropped into “The Old Oak” last week, Alan had informed me that its doors would be opening at 9am for the Fulham game. This news was met with nods of approval from my fellow passengers. So, at about 9.20am I dropped Parky and PD outside the pub, which is just over the border to the north of Fulham in Hammersmith. I then drove down the North End Road and the Fulham Road to deposit Ron at the main gates bang on 9.30am. I was parked up on Normand Road a few minutes after. We bumped into Liz and Pete just as they were parking up. Glenn and I soon disappeared into a packed “Café Delight” for a quick breakfast, a first-ever visit. There were a couple of familiar faces in there. The clientele then moved south to “The Clarence” or “The Old Oak.”

PD and Parky were supping pints of lager and we joined them at about 10.15am. More familiar faces were dotted around. I soon spotted Stu, a fellow season-ticket holder, who only lives four miles away from me. He sadly lost his wife Sue not so long ago – I went to Sue’s sixtieth birthday four years ago – and so I gave him a hug and offered words of sympathy. I spoke to Jonesy and Jocka, two lovely lads from the Nuneaton area, and we spoke a little about life – and Chelsea.

Jonesy pulled up a seat.

We mentioned the photos that I shared from the 1998 League Cup Final. We spoke about how quickly the time has gone since then.

“Twenty-six years ago.”

Jonesy stated the unbelievable truth that in another twenty-six years some of us won’t be around.

“Yeah. I’ll be eighty-four.”

And yet 1998 seems fresh in my mind.

“Life is accelerating away these days, mate.”

“Don’t worry, Jonesy. The way we are playing at the moment, the next ten years will drag like fuck.”

We laughed.

I met Mick from Hemel Hempstead for the first time and it was a pleasure. Mick has been reading these ramblings of mine for a while. He spotted me and came over to chat with the lads. It’s always nice to get positive feedback. I chuckled when he dropped one of my catchphrases in to the conversation.

At 11.45am we set off down the North End Road. A little mob of Fulham were – in football parlance – “giving it large” on their walk past outside the West Stand.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

I just chuckled.

I took my place in The Sleepy Hollow. Two of the usual four – Alan and Clive – were unable to attend. Glenn had Clive’s ticket and a young lad called Dan from way up in Carlisle had taken Alan’s ticket.

“You’ve got some big boots to fill, mate.”

But Carlisle. Phew, that’s some train ride. Respect.

There was pre-match chat with Oxford Frank and we were both hoping for another three points to maybe edge closer, or even past, Manchester United and Newcastle United.

Our team? It was the same as against ‘Boro apart from one change. Armando Broja was in to the lead the line, with Cole Palmer shifted to the wing in place of Noni Madueke.

27 – 6 – 2 – 26

8 – 25

20 – 23 – 7

In the Fulham team, one man stood out.

It was a cold winter day; a time for warm jackets, hats and caps.

Big Brother vs. Little Brother.

SW6 1HS vs. SW6 6HH.

Blues vs. Whites.

Pensioners vs. Cottagers.

Chelstam vs. Fulhamish.

There has always been a very special relationship between the two clubs. It was always said that for the local populations in and around Fulham, Hammersmith, Chelsea, Putney and Battersea, football fans would go to Stamford Bridge one week and Craven Cottage the next.

As payment for taking wedding photos at a Chelsea wedding back in 2020, I was gifted a huge case of football programmes, including some lovely Wembley Cup Finals and England internationals from the ‘fifties. They all belonged to one man, a friend of Mick, the groom. But of special note here is that among many Chelsea home programmes were hundreds of Fulham programmes, from the ‘fifties onwards, too. It illustrates how the support was shared between the two clubs.

However, they hate us these days.

On the other hand, we can’t be bothered about them.

Oh well.

The game began and for the first five minutes it felt like a continuation of the Middlesbrough game the previous Tuesday; tons of foreplay and no penetration.

We needed to get dirty.

The Fulham fans were bellowing about “One team in Fulham” and we responded, half-heartedly, with the usual “Come on Chelsea.”

It was all pretty timid stuff.

As the game began to get going, a shot from Enzo was blocked, and then the best move of the match resulted in a shot from Conor Gallagher rising over the bar at The Shed End.

We soon all admitted that we could see Willian – 20 for them, not 22 for us – drifting inside, down below us in familiar territory, dropping a shoulder and curling one in under the bar.

Shudder.

On twenty minutes, Armando Broja made a fine move towards the near post and flashed a header just wide of the goal. Until then, his lack of movement and lack of a physical threat was starting to wind me up.

Midway through the half, there were two Fulham efforts on the Chelsea goal to my left. The second came after a fine move had found Harry Wilson and it needed an excellent save from Djordje Petrovic at his near post.

Chelsea were unsurprisingly dominant, but there were only glimpses of decent play, of players combining well, of coherent patterns. Not for the first time I lamented the movement off the ball. On two occasions, if only Broja had realised it, he was in acres of space if he had feinted one way and then spun the other. A pass or two from Silva would have released him.

Willian came over to take part in a short corner. I rose to applaud him. As did many. I don’t go for singing songs about former players, but I certainly felt fine with applauding him just the once. The noise was loud. He clapped us too. I see nothing wrong with any of that. It shows us all in a good light, I think.

Two efforts from us; one from Cole Palmer, not at his best thus far, and a riser from Enzo, who was starting to show a lot more spirit to his performance.

A crunching tackle from Malo Gusto left Willian rolling in pain, but I was too far away to see the detail.

We were treated to a ridiculous turn and dummy from Moises Caicedo on Wilson. The look of pain on the Fulham player’s face was – er – a picture.

In the last moments of the first-half, Palmer advanced and was thankfully aware of Raheem Sterling screaming for the ball to be played into him. A lovely reverse ball set him up. It seems that the Football Gods have decreed that Fulham must always have a towering player called Diop in their team, and it was the 2024 version – Issa – who took an ungainly chop at Sterling just as he cut past him. From one hundred yards away it looked a penalty.

…in my mind : “either a penalty or a booking for a dive.”

The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

Phew.

Cole Palmer took the ball. His record with penalties is perfect for us.

He slotted it home.

GET IN.

The goal came at a perfect time. It meant that there were no boos at half-time. In truth, although not a vintage performance, I was quietly content with some of our play. In my mind, Enzo Fernandez and Levi Colwill were enjoying their best games for a while.

Baby steps and all that malarkey.

The second half began. There was a noticeable increase in intensity from the players, and the crowd, certainly in the Matthew Harding, responded well. In the first few minutes of the second period, Broja found himself in a central area of the box, but could not get a shot away. He was ridiculously marked but took an extra touch, as is his wont.

On fifty minutes, a bender from Palmer whizzed over. Two minutes later, Sterling rose so well and headed down and against a post, but was flagged for offside.

At the other end, a deflected Fulham cross from in front of their fans, but a resulting header flew over.

A couple of pacey Chelsea attacks, the fleet-footed Gusto involved on both occasions, but blocks from the Fulham rear-guard kept us at bay. This was an excellent spell from us.

On sixty-six minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Broja.

Palmer moved centrally as a false nine. From here, there were a few tricks and spins. I like him in a central role.

Just after, Colwill curled a shot over from the edge of the box.

We longed for a second goal.

Enzo continued his little resurgence. He showed a lot more spirit, fight, intensity, and drive. We need that. We need him creating from deep. We need Palmer creating further up field. Amongst everything, Conor Gallagher was on his game, closing down space, winning fifty-fifties, setting the tempo. Thiago Silva was magnificent as the second-half developed.

Madueke was often involved. I like the way that he uses his body, how he forces himself across defenders, using his upper body to barge past.

However, a rare Fulham chance caused palpitations. Andres Pereira found space in the box and passed to Raul Jimenez. The low shot was thankfully saved by Petrovic, who dropped to his right and threw out an arm. It was a really fine save.

On seventy-seven minutes, a roar as Ben Chilwell replaced Sterling. I spent a few minutes working out if our shape had changed. Chilwell for Sterling seemed to be a straight swap.

On eighty-two minutes, a nice run from Madueke set up Gallagher, who was rather hemmed in, but beautifully curled a shot at goal with the outside of his right boot. The ball curved and smacked the left upright.

Fackinell.

Colwill continued to impress. One ball out to the wing was immaculate, with just the right amount of fade for it to drop into the path of our player.

On eighty-four minutes, Enzo gave the ball up cheaply and it lead to a free-kick being rewarded by Taylor. It was central, right on the edge of the box. Who else but Willian took the ball. I hoped that it was too central for him to get a good angle.

I turned around to the blokes behind me.

“Here we go then. We have all been fearing this.”

He clipped the ball over the wall, but over the bar too.

I turned to them again.

“He has gone downhill, that Willian.”

We laughed.

Madueke forced a low save from Leno.

…inside my head : “shouldn’t we be closing this game out rather than chasing a second?”

Two late substitutions.

Nice applause for Carney Chukwuemeka, replacing Palmer.

Warm applause for Alfie Gilchrist, replacing Gusto.

It was all very fraught in the final moments of the game. A couple of Fulham free-kicks out on their right were slung into the box. The first one was sent deep, but after penalty-box pinball, the ball was hoofed clear. The second resulted in head tennis, but again our goal remained intact.

Taylor blew up.

Relief.

Back in the car, we were happy. It wasn’t a bad outing and we had marked our third consecutive league win in a row. We had beaten Fulham at Stamford Bridge yet again. We had risen slightly in the table. I headed back to the West Country a contented Chelsea supporter.

I stopped at Reading Services to hear that Frome Town were drawing 0-0 at home to Paulton Rovers. As I dropped off Parky, just after 5pm, I was to learn that my home town team had edged it 1-0. Lovely stuff.

I dropped off Ron. I often say to him, as I collect him to take him up to Stamford Bridge, “have you brought your boots?”

His stock reply to this is always “they couldn’t afford my wages, Chris.”

Well, on this occasion, perhaps it was just as well that Chopper had left his boots at home. The reason? Ron was playing for us on Saturday 7 March 1964 and also on Saturday 27 October 1979.

I didn’t like to mention it.

I dropped off Glenn, I dropped off PD. I reached home at just after 6pm.

It had been a good day.

Next up, that second leg against ‘Boro. Let’s make some bloody noise. See you there.

Tales From The North End Road

Posted on January 7, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Preston North End : 6 January 2024.

With the Christmas period over, our first match of 2024 saw us paired in a home FA Cup tie against Preston North End. Our paths do not cross much these days; this only would be our ninth head-to-head since 1963.

I recollected the previous two, both FA Cup ties, from 2002 and 2010. These have been my only sightings of the lilywhites from Lancashire.

On 17 February 2002, we played Preston at Stamford Bridge in the fifth round of the FA Cup. I remembered the visitors going ahead with an early goal – which I happened to capture on film – but my memory was of it being scored by Jon Macken, but it was actually scored by Richard Cresswell. Thankfully, we recovered well and triumphed 3-1 with goals from Eidur Gudjohnsen, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Mikael Forssell. The gate was just 28,133, possibly a result of the club not getting the pricing structure correct back in those days.

On 23 January 2010, on a cold and misty day, Parky and I travelled up to Deepdale and watched us beat the home team 2-0 with goals from Nicolas Anelka and Daniel Sturridge. The gate was 23,119. Before the game, there was time for a quick photograph of the lovely statue of Sir Tom Finney, the Preston plumber, outside the stadium. This statue, nicknamed “The Splash”, is based on the famous photograph taken at Stamford Bridge in 1956 of Finney evading a tackle by Chelsea defender Walter Bennet, and captures the sun hitting the water as it is splashing up from a water-sodden pitch. In 2010, the National Football Museum was based at Deepdale, but it has since moved to Manchester. I remember being impressed by Deepdale, a neat and clean modern stadium. However, there is nothing much left of note in Preston these days, except perhaps its bus station, a brutalist gem.

There are a few other Preston “moments” in Chelsea’s history and social history.

During the FA Cup run of 1968/69, we drew 0-0 at Deepdale and reconvened at Stamford Bridge on the following Wednesday. We were 2-0 up in front of 44,000 but after seventy-five minutes the floodlights failed. Lo and behold, the game was replayed on the following Monday when 36,000 showed up to see us win 2-1.

An episode of “Minder” was filmed at Stamford Bridge on the afternoon of 20 September 1980 during our game against Preston. The segment shows actor Denis Waterman watching at the bottom of The Shed terrace with some friends interspersed with some actual game footage, including a great little cameo by Mike Fillery, before he walks along the gangway at the back of The Benches.

On 28 February 1981, Chelsea fan Gary Lee was tragically killed after being chased, with some friends, by locals before our away game at Preston when he slipped and fell from a multi-story car park. At the game in 2010, supporters close to where I watched the game raised a banner in his memory. His mother, the well-loved Breda, was always on the Chelsea Specials. I remember seeing her around Stamford Bridge and at our away games on many occasions.

Gary Lee RIP

I dropped my fellow travellers at “The Eight Bells” and at Stamford Bridge and I parked up just off Lillee Road at about 11.15am. I had a little time to kill. I would eventually meet up with the lads in the pub, but wanted a bite to eat. Lillee Road is the site of the 1873 FA Cup Final, just as it nears West Brompton tube station.

As I started walking down the North End Road, I spotted that the “Norbros” pizzeria next to “The Goose” had been re-opened as “Koka” and so as it was lunchtime I popped in for some food. Midway through my pizza I spotted Alan walk past, no doubt on his way up to “The Oak” further along the North End Road. In an instant, I decided to join him for a drink and the title of this “Tales” was immediately decided upon.

I walked north, past “The Elm” which looked like it was being refurbished. Just as I was about to pop my head inside inside “The Old Oak”, I saw a Chelsea face pass by. He was heading a hundred yards further north to “The Clarence”. These little run of pubs are decidedly old school. No tourists make it up to these parts, away from the match day buzz and shiny attractions around Stamford bridge. Opposite “The Old Oak” is the site of “The Seven Stars”, a lovely old art deco pub that we popped into once or twice back in the mid-‘nineties, once after the 1997 FA Cup parade at Fulham Broadway. It is now flats but the façade has remained. I wondered if any North End supporters would be drinking anywhere along the North End Road. Maybe up at “The Famous Three Kings”, where we used to drink a few years back? I remembered some Sheffield Wednesday fans in there in 2019.

Alan and Gal were inside “The Old Oak” and I joined them for a while. I hadn’t visited this particular pub since early 2019/20. My friendship with Alan goes back to 1984. My friendship with Gary goes back to around 1988.

I then did myself proud. Rather than take the tube or bus, I walked the 1.6 miles from “The Old Oak” to “The Eight Bells” and got some steps in. It is pretty much a classic match day walk, deep in the heart of Fulham; down the North End Road, onto Fulham Road, onto Fulham High Street. I spotted a family of PNE fans opposite “The Temperance” but I was surprised that neither “The Temperance” nor “The King’s Arms” was full of away fans. Where the bloody hell were they? With six thousand of them in town, they couldn’t all be drinking at Earl’s Court surely?

When I had set off from “The Oak”, at 2.25pm, I texted PD to say that I would be about thirty-five minutes. At 3pm exactly, I walked into “The Eight Bells.”

I work in logistics.

It was a rather shortened drink-up in there. The pub was quiet. Still no away fans anywhere. With the tubes knackered, we caught a bus to Fulham Broadway.

As expected, Preston had the entire Shed End, some six-thousand strong. Again, I had swapped out with Parky to allow him to sit next to PD and Alan. I took up my “Cup” position in the MHU.

The team?

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Colwill – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Broja

So, a full start for Alfie, soon becoming a Chelsea cult-hero.

The usual darkened arena, lights flashing, flames.

Once normal lighting had been resumed, there was a moment of reflection on the one-year anniversary of the passing of Gianluca Vialli. A banner was passed below in the MHL. This struck me as being a “first”. I do not recollect us acknowledging anniversaries of the passing of past players ever before. I think this exemplifies how much the great man was truly adored in SW6. Well done Chelsea.

Gianluca Vialli RIP

At kick-off, there was a ridiculous “shift” from Preston. Four players were lined-up on the half-way line between the centre circle and the East Stand touchline. Here was a variance on the way to start a match. I liked that. A deviation. Something out of the ordinary. One of the hideous buzzwords in popular football parlance these days is “overload” but here was a fine example of it. The ball was played back to Freddie Woodman, the ‘keeper, who pumped into the air. Chelsea won the first header and the resulting second ball.

Oh well. Next time Preston.

The first-half was shite, eh?

I am not going to waste too much time writing about it.

As expected, the six thousand in The Shed were suitably energised and full of noise.

“Jump around if you hate Blackpool.”

Ah yes, the rivalries in Lancashire are alive and kicking; Blackburn and Burnley, Preston and Blackpool, lovely.

“PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE PNE – PNE – PNE!”

Ah, good old Paeonia lactiflora.

Perhaps we should have replied with a song about Apium graveolens.

Our first attempt on goal came after fifteen minutes. Then the visitors had a dig at our goal. But this was lukewarm stuff. On twenty minutes, Raheem Sterling unleashed a stinger at Woodman.

I was sat next to strangers, and both were ridiculously quiet. I found myself commentating at times in the way that many football fans do.

“Second ball!”

“Don’t let it drop.”

“Into them, Chels,”

I felt a bit odd. I needed to engage with someone. Thankfully John and his son were sat right behind me, so I was grateful for an outlet.

I could not but help notice that Alfie was wearing black boots. It seemed like he was trying to “out JT” John Terry.

A beautiful ball from Enzo was lofted into space but Cole Palmer was quickly closed down by the Preston ‘keeper and the ball bounced wide. This remained virtually the sole moment of unscripted innovation from the whole team in that turgid first-half.

There was angled shot by a Preston attacker, but easily saved by Djordje Petrovic.

The half-hour was reached and it was so dull. I was getting so perplexed with the continued lack of movement from those in advanced positions. Armando Broja, like Nicolas Jackson, needs to move their markers more often. Everywhere I looked, we had players who were ball-watching, mesmerized into a state of inertia. There were hardly any runners looking to exploit space.

We would have been no match for Tony Hancock’s mother’s gravy which “at least moved about.”

Palmer was a meagre plus point. Enzo showed a very occasional hint that he might be able to unlock things, but this was a terrible game. As the end of the first-half approached, even the away fans had almost given up on it, their noise decreasing with each passing minute. There were even a few muted boos as the referee signalled the end of the first forty-five minutes. I was mentally preparing for two more days off work to attend the replay at Deepdale in ten days’ time.

At the start of the half-time break, just before I trotted off to turn my bike around, I joked with John that I was leaving my camera at my seat so I would be forced to return for the second-half.

Chelsea attacked us in the Matthew Harding in the second-half. Early on, a lovely ball from Enzo was dropped towards Palmer but the ball fell short and he could not get a touch as it bounced above his leap.

A Moises Caicedo error allowed a Preston attack but the effort from Alan Browne was always curing over.

Throughout the game, the away team chose the currently out-of-favour style of goal kicks; all players huddled either side of the half-way line and a boot up field from the ‘keeper.

Just after a booming shout of “Fuck The Tories” from the away supporters, Malo Gusto sent over a pacey cross down below me. A leap from Broja, a flick, and the ball ripped into the goal.

Oh how we love the sight of footballs nestling against the white mesh of goal nets.

The crowd was now alive at last.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

CFC 1 PNE 0.

GET IN.

In The Sleepy Hollow, Alan sent me a text that I soon reciprocated.

You know how it goes.

Broja charged down a poor clearance but could not convert. Soon after, almost a copy of the first goal. A great cross from Mudryk, another leap from Broja, but the ball scraped the bar this time.

Ooooh.

Some substitutions on sixty-one minutes.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Noni Madueke for Mydruk.

Silva slotted alongside Disasi, Colwill moved to left-back, Gusto moved to right-back.

On sixty-six minutes, a Palmer corner kick from my left and our right zipped towards the near post. Silva rose and headed it convincingly past Woodman.

CFC 2 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught Silva’s celebrations on film, if not the goal. He was certainly pumped full of passion. He roared. I spotted him place a clenched fist beneath his shirt to signify his heart.

An iconic image.

Shortly after, John and I were completely bemused and befuddled as to why VAR had been consulted.

The. Goal. Came. Direct. From. A. Corner.

VAR – do fuck off.

An air horn had been surreptitiously smuggled into the East Lower and every time that it sounded, I could not help but notice the predominantly young voices that responded “CHELSEA!”

A very odd sensation. It sounded like every single voice had yet to brake; a choir of pre-pubescent young’uns. I looked around. There were, indeed, many more families with kids in attendance than for normal league games.

Three minutes later, Palmer was fouled centrally and Sterling took aim. I caught his approach and strike on film. The ball spun and dipped over the wall. I could hardly believe it had beaten everyone.

Another roar.

CFC 3 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught his run and leap too.

Three goals in just ten minutes. And the floodlights stayed on.

Broja came close again, but an effort was cleared off the line.

On seventy-six minutes, more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Palmer.

Deivid Washington for Broja.

There were shots on goal from Gusto and Gallagher.

On eighty-eight minutes, a ridiculous scramble inside the Preston box, but the ball eventually presented itself for Enzo to prod home.

We celebrated but we soon saw a flag for offside. To be fair, it looked offside. Oh well. Then, the elongated pain of VAR. The players all tracked back to the half-way line. The wait seemed to go too long. Maybe ninety seconds? Ridiculous.

The sign from the referee : goal.

I did not celebrate.

CFC 4 PNE 0.

I hate VAR.

A very late substitution.

Michael Golding for Enzo.

The substitute almost prodded home a debut goal. There was still time for a rousing “Zigger Zagger” from Cathy down below the lads in The Sleepy Hollow, a merry dance into the box by Madueke but a blocked shot and an effort from Sterling that zipped wide.

It finished 4-0.

I am not sure what Mauricio Pochettino had dropped into the players’ cocoa at half-time but it certainly worked.

We made our way home and into the next round. Who do I fancy in Round Four?

An away game at any of these please –

Coventry City

Ipswich Town

Maidstone United

Newport County or Eastleigh

Plymouth Argyle

Sheffield Wednesday

Wrexham

Now that we are not actively involved in the league’s top placings nor in European competitions, the two domestic cup competitions really are the focus of our attention this season.

Next up, more days off work and another cup tie.

Middlesbrough away, Tuesday night, a League Cup semi-final, a Chicken Parmo,I can’t wait.

See you there.

2002.

2010.

THE NORTH END ROAD.

2024 PART ONE.

MYKHAILO MUDRYK.

THIAGO SILVA.

RAHEEM STERLING.

2024 PART TWO.

Tales From A Ball Of Confusion

Posted on December 6, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 3 December 2023.

There was a black and white photograph of Terry Venables on the front of the match programme. The news of his sad passing, at the age of eighty, came through while we were sat at a café in Gateshead on the day after the match at Newcastle. He had actually died on the day of the game. Although he had played for three other London teams, and managed them all, he was always fondly remembered at Chelsea, a club that he never really wanted to leave. Later that Sunday, in the pub that had become our local for the weekend, we raised our glasses in memory of one of the brightest lights of that ‘sixties Chelsea team, and one of the most innovative coaches of the past few decades.

I never saw Terry Venables play. In fact, he was the manager of the opposing team in games that I saw a surprisingly few times. But he always seemed to me to be a genuine football man. The tales of him taking on Tommy Docherty with ideas of football tactics are legendary, and undoubtedly the reason why he was eventually moved on from Chelsea. There was only ever going to be one winner there. He joined the hated Tottenham, then QPR, then Crystal Palace. He was cherry-picked by Barcelona and won La Liga in his first season at Camp Nou. Alongside him as his number two was Alan Harris, brother of Ron. I always remember that I did a tour of the towering Barcelona stadium with two college mates in September 1987 on the very day that “El Tel” got the elbow, sacked after just over three seasons at one of the World’s largest clubs. As we left the stadium, I remember a gaggle of folk assembling outside the main stand and, at the time, I did not know why. The next day, we found out.

Later, there was Tottenham and a few famous battles with Chelsea. With England there were the highs – I was at the Holland and Spain games of Euro ’96 – and lows of being national team manager.

Terry Venables was an English football legend who lived life to the full – a singer and novelist too – and touched the lives of many. I often wonder how Chelsea’s story would have panned out if he had stayed in 1966.

Rest In Peace.

I was inside at about 1.30pm ahead of the 2pm kick-off, and I found myself chatting to my mate Daryl. Neither of us were too optimistic about the outcome of the upcoming match with Brighton.

“I’ll be happy with a draw mate.”

After the second-half capitulation at Newcastle, it felt that the twin games against Tottenham and City were a blip and that our state of health was again being questioned.

It had been a decent pre-match and the tight confines of “The Eight Bells” had been livened by the appearance of our friends Linda and Deano, calling in before their three-month adventure in Thailand, and also my Brighton mate Mac and his four pals, plus Chad, Danny and Josh from Minnesota.

Unlike the coldness of the day before, the weather was mild. The Chelsea team was announced and I took a look at it.

In goal, Robert Sanchez. A back four – without the suspended Reece James and Marc Cucarella – of Axel Disasi, Thiago Silva, Benoit Badiashile and Levi Colwill. In midfield, Moises Caicedo, Enzo Fernandez and Conor Gallagher. Out wide were Raheem Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk. In the middle, Nicolas Jackson.

No Cole Palmer.

Three former Brighton players; Sanchez, Colwill, Caicedo.

I immediately turned to Alan and admitted that I – probably for no logical reason – disliked tall full-backs.

“Only Ivanovic was any good…”

Why is that? I do prefer full-backs to be more compact, nippier, think Ashley Cole, Graeme Le Saux, Cesar Azpilicueta.

Our back four was made up of centre-backs and with Brighton likely to be quick and agile, I feared the worst. At least there was no Kaoru Mitoma in the starting line-up.

There were a few moments of applause in memory of Terry Venables before the game began.

After showing up in a vivid orange away kit for the League Cup game at the end of September, this time the Brighton kit man chose green and black striped shirts. It didn’t look right. If you were playing for your school and an opposing school showed up in green and black stripes, you would fancy your chances.

“Looks like a rugby-playing school this, lads. Who wears green and black? Into them!”

Well, despite all this, Brighton began brighter and I wondered if even a draw might be a tad optimistic. But we dug in, became a little more aggressive and won some battles. Conor Gallagher carried out his usual corner routine of holding the ball up above his head for a moment, before placing it in the quadrant.

“That’s code for another shit corner…”

One or two of these missed their intended targets.

A ball was played through to Nicolas Jackson who ran on but soon ran out of steam. I would soon lament that he had neither the pace, strength nor nous to be effective.

Lo and behold, on seventeen minutes, another Gallagher corner from out on our right beat the first man and Benoit Badiashile did ever so well to keep the ball alive and hook it back into the six-yard box. Enzo Fernandez rose to head home, and then celebrated wildly down in Parkyville.

GET IN.

Jackson then surprised everyone with an excellent dribble into the box and to the by-line before prodding it goal wards but the Brighton ‘keeper Jason Steele saved. The rebound was headed well wide by Enzo.

This was a good little spell for us and a cross from Sterling was hit into the danger area but went off for a corner. Gallagher’s delivery again caused Brighton problems. Jackson headed back for Levi Colwill to head towards goal. In the follow up, a shot from Axel Disasi was thumped against the side netting. We groaned. But within a heartbeat the initial header from Colwill was signalled as having crossed the line. There was only four minutes between the two goals.

2-0, oh my bloody goodness.

The game then meandered for a while. Despite us being 2-0 up, the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was truly dreadful. The away fans – any away fans – can usually be relied to stir things up a little, but the Brighton fans were as quiet as us.

Pah.

There was defensive hari-kari in our six-yard box, and – really Mister Pochettino – we need words, I already had a few heart attacks back in 2020. Please stop all that buggering about please.

Simon Adingra seemed to be giving Axel Disasi a bit of a runaround.

Mykhailo Mudryk spun on a sixpence and accelerated away but his shot just missed the target. His effort was warmly applauded. Bit of an enigma, that kid, eh? We all wish him well though.

It wasn’t great, despite the 2-0 score line.

PD blurted out “poor” just as I was thinking it.

It was deathly quiet.

Sadly, just before half-time, Facundo Buonanotte was on the end of an uncontested move and sent a fine curling shot between defenders and past Robert Sanchez to narrow the margin.

Bollocks.

Raheem Sterling danced into the Brighton box but then fell over himself.

Another rapid break from Mydruk down the left showed him at his best; electric pace, a dangerous cross. Sadly, this resulted in a quite brilliant reflex save from Steele as a Brighton defender deflected the cross goal wards.

The away fans had found their voices.

“Albion, Albion…Albion, Albion.”

Then, a very clumsy – and silly – challenge by the previously-booked Gallagher on our former player Billy Gilmour resulted in a second yellow and marching orders.

The Brighton lot were happy.

“Cheerio, Palace scum.”

This was the second red for a captain in consecutive games.

Fackinell.

It had been a Curate’s Egg of a first-half. There had been periods of good play but areas of concern too. I spoke with Oxford Frank about our failings during the first period. Despite the two goals, much of it was pedestrian. I recounted the game I attended on Saturday, a come-from-behind win by Frome Town at home to lowly Exmouth Town, and soon realised that I was far more excited as I found myself describing that game than dwelling on the match taking place below us. A special mention for my mate Josh – one of the Minnesota triplets – who travelled down to Somerset specially to see Frome play. The win, in front of a decent 376, left Frome in third place but with plenty of games in hand.

As I returned to my seat, Clive and Alan were in discussion about our second teams; Clive with Hereford, Alan with Bromley, me with Frome Town.

“If your two teams played each other, who would you want to win?”

And it is a great question.

I was asked this same question years ago, maybe before my love for Frome Town reached its full blossoming, and I replied “Chelsea, of course…”

Now, it’s a little more blurred.

But it’s still Chelsea.

Say, though, Frome Town defeat Torquay United in the FA Trophy next Saturday and are then drawn away to Oldham Athletic on the same day that Chelsea at home to Fulham on Saturday 13 January. What to do? What to do? Thinking about that could ruin my Christmas.

The second-half began.

After five minutes of play, the Stamford Bridge crowd eventually took the bull by the horns and got involved with the usual strains of “Amazing Grace” being used :

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

You know how it goes.

I joined in. But I then – gulp – realised that this was my first vocal involvement of the entire bloody game. Oh Christ. Is this what I have become? My 1993 self would have been distraught to see this. Bloody good time travel is not yet with us.

We were down to ten men, of course, but it didn’t really show.

Roberto De Zerbi made four substitutions on the hour, including James Milner, a player I have loathed for ages now.

Alan had just been talking to Clive about playing Mudryk down the middle – not always, just on occasion, to mix things a little – when we broke at pace.

A Brighton corner was claimed by Sanchez. A roll out to Sterling. To Jackson. To Mudryk. In on goal. Milner racing back.

I took a photograph.

Mudryk’s legs crumpled.

Did I immediately think it was a penalty? I hoped so.

Play continued. The crowd was roaring. I studied the image I had taken. I had my own little review. It looked like he had been caught.

VAR was called into action.

The nerds at Stockley Park were not sure.

Back it went to the referee Craif Pawson.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

Enzo.

Goal.

A roar from me.

A roar from everyone.

A slide into the corner down below us.

Snap.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Objectively speaking, my thoughts are that if the team of VAR “experts” can’t decide, then it doesn’t go back to the referee on the side of the pitch. The initial decision stands. I know that it would have meant that we would not have won that penalty, but VAR is killing our game.

The chants in support of the team grew louder.

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

We played well in the remainder. Pochettino made further substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

An extra man at the back now? I thought so,

Armando Broja for Mudryk.

We were treated to a punt up field from Sanchez for Broja and I approved. A little variation in our attacking play always makes the opponents uneasy.

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

That man Mitoma looked lively. Sanchez stretched low to turn away a long shot from Pascal Gross.

Ten minutes of extra time were signalled.

A corner from their left, in front of their fans, was whipped in and Joao Pedro lept well to glance the ball in; near post to far post.