Tag Archives: Erling Haaland

Tales From A Painful Watch

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2025.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez. Spin the wheel.”

This was a painful match to watch, and this is going to be a painful edition to write.

As is so often the case, the football managed to get in the way of an otherwise enjoyable day out.

Clear driving, perfect timings, fine weather, blue skies, good company, contrasting landscapes, interesting new pubs, friendly locals.

But also football.

Fackinell.

This would be my fifty-fifth Chelsea versus Manchester City game in all competitions and at all venues. It would be my twentieth visit to the Etihad. In the previous nineteen, we had won just five.

2003/04

2007/08

2008/09

2013/14

2016/17

The preparations for this trip north had been set in stone for a while. Normally for games in Manchester, we stop at the Tabley interchange on the M6 and enjoy some food and drinks at “The Windmill”. We visit so regularly that the landlady recognises us. However, I realised that this pre-match routine wasn’t particularly lucky for us. In fact, I can never remember us winning at either City nor United since this has been our Manchester pre-game plan. I decided we needed a change.

Rather than a pre-match spent to the south-west of the city, I decided to flip things one-hundred and eighty degrees, and head up to the moors overlooking the empire of Mancunia to the north-east of the city centre.

I explained my plans to PD and Parky, and there were no complaints.

I collected PD at 8.30am and PD at 9am. The idea was to arrive at the first of a little string of three or four pubs to the northeast of Oldham at around 1pm and to stay until 4pm before setting off for the game.

Soon on our way, PD asked me of my thoughts about the evening’s match.

I grimaced as I replied “I think we can get something today, maybe even a win.”

After all, simply put, City had not been City in the past few months. The collapse in Paris on Wednesday, I hoped, had unsettled them further.

The skies were clear, clear blue, as we headed north. We stopped for a very quick breakfast at Strensham on the M5. Our next stop was at Keele on the M6. For the last hour, New Order’s “Music Complete” accompanied us as I drove on. It got me, at least, in the mood for a few hours in Manchester.

We swept over the Thelwall Viaduct. Winter Hill, just to the north of Bolton, just a few miles north of where we won the league almost twenty years ago, was clearly visible. I curled around onto the M62 and then hit the M60 orbital. Then back onto the M62 again as we rose higher and higher. The skies were still magnificently clear. One view in particular was stunning; a wide and vast panorama of moorland, valleys, industrial heritage, rooftops.

Then, at last, a southern spur on the A672 took me to our first stop, the Rams Head pub on Ripponden Road.

We arrived at 1.15pm. A cold wind howled around me as I took a few photos of the rugged and wild moors that surrounded the pub. We settled in for the best part of an hour and befriended a local couple who had popped in for a pint or two. I was in for a shock. They informed me that pub was actually in Yorkshire, and the Lancashire border was a few miles away, but we would pass that important line soon. The log fire roared next to us. What a cosy place on top of such a wind-blown summit.

This area – Saddleworth Moor – is of course tainted with the horrific events of the mid ‘sixties and the atrocious acts of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.

“Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Lesley-Ann and your pretty white beads.

Oh John you’ll never be a man.

And you’ll never see your home again.

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

Not only the bitter wind chilled me to the bone.

We drove a couple of miles south-west to the next pub, The Printers, and were again welcomed with open arms by the staff. We squeezed in at a table next to a roaring fire. The beers were cheap, the pub was warming. The landlady gave us each a hug as we left and hoped we won. She was United. I had explained the need for us to break the ill-luck of visiting “The Windmill” at Tabley, and optimistically said “see you next season.”

At 3pm, we ventured further south and entered the final stop of this pre-game pub crawl, The Kings Arms. This overlooked yet more naked moorland and was a very busy hostelry. A City fan at the next table chatted for a while. Above the bar was a wooden beam that signalled the exact boundary between Yorkshire and Lancashire. The toilets were in Yorkshire.

At 4pm, we headed off to the game. From a geographical perspective, the Ripponden Road, the A672, resembled a long straight ski jump that would eventually send us hurtling into the heart of Manchester.

We were sent right through the middle of Oldham. PD remembers being in digs in Oldham while working with one of Frome’s many road gangs. But none of us had ever watched a game at Boundary Park, home of the town’s team Oldham Athletic.

The football scene in the Manchester conurbation has changed somewhat in recent years. Oldham Athletic and Rochdale are now one level below the Football League in the National League, while Bury are playing in the lowly North West Counties League, two levels below Frome Town. Going the other way, Salford are now in League Two while Stockport County are now back in League One after playing as low as the National League South in 2013/14, just one division higher than Frome Town.

Ah, Frome Town. On this day, I solemnly wished that I could be in two places at the same time. While I was two hundred miles north of Frome in Manchester, my home-town team were playing fancied Gloucester City in our first home game in more than three weeks. At half-time, I learned that it was 0-0.

My route took me from Oldham on the A62 and through Failsworth and close to United’s original home in Newton Heath. I made it to the Etihad where PD and Parky made a quick exit at a red light outside the away end. I was parked up at my usual place near The Grove pub – it memorably smelled of bleach in May 2023 – at 4.50pm.

That, I think everyone will agree, was perfect timing.

Once parked, I quickly checked the score at Badgers Hill.

Frome Town 0 Gloucester City 0.

I was happy with that.

I donned my warm Moncler jacket and slapped my black Frome Town baseball cap on my bonce and walked off in the cold along Ashton New Road to the waiting stadium.

I was inside the middle tier – block 214, three seats from the City fans, get ready for some tiresome banter – at 5.15pm.

My first-ever visit to Manchester took place in October 1984 when I visited a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly, and I briefly described this earlier this season. On that day, City played a Second Division home game against Oxford United in front of a very creditable 24,755 and won 1-0. I remember trying to spot the Maine Road floodlights as we travelled into town on the train. I was undoubtedly on the lookout, too, for the subtle differences between London and Manchester casual trends as we darted around the city centre. I definitely remembering spotting flared cords, flared jeans, and the seminal “Hurley’s” shop near Piccadilly.

Incidentally, just for the record :

City’s home average that season in Division Two was 24,206.

Chelsea’s average that season in Division One was 23,065.

My diary from that day mentioned us visiting a city centre pub called “The Salisbury” – I have the very feintest memory – but I have since decided that I would love to go back, as it looks an absolutely cracking boozer, right under the train tracks near Oxford Road station. Maybe next season.

Back to 2025, and I was inside just in time to see some white smoke drifting up from in front of the stand to our right. There had obviously been some sort of pre-match fanfare. The City team was being shown on the TV screens.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

There was time for a little Manchester-themed music. Typically, this featured Oasis, but also James, who I had not knowingly remembered being featured at City before. I wondered if there was a yearly meeting in a city centre hotel featuring the media team of Manchester’s two main clubs, and an NFL-style draft of the coming season’s playlists.

United : “Well, you can have Oasis, as per. And the High Flying Birds.”

City. “Mint. You can have Stone Roses. It’s our turn for The Smiths this season, Marr is more a blue than Moz is a red anyway.”

United : “OK, We’ll have New Order.”

City : “Oh, that’s hard to take. OK. We’ll have James.”

United : “Deal. Buzzcocks.”

City : “No worries. The Fall for us.”

United : “Magazine.”

City : “Duritti Column.”

United : “Happy Mondays.”

City : “Given. Inspiral Carpets.”

United : “Hollies.”

City : “Thought Russell Watson was more your style.”

What an over-the-top pre-match show. The stadium lights dimmed, flashing spotlights zoomed around the stands. I found it all too much. What will this shite be like in twenty years’ time for God’s sake?

The real City are Levenshulme, not Las Vegas.

There was an odd operatic-version of “Blue Moon.”

Oh boy.

It wasn’t like this in Moss Side in 1984/85 I am sure.

Then, a mood change.

A clanging mood change.

The images of three City players who have recently passed away were shown on the screens.

Bobby Kennedy

Denis Law

Tony Book

The last man, the player then manager Book, was described in revered tones and a nice banner was draped from a top balcony. The announcer called him “Stick” which was new to me. In Frome, two-and-a-half hours earlier, there had been a minute’s silence in memory of the same man.

I remembered the lovely and respectful way that City remembered Gianluca Vialli two seasons ago.

Despite the awful kick-off time, the three-thousand Chelsea fans were in. There was hardly an empty seat anywhere. My mate David, the freelance photographer, was spotted in a pit in front of the away fans.

Both teams in blue, the game began.

And how.

There was an early City attack on the goal down below us, but on two minutes, it was Nicolas Jackson causing problems in the City half. There was rather rustic clearance from Trevoh Chalobah and Jackson chased the high ball, putting pressure on the new City defender Abdukodir Khusanov. His headed pass back to Ederson did not have the legs, and Jackson picked up the ball and flicked it to his right where Noni Madueke was level with his run. There was a simple tap in.

The Chelsea away contingent, in three tiers, erupted, and Madueke raced away and slid to his knees in front of the disconsolate City support.

After my head stopped spinning, I did my best to capture the moment.

Ci’eh 0 Chowlsea 1.

Blimey.

However, I suspect that I wasn’t the only person thinking “we’ve scored too soon, here.”

After the tap in against Wolves, Madueke will not score two easier back-to-back goals in his career. We continued our bright start and there was a free-kick from Reece James. On nine minutes, Cole Palmer was put through into acres of space after excellent play by Chalobah. He raced on, but just as we were expecting a trademark ice-cold finish from his wand of a left foot, he remarkably played the ball to Jackson. Critically, this pass was overhit and Jackson struggled to catch up with the pace of the pass. The chance to shoot had gone, and although we kept possession, the follow-up shot from Jadon Sancho was blocked by Khusanov.

Bollocks.

A 2-0 lead on nine minutes would have been a formidable position to find ourselves.

Chalobah, the player of the game thus far, was able to block a shot on goal, and we then watched as that annoying little irritant Phil Foden smacked a shot against Robert Sanchez’ left post.

But then City, energised by a couple of breaks, grew into the game and the marauding runs of Josko Gvardiol caught the eye. After drifting past Madueke far too easily, the Croatian blasted over.

After Chelsea controlling the first fifteen minutes, City effectively dominated the remaining thirty minutes of the first period. Our midfield lost its bite, the wide players did not support the defenders, it all went downhill, like us dropping down from Saddleworth earlier.

Sigh.

The noise from both sets of fans wasn’t great. It is always difficult for us to get anything going as we are split over the three tiers. There were occasional barbs aimed at City.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Jackson was through on goal, but the shot was saved, and the linesman’s flag was raised anyway. City had a goal chalked off for offside.

The chances for City were piling up.

I turned to John :

“If City don’t equalise this half, it will be a miracle.”

Lo and behold, on forty-two minutes, a long ball out of defence set up a chance for Matheus Nunes as he beat off a challenge from Marc Cucurella. His shot was blocked by Sanchez, but the ball ran nicely to Gvardiol who tucked it in from an angle down below us.

Bollocks.

The home support just yards away turned it on. They were looking into us and were hoping for a reaction. I just turned away.

Sigh.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

The half-time period was spent with hands in pockets, keeping warm, trying to muster up some hope from somewhere.

The second half, then. Do I have to?

Initially, Chelsea managed to create a few half-chances but never really looked like scoring. On more than one occasion, I felt myself wanting to see a niggly and obstreperous Diego Costa leading our line rather than the flimsy Jackson.

In the second half at City, that far half of the pitch always looks so huge, so full of space, and it always scares me to death. We were defending high and always seemed at risk.

I was surprised that we managed to create, somehow, some half-chances, but the City goal was not really under threat.

Erling Haaland was having a typically odd game; never too involved but always a threat. He’s like a stick insect on steroids, a powdered up praying mantis, a bundle of arms and legs.

On sixty-one minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson and then managed to hide for the rest of the match.

“Half an hour to go, John.”

We surely wouldn’t last this amount of time.

We didn’t.

On sixty-eight minutes, Ederson went long and aimed a punt at the marauding Haaland. He met the ball, with Chalobah breathing down his neck, and managed to get a head on it. He spun Chalobah in the inside-right channel – all that bloody space – but as he sped away, we saw the worrying presence of the orange peril, Sanchez, racing out, changing his tack, and looking like a fireman who had been called out to the wrong fire.

Quite simply, this was not going to end well. We could all see it. To be fair to Chalobah, he had forced Haaland quite wide, but Haaland was no fool. He came inside just as Chalobah slipped. Sanchez was back-peddling and readjusting at the same time, going in nine directions at once, and a vain leap was never going to stop Haaland’s perfectly curled lob into an empty goal.

The City support erupted.

Fackinell.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

At last they made some worthwhile noise.

“We’re not really here.”

Sanchez, eh? For all of his decent saves and blocks, he is not good enough.

He is just not good enough for Chelsea Football Club.

The one thing that really annoys me is his really casual and lackadaisical approach to everything he does. He never seems to be tuned in, to be in step with others, to be fully aware of the situation at hand. He never seems to be ready to play the ball out. He is so slow. He doesn’t inspire confidence in fans nor players alike.

At City, he had his own low point.

I know our job as supporters is to support, but it’s fucking hard.

Some substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

We went to pieces.

On eighty-seven minutes, another Ederson long ball, this time to the substitute Kevin De Bruyne. He flicked it on towards the familiar pairing of Haaland and Chalobah. It was Haaland who got a touch, square to Foden. It was at this point that I took my eyes off the play and looked deep into the night above the stadium. I brought my gaze back to the game, and Foden slotted past Sanchez.

City 3 Chelsea 1.

PRE

MATCH

Tales From The Summers Of 1929, 1984 And 2024

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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 Westbury And Manchester

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 17 February 2024.

I left work on Friday afternoon with a decent weekend lined up. There was a non-league local derby involving teams from two towns just eight miles apart on that Friday. On the following evening there was a match involving two powerhouses of the modern game who were both the European Cup winners and the World Club champions in 2021 and 2023.

Football can be a varied beast.

First up, Westbury United versus Frome Town. This season, the race for the automatic promotion spot in the Southern League First Division South looks like being contested by Wimborne Town, near Bournemouth, Cribbs in Bristol and Frome Town. It is very tight at the top. There is then a keen fight for the four play-off positions too. I can see it all going down to the wire.

Westbury Town are a recent addition to the division, which is seven levels below the FA Premier League. 2022/23 was their inaugural season at this level and their highest-ever level since their formation in 1920. I was unable to attend either of last season’s games. Suffice to say I was pretty excited to be heading over the Somerset / Wiltshire border for my first-ever visit to the club’s Meadow Lane stadium, albeit as excited as a fifty-eight-year-old football fancier could be.

I used to drive past Westbury United’s ground for many years when I worked in the town. I parked up in a roomy car park adjacent to the ground and was soon chatting to a few of the many Frome regulars that had made the short trip to the game. Last season, the attendance was a hefty 950, a number that shocked me at the time. I hoped for another high number in 2023/24. It was nice to have a brief chat with my Chelsea mate Mark who I had not seen for a while. He lives in the town and used to run the clubhouse. He was proudly wearing a green and black Westbury United ski-hat.

Meadow Lane is a neat ground, but most of the facilities are cramped into one-corner giving it an odd feel. There are two covered stands; one with seats, one without. A former girlfriend lives in a little cul-de-sac just behind the northern goal. One of her sons used to play for the team. The current team is managed by former Frome player Ricky Hulbert.

Unfortunately, despite having much possession, Frome conceded two goals in the first-half. The first was a well-worked corner that caught us by surprise, with a low shot by the wonderfully-named Harvey Flippance catching us all out. A “Worldy” from the equally impressively named Jasper Jones gave the home team a 2-0 lead.

Changes were made in the second-half and the visitors soon replied with a goal. A tap-in from club favourite Jon Davies, on his 250th game for the club, put us right back in it. The visitors completely dominated the second-half. We stretched the home team and kept probing. Westbury had their lumpy central defender Sean Keet sent off for two yellows and soon after substitute Sam Meakes broke away and slotted home an equaliser on eighty-three minutes.

The intensity increased, and Frome kept attacking. However, a great save from Town ‘keeper Kyle Philips kept the game alive. In the last minute of the five added minutes, Frome were awarded a free-kick in a central location, a little further in than Enzo against Villa.

This was it. Now or never.

Jon Davies took aim and clipped a magnificent into the top left-hand corner of the goal, the Westbury ‘keeper beaten.

Westbury 2 Frome Town 3.

The visiting support erupted.

The players reeled away in ecstasy and the travelling Frome support let off a few red flares, as they had done at kick-off.

What a moment.

It was such a high, the absolute top note of an increasingly entrancing season as a Frome Town supporter. The smiles were wide among the excellent gate of 783.

Westbury’s average gate this season is at the 235 mark and the previous high was 462 against another local team, from the town where I currently work, Melksham. You can draw your own conclusions as to how many of the 783 attendance were from Dodge.

I drove home a very happy man and I woke up – after a much-needed lie-in on Saturday – a very happy man too.

I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am and Parky from his village between Trowbridge and Melksham at around 10.30am.

We were on our way to Manchester.

Rain was forecast later in the day, what a surprise, but the journey up was dry. Despite me fearing the worst at the Etihad, my mind was full of the pleasure of the previous night. Whatever would be would be in Manchester. I had already had my rush of football-related endorphins for this weekend.

All four of us were glumly pragmatic about our chances at City.

Glenn : “I’d take a 2-0 loss.”

My comment was even worse.

I suggested that “don’t worry about a thing” might well be sung later in the afternoon with a hint of irony.

This was another pre-Villa vibe. I really did not fancy our chances.

We hit a little traffic, unfortunately, over the last few miles of the M6, but pulled into our usual feeding station, “The Windmill” at Tabley at around 1.45pm.

We ordered some food – three of us went old school and ordered liver, bacon and onions…magnificent – and we were joined by our Chelsea pals PJ and Brian, with a lad called Lee that we had not met before. There was much laughter and piss-taking, but sadly nobody gave us much of a hope against City. Typically, the heavens opened while we were in the boozer. Sigh.

I set off for the Etihad at 3.45pm. This is a familiar route these days. In past the airport, around the M60 Orbital, through Stockport, then a jagged cut through towards the stadium, along surprisingly wide roads. It was lashing down as I dropped the boys off outside the away entrance at “Mr. Mac’s Stadium Chippy.” I backtracked to park up at our usual spot opposite the “The Grove” public house where we spent a miserable hour after last season’s away game.

I was parked up at 4.55pm.

Thankfully, I hopped on a passing bus to avoid getting absolutely drenched.

Phew.

The bus dropped me off outside the same chippy as twenty minutes before. The undulating curves of the Etihad were in the distance, but the splash of rain was everywhere. It was a miserable day alright.

Friday night, Westbury.

Saturday afternoon, Weatherfield.

Welcome to Rain Town.

I was inside the stadium at 5.10pm, just in time for the 5.30pm start.

I was alongside Parky – and Gal, and John – in effectively the front row of “Level Three” aka the Upper Tier. We were right next to the wall of the stand, beyond a void that housed only security staff, a few Old Bill and, oddly, a load of sky blue seats stacked up in neat rows. PD and Glenn were just a few rows behind us, again right next to the wall. This was Glenn’s first visit to City since a game in September 2008, a nice 3-1 win.

Our record since then, as we all know, has not been great. A narrow 1-0 win in 2013/14, a mesmeric 3-1 win in 2016/17 stand out. The 2-1 in the COVID season of 2020/21 not so; nobody was there.

Unfortunately, there were a few gaps in our three tiers. Train cancellations had left many stranded in London.

At the other end of the stadium, a lone crane stood guard over the stadium. City are now commencing work on increasing the stadium’s capacity to over 60,000. As I understand it, there will be a simple extension of the existing middle tier into a large tier rather than the creation of a third tier that would mirror that of the southern end.

Regardless, it’s a fantastic view from the front rows of the upper tier.

The team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

“Looks like Jackson upfront, then.”

The Sky Blues of Manchester vs. Chelsea in Tottenham navy.

Modern football, eh?

The rain was still coming down in sheets as the game began.

We attacked the crane.

It took three minutes into the game for me to spot the first “Three Little Birds.”

After seven minutes, we constructed a fine move and Conor Gallagher worked a low cross from the right but there was nobody on hand to apply a touch.

On eleven minutes, Erling Haaland inexplicably missed a great chance to give the home team a lead but his header from a perfect cross down below us flew over the bar. We heaved a massive sigh of relief. It would not be for the last time.

A minute after, Raheem Sterling cut in but shot weakly at Ederson. We heaved a massive sigh of frustration. It would not be for the last time.

But this was a really positive start for us. The team looked energised and aggressive. I was strangely – and worryingly – overcome with a little optimism.

Gallagher – roaming at times in surprisingly high positions – was putting in a talismanic performance already. This was a fine start.

At the half-way mark of the first period, Cole Palmer played a fine ball to Malo Gusto on the right, just beating the offside line. He advanced and played in the advancing Nicolas Jackson. A quick finish was needed but his clumsy touch allowed Ederson to smother.

Just after, Raheem Sterling found himself in acres of space – “find me, find me and nothing more” – but we just couldn’t get the ball out to him. He was just inside his own half with no City player closer than twenty yards. A golden opportunity was lost.

On thirty-two minutes, another bloody chance. Another Sterling / Ederson moment, but an offside anyway.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Moises Caicedo was committing one-too-many silly tackles and was booked.

On forty-two minutes, we again caught City on the hop. We neatly built a move from deep inside our half down below us in the corner. Jackson adeptly sidestepped two City aggressors and passed to Palmer. His one touch prod into space to Jackson was perfect. Another first-time-touch was laid across the box to Sterling, though deeper than the Jackson chance.

Raheem bamboozled Kyle Walker and cut inside before slamming a curler in to the far corner.

The net rippled.

GET IN.

The celebrations around me were ridiculous. Lads from behind rushed past me, knocking two gents flying. One of them – name unknown, I first met him in Stockholm in 1998, we had spoken already – was laid right at the bottom of the seats in front of the balcony wall. He was still. His head was perilously close to a concrete step. We were all so concerned. Thankfully, mercifully, he rose to his feet.

“You OK, mate?”

“Aye. Be a bit sore in the morning, like.”

I caught the cut inside by Sterling on film with my pub camera – SLR’s are banned at City – but you would not know it.

In added time, a strike close by Haaland was blocked by Axel Disasi and the ball flew over.

At half-time there was euphoria in the concourse and throughout the three away tiers.

Tiers of joy anyone?

I went up to talk to Glenn and PD. We were so happy with our strong performance thus far.

“A photo of some smiles at half-time, lads? No, might tempt fate.”

We reassembled for the second-half.

On forty-seven minutes, a Kevin De Bruyne free-kick in Kevin De Bryne territory, but thankfully his effort looped and dropped onto the roof of the net rather than inside it.

Phew.

On fifty minutes, City now dominating, there was a rapid counter from the home team. I really feared this. Phil Foden played in Haaland and I watched with trepidation as he met the cross on the volley. I was right in line with the effort. I laughed as he shot wildly wide.

Fackinell.

I may have raised my right fist and agitated it slightly.

Two half-chances for us. Jackson to Gallagher but wide. Then a Palmer to Gusto move resulting in a Sterling slide that Ederson cleared, then saved well from a follow up by Ben Chilwell.

I was now clock-watching like it was a new hobby.

50 minutes.

55 minutes.

It reminded me of doing the same in Porto in 2021, watching the game pass in chunks of five minute segments.

60 minutes.

There was a block from a City effort on the six-yard line, I know not who by. We were throwing bodies at everything though. I lost count of the times that Disasi managed to reach and stretch and jump to head a ball clear. At right back, Gusto was magnificent, sticking like a limpet to Doku. His aggressiveness reminded me of Ashley Cole.

A strong shot by Haaland was saved well by Petrovic at full stretch.

The pressure was mounting but other City efforts went high and wide. Their finishing had been rank.

65 minutes.

Christopher Nknunku replaced Sterling.

As with last season, he was applauded well by the City support. There were no boos.

Nkunku wasted a chance but offside anyway.

70 minutes.

Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were initially boos here from the City lot and it surprised me. But these were then drowned out by a fair amount of applause. Fair play.

We were tiring all over the pitch; we had been doing a lot of chasing, a lot of ground was covered. It was a surprise to see young Trev out there but I understood Mauricio Pochettino’s rationale.

An extra body in defence.

But we inevitably dropped further back.

Hey, this was a fantastic game of football. Could Chelsea hold on for a magnificent double of Friday Night & Saturday Evening wins?

Another ball cleared off the line. Bloody hell. What defending. Epic stuff.

On seventy-seven minutes, a perfect De Bruyne cross from the right found Haaland who had timed his movement to perfection and had the whole goal to aim at. He was seven yards out. I fully expected to see the net bulge. This was it.

The header flew over.

Fackinell.

I may have raised my right fist and agitated it slightly.

80 minutes.

A really loud “Blue Moon.”

Our singing had been decent, but it is so difficult over three levels.

Cesare Casadei for Jackson.

They kept pushing. This was manic, intense stuff. What a game of football.

On eighty-three minutes, a Walker shot from an angle was blocked but the ball rebounded out to Rodri. He took a blast and it rose high into the net.

The Etihad erupted.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

“WE’RE NOT REALLY HERE.”

Fackinell.

We were all as nervous as hell now, fearing the worst, fearing a second goal. I am sure we all felt that it would come.

Four minutes of injury time were signalled.

There was time for a couple of Chelsea half-chances and a late VAR decision on a potential handball. I was worried because the ball did appear to nestle against an arm, although I was of course over one hundred yards away. Thankfully, it was declined.

At about 7.30pm in deepest Manchester, the referee blew.

Phew.

We bounced out of The Etihad. It was the happiest that I had been in that small part of the world since late 2016. It had been a miserable trip for years. At last, some pleasure.

We walked back to the car, the rain almost stopped. Once in the car, we ran through the whole team, praising all of them. Gusto and Disasi had been exceptional. Colwill playing as a centre-back put in a really solid performance. Palmer had been as neat and influential as ever. Gallagher the heart and soul of the team.

“I just loved the defensive clearances and the blocks. It just showed that we were switched on and attentive, and full of aggression. It hasn’t always been the case.”

As I pulled out onto Ashton New Road, the rain increased and it did not let up the entire trip home.

While I drve home, we continued talking about the game.

“Haaland is a weird bugger isn’t he?” Nothing for a lot of the game, but he then shows up, a bundle of extended limbs in front of the goal.”

“So good to see Chilwell playing well.”

“With Gusto in form, we are absolutely in no rush to get Reece James back.”

“Disasi immense.”

“Love him to bits, but Silva’s days are numbered, no?”

I battled the rain and eventually reached home at 12.40am.

Thanks football. Thanks for two fantastic games.

Next up, Wembley and Liverpool in the League Cup Final.

See you in the pubs.

Westbury.

Manchester.

Parky, Glenn, PD.

Tales From City At Home

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Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 5 January 2023.

After the miserable performance at the City Ground, we were now due to play two games in four days against the current English Champions Manchester City. This would only be my second home game against these opponents since September 2017. In 2018/19, I missed the home match with City due to illness, and in the subsequent two campaigns, COVID forced both games to be played behind closed doors. Last season, I was able to watch as we narrowly lost 0-1 to City at Stamford Bridge.

We were in London early, arriving at our usual parking space on Mulgrave Road at 4.15pm. I had lots of time to kill before the 8pm kick-off. In that long period before the game, every Chelsea supporter that I spoke to was very subdued and wary. Everyone without exception said that they would be satisfied with a draw.

I filled the time until kick-off in a number of ways.

First up, a wander down to the stadium and a coffee in the hotel bar area, with a few chats with several familiar faces. I had spotted a queue of cars to get into the car park at Fulham Broadway; a very rare sight. On a day when trains to London were hit with strikes, many more than usual would be driving in like us. I then spent a few minutes outside, clicking away with my camera to try to capture a few different match day sights at the main gates.  But I needed sustenance, so meandered down the Fulham Road, stopping off for a quick chat with Steve at the programme stall. Further down, I peered into the offices of an estate agent’s as I walked on. This is where “The George” used to be; our local from around 1985 to 1987, but this sadly ceased being a pub ages ago. My mind flew back in time. It’s where Glenn and I used to meet the Somerset Supporters Club; Neil, Baz, Rob, Swan, Terry and company. It’s another pub that is now consigned to the history books. Those clean white walls of the estate agents know nothing of the laughs we had in that back bar.

There was a surprise meet up with Marco way down the Fulham Road as he made his way up to the CFCUK stall. I eventually stumbled across a previously unvisited Sicilian café where I plotted up for half-an-hour. “Simmons” is now unfancied for midweek games, so I made my way to “The Mitre” for the first time in many a year where we hoped to meet the usual suspects. I bumped into Neil Barnett as I turned a corner to walk up the North End Road and we chatted for a while about the current malaise. He too feared the worst against City. Why wouldn’t he?

In “The Mitre”, I spotted Parky, but none of the other usual lads who we used to meet in “Simmons”. We’d later learn they had been drinking in “The Cock”. Not to worry, Leigh and Darren were in “The Mitre” with some of the lads we had been drinking with in Salzburg. No positive vibes from any of them either.

I was in early, way early, at about 7.15pm. It was a surprisingly mild night. My Barbour jacket was too warm but I could hardly jettison it. PD was in early too.

With half an hour to go, Depeche Mode were on the pre-match play-list.

“Just Can’t Get Enough.”

Could I get enough of Chelsea? Probably not. I could probably get enough of City over the next few days though.

There was a quick chat with Oxford Frank behind me. More negative vibes.

Sigh.

Amid all of this, time for a further dose of misery; 1982/83 is calling.

On Monday 3 January 1983, a bank holiday, Chelsea travelled to Filbert Street to play Leicester City in a Second Division match. We lost 3-0, and it would have come as no surprise to me. I was undoubtedly preparing myself for a tough 1983, and this was not all Chelsea-based. I was really struggling with my “A Levels” and the exams in June loomed heavily on my mind. There were a few interviews at various polytechnics to endure as spring approached and I just thought that this would be an absolute exercise in futility. I knew damn well, even in January, that my grades would not be good enough. A helping hand from Chelsea Football Club to get me through this depressing period was needed. Alas, my beloved team were performing as well as me. Two goals from Gary Lineker and one from Alan Smith, in front of a decent-enough gate of 13,745, gave Chelsea our second away defeat in three days.

Oh the joys.

What with the train strike, I half-expected a fair few unfilled seats, especially in the away section, but this was another near capacity crowd at Chelsea.

Graham Potter chose these players against City.

Kepa

Dave – Koulibaly – Silva – Cucarella

Kovacic – Zakaria

Ziyech – Sterling – Pulisic

Havertz  

Jorginho wasn’t playing. That would have pleased Neil Barnett. Kovacic was. That wouldn’t.

City, and it does not always happen, were wearing their sky blue home kits. It’s a decent look this year. Blue, white, blue, with that maroon trim from old. However, both the names and numbers were almost unreadable. Nathan Ake’s arse has doubled in size since the last time I saw him; it is now the size of Audenshaw and Droylesden.

We remembered Edson Arantes do Nascimento before the game.

RIP.

The match began.

There were mutterings about Raheem Sterling putting one over his former team mates, but this fantastical notion was obliterated in the first five minutes when he went down after a challenge by John Stones. He was replaced by the gloved crusader Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.

We prepared to be underwhelmed.

With each passing minute, I thought three things.

  1. We are playing alright here.
  2. We haven’t conceded a goal.
  3. Has Erling Haaland touched the ball yet?

Indeed, we were playing alright. There were a number of decent passing moves on both flanks, but with no finishing touch. One pleasing move down our right on a quarter of an hour resulted in a decent low ball in to the danger zone from Dave but all of our attacking players had been busy in the right-hand side of the pitch setting the move up, and there was no predator waiting to finish the move off.

There was a reasonable amount of noise from the home areas but nothing to get the pulses racing nor the stands shaking. Such is life in modern football, eh?

“Has Haaland touched the ball yet, Clive?”

Halfway through the first-half, not only no goals but we were just about edging it.

However, another enforced change.

Carney Chukwuemeka for the perennially crocked Christian Pulisic.

The young substitute immediately impressed, and there was a nice edge to our midfield with Kovacic and Zakaria both influencing our play. I certainly didn’t miss the “touch, look, swivel, look, pass” from Jorginho one little bit.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A shot from Carney was blocked, and a shot from Ziyech. Ederson, dressed in head to toe in tattoos and purple, tights and all, managed to get down low to save the latter.

There were times when Ziyech, an outcast on the right, was under-used and it frustrated me.

“It’s gotta go quicker, Chels.”

Haaland was quiet, and as the game reached the final ten minutes of a decent half, the surprising sight of Kalidou Koulibaly out-muscling the Norwegian when the poacher was in on goal was magnificent. The Matthew Harding cheered this and I’d hope the defender grew from the affection. His Chelsea career has been tough thus far.

Thiago Silva was putting in another fine performance.

The under-fire left back Marc Cucarella was struggling at times, though, and some of his positioning as he marked his player was truly awful. On a few occasions, he was so unbalanced that he was easily side-stepped. But generally speaking, both Phil Foden and Kevin de Bruyne were subdued.

At last, Cucarella made a fine tackle just outside our box.

“Well done, Crystal Tipps” bellowed Rousey.

The first-half finished with a flurry, despite Chelsea being a little reticent to fully commit.

“We just don’t flood the box, Al.”

An effort from Haaland flew over. Phew.

On forty-three minutes, a fine move resulted in Carney crashing a low drive against a post, with The Illustrated Man well beaten. From here, a rapid break towards us in the Matthew Harding with our combined buttocks clenching with each yard gained. Thankfully, Kepa was equal to a rasper from De Bruyne. It was the best minute of football during the entire half.

I thought our performance was measured and controlled, not leaving us exposed and open to getting ripped apart again, despite the wishes of the away end.

I was more than content at the break.

“Not roaring though is it Clive?”

The atmosphere, to be truthful, was shite.

When the second-half began it was all City in the forty-sixth minute, the forty-seventh minute, the forty-eighth minute, etcetera.

Haaland went close soon into the half. Ake crashed a header against the Shed End bar, with a team mate behind him for extra support should he miss-time his header. Then a fine save from Kepa when De Bruyne shot at goal.

After Carney did well to retrieve a loose ball from a Chelsea corner, the ball sat up nicely for Silva but his zipped shot narrowly missed the far post down below us all.

I stood up, swore, and held my head in my hands instinctively, while turning to my left and looking back at my fellow supporters in the MHU. It is something I do without thinking on many occasions. It’s my body’s way of telling the world “damn, that was so close, eh?”

It dismayed me no end to see virtually every single spectator still sat.

It’s gone. Our support has gone. Where’s the fucking emotion? Where’s the fucking involvement?

Forays by us into the City defence were rarer now though, and on the hour, a double substitution was ominous. On came Jack Grealish and Riyad Mahrez.

“Fackinell, Clive.”

Within five minutes, catastrophe.

My commentary to myself, and Clive if he was listening, was this :

“he’ll move it again…I hate these balls in…there you go.”

It was easy as 1,2,3, A, B, C, do-re-mi.

Fackinell.

Grealish, in space, a low ball, Mahrez at the back stick.

Others will have had a better view, with the portioning of blame no doubt, but it was just too far away for me to comment.

At that moment, the conceding of that one goal, I just knew we would be up against it. Even an equaliser seemed implausible.

The previously quiet City contingent roared.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart again.”

  1. We ain’t Cockneys. Keep that song for when you play United, eh?
  2. That’s based on a United song about Ryan Giggs. You’re better than that.

Graham didn’t potter about. His reaction was swift.

Conor Gallagher for Ziyech.

Lewis Hall for Crystal Tipps.

And a Chelsea debut for Omari Hutchinson, on for the substitute Abameyang.

Omari is the latest in a line of Chelsea Hutchinsons.

Ian.

Colin.

Sam.

I hope he is a better footballer than Colin.

The introduction of the substitutes energised the support and for one exact moment it sounded, at bloody last, like a football match.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

In truth, the debutant Hutchinson looked nervous and played easy ball after easy ball. Gallagher was so full of energy that he almost exploded. Hall fitted in supremely well on the left.

On seventy-two minutes, a rapid cross from De Bruyne from the right flashed across the box, missing everyone, but also the lunge from Haaland with the whole goal gaping in front of him. I had witnessed a miracle.

There was a looping header from Havertz just after, but this was easily saved by Lilac Larry in the City goal. An effort from Kovacic fizzed over. Very late on,Hall blasted over from a bursting run down in front of us.

It wasn’t to be.

It ended 0-1, as did the City games that I saw live in 2017/18 and 2021/22.

On the drive home, I saw that Peter Rhoades-Brown had been back at Chelsea for the night’s game. These days, he is heavily involved in some community and corporate work for his home town team Oxford United for whom he played after leaving us. I mention this because he played in the 1982/83 featured game at Leicester.

We were philosophical. We had played much better than most had expected. City, to be blunt, had been relatively poor, the worst I had seen from them at Chelsea for a while. We all know we are a team in transition, a club in transition too. There is no doubt that the knives are out for Graham Potter within some sections of the support. That’s not a surprise.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am.

On Sunday, the same two teams meet in deepest Manchester.

7,500 Chelsea are going.

See you there.