Tales From A Visit From The Vale

Posted on April 11, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Port Vale : 4 April 2026.

The hangover from the loss at Everton lasted longer than I had expected, but it is no real surprise. The Chelsea team performed at a very low level, there was my personal altercation with a fellow-supporter, and the sight of the Chelsea team playing in front of just five-hundred of our three-thousand fans at the end of the game didn’t sit well with me at all.

However, there was a full fortnight before the next Chelsea game and I would be able to enjoy three Frome Town games in that period. It felt like a busman’s holiday, of sorts, and a very pleasant one too. That I needed to squeeze in five days of holiday in that fortnight made for a very nice feeling indeed.

The first of these games took place on Tuesday 24 March at Falmouth in Cornwall. After my faux-pas in booking up the wrong dates for a potential two-day stay, I made this a lengthy “in-and-out” mission. I had time for a drink with a Frome mate on the quayside first, though, and was amazed how many Frome supporters had travelled to the game. On a very wet night, in a competitive match, Frome ran out 4-1 winners. My position in the covered main stand meant I kept dry, but others were drenched despite standing under cover. There is, indeed, no escape from horizontal rain.

My abiding memory of the game was how entertaining the match turned out to be. Despite a soft pitch and atrocious conditions, both teams went hell-for-leather. Hats off to the Falmouth Town support too, who made a racket even when losing heavily.

However, I again realised a major difference between football on this night at this game and at this level in general and that of the Premier League.

At the very top level, players are super fit, and play is often squeezed into a very compact area, with defenders sitting deep. Therefore, play slows down because there is such a lack of space. Often players are squeezed into only thirty yards of the pitch’s length. However, at Frome’s level, players are not quite so fit, conditions are not so perfect, and play is much more spread out spatially. Very often, players take up half of the pitch’s length. This results in more space and a greater variety of ways and methods to attack.

Leaving a sodden Falmouth that night, my love of the lower levels of football was strengthened. I had seen football “how it used to be played” and those memories kept me contented on the long drive home.

These days, as always, we don’t need sporting perfection; we just crave entertainment.

The next game in my Frome Town trilogy was a home match with Didcot Town on Saturday 28 March. On a gorgeous sunny day, watched by a lovely attendance of 608, two David Duru goals gave Dodge a 2-0 win against a stubborn Didcot Town team. It rounded off a fine week of three wins, and our unbeaten run now stood at twenty-five in the league alone.

The final match took place in Worcestershire in the village of Inkberrow on Good Friday, home to Sporting Club Inkberrow. On a very windy day and backed by around one-hundred and forty away fans, Frome stormed to a 3-0 lead in the first half in a fantastic display of attacking football. No further goals ensued, but this was a very comprehensive performance. It meant that my hometown team required just one more point in its remaining four games to become Champions and secure automatic promotion back to the Southern League Premier.

One moment struck a chord from this game, though. Losing 0-3 and with just minutes remaining, the Inkberrow players were streaming forward in search of a goal. Their spirit was amazing to see. As a stark comparison, I was reminded of many occasions when Chelsea are losing and we witness defenders and midfielders passing the ball painstakingly between them, none of them taking ownership of the moment, none of them looking to play outside the tedious regimen we find at that level.

Sigh.

With the Frome break now behind me, it was time to focus on the oldest football competition in the world; Chelsea were up against Port Vale at Stamford Bridge in the Quarter Finals of the FA Cup.

A game against Vale was long overdue, despite them being only the twelfth team that we ever played way back on 21 October 1905. Our history with them goes back as far as is almost possible to go. However, we last played the Valiants from Burslem in 1929.

This would be a massive game for them. It was their biggest FA Cup match for decades. I tried to think of a Chelsea comparison. Maybe our visit to the San Siro in 1999, when it felt like a rights-of-passage, a tilt at giants, a massive away game.

Vale would be bringing around 6,500, the entire Shed End, and it meant that Parky would be displaced.

On the way over to collect Parky from his village, I spoke to PD about this.

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today, mate?”

We had a little giggle.

It was a clear run up to London on this Saturday morning. Midway through our journey I asked Parky where he was sitting.

“Matthew Harding, mate.”

“Whereabouts, Parky?”

“Dunno, let me look at my phone…U08”

“That’s our section.”

“Oh nice…Row D, Seat 371.”

“Fackinell, mate…you’re sat next to us. You must have Clive’s seat.”

We cracked up.

What were the chances of that?

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today?”

Us, that’s who.

Oh boy.

I met up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”, but there was a different vibe on this occasion. The Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race was taking place on the Thames, starting at nearby Putney Bridge, and so the pub was overflowing with pretty young things supporting both universities. There was also a smattering of Port Vale fans in the pub, causing no problems, and this added an extra dimension.

When it was revealed in the summer, the Port Vale home shirt gained lots of attention for its class and style. Up close it is even better. I spotted that the back of the shirt is sponsored, in feint gold, by my alma mater, the University of Staffordshire. Back in the ‘eighties it was known as North Staffs Poly. Because I always lived close to the Victoria Ground in Stoke, I always gravitated to Stoke City – I think I saw them play around seven or eight times in my three years in The Potteries – and never felt like supporting the “obscure but trendy” option of Port Vale. In fact, I only ever saw them play once while living in the city.

Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play Brentford. In my third year of study at North Staffs Poly, I had yet to visit Vale Park, and I knew that I would have to get at least one visit in during my stay in the area. Why did I choose Brentford? I was lured in because Micky Droy, the ex-Chelsea defender, was playing for Brentford in 1986/87.

I took the bus up to Burslem – grey buildings, grey skies – and paid £2.50 to get in. After all that, Droy wasn’t playing. He was injured. Bollocks. I heard a voice inside my head say, “why in God’s name are you here?”

I watched from the Bykers Road end, a very ram-shackle terrace, as the home team won 4-1 in front of just 3,012. The star of that Vale team that season was their young striker Andy Jones who later signed for Charlton Athletic, though Robbie Earle, now a TV pundit, was playing for Vale too, himself a local from Newcastle-under-Lyme. I counted just sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.

Now, almost forty years later I would be seeing Port Vale play once more.

I chatted to a couple of “Stokies” in the pub and one of them mentioned how poorly his team were playing, mired to the bottom of the third tier.

“If you score one early, we will crumble.”

The pub was full of visitors from Vale and the Varsity, and it was a nice change. I even found myself watching the boat race on the TV, with memories of my childhood, eager to spot Craven Cottage on the TV screen.

Before the game began, there was a respectful mention of former Chelsea goalkeeper Tony Godden who had recently passed away, aged just seventy. Tony came in to our team in 1986 to offer some experience and played around thirty games. I liked him a lot. He went down in Chelsea folklore by saving two penalties within a few minutes of each other at the Stretford End in a game on 28 September 1986, a game that I attended while living in Stoke.

RIP Tony Godden

I can’t lie; despite Port Vale’s lowly position in League One, I was still worried about the outcome of this match. It had the potential to become the biggest banana skin of them all. Forget Orient in 1972 and forget Bradford City in 2015. This could be the biggest.

Which team did Liam Rosenior select?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Tosin – Hato

Santos – Lavia

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

This was surely a good enough team to beat the lowly Valiants?

In the game at Inkberrow on Good Friday, Albie Hopkins pounced on just twenty-two seconds to put Frome Town ahead, and Chelsea got off to an absolute flier in this game too. Pedro Neto fired in a corner in front of the travelling Vale fans at The Shed. The Vale ‘keeper Joe Gauci flapped not once but twice, and the ball broke to Jorrel Hato who smashed home from close range. Just sixty-four seconds were on the clock.

Chelsea 1 Port Vale 0.

Alan, next to Parky : “They’ll have to come at us know, duck.”

Me, next to Alan : “Come on my little diamonds, duck.”

There was that early goal. I wondered if they would indeed crumble.

We were dominating the early portion of the game, putting the visitors under pressure. A shot from Cole Palmer was blocked.

They countered occasionally, and a cross-come-shot from Rhys Walters whizzed across the six-yard box but here was no Port Vale player present to tap in. A header flew past the post from Connor Hall. But we never looked under threat.

On twenty-one minutes, Palmer set off on a central run, but resisted the urge to shoot on a few occasions, eventually ran out of steam, and lost control. A year or more ago, I felt sure he would have pulled the trigger. It illustrated his form of late, a product of both a lingering injury and a fall in self-confidence.

Just as the frustration was rising in the Stamford Bridge stands, Pedro Neto dug in to beat his defender on the right and crossed for Joao Pedro. He took a touch, pirouetted, dummied to shoot, then slotted home. It was a lovely goal.

Chelsea 2 Port Vale 0.

On thirty-nine minutes, a rare shot from Romeo Lavia, but a pathetic shot too, right at their ‘keeper.

Just after, on forty-two minutes, a ball forward – HOLD THE FRONT PAGE – by Tosin was beautifully touched by Malo Gusto into the path of Joao Pedro. Gusto had continued his run and drifted wide. Joao Pedro played in Gusto whose low shot was pushed out by Gauci towards Palmer. His stab at the ball was deflected in by the lunge of defender Jordan Lawrence-Gabriel.

Chelsea 3 Port Vale 0.

Game over? Surely.

Soon into the second period, we witnessed a lovely move. We won the ball and it was played out to Joao Pedro. His quick touch set up Santos to play in Estevao, who had been relatively quiet in the first half, but his left-footed shot grazed the post. Just after, Palmer was centrally located near the “D” and studiously aimed a shot towards the same post. It turned into the slowest shot of the season. Gauci ate it up.

Neto slammed a fine strike at Gauci.

The Matthew Harding, oddly, taunted the Vale support.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

This was odd since the home support had hardly sung a note all afternoon.

On fifty-seven minutes, Gusto was found in some space and lofted a fine cross towards the ridiculously un-marked Tosin. The defender rose well and headed down well. It was a neat finish.

Chelsea 4 Port Vale 0.

Soon after, the old favourite echoed out throughout Stamford Bridge.

“Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be.”

Not so long after, a mightily loud “Vale ‘Til I Die” rang out of The Shed. It was their loudest moment. None of them had left, either. They were staying put.

Estevao, sent in by Neto, forced a save from Gauci.

On the hour, Liam Rosenior made some changes.

Alejandro Garnacho for Pedro Neto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

There were moans after Estevao played in Garnacho, who planted the ball over the bar.

Fackinell.

There later followed many instances of that crouching dribbling style of the Argentinian down below me.

On sixty-five minutes, Estevao hit the other post after being set free, and after twisting and turning inside the box. This young lad has such talent. His smile is infectious. I hope he stays with us for a while before others come calling.

From nowhere, the Stamford Bridge crowd at last generated some noise.

On sixty-nine minutes, an Estevao corner, a Santos leap, an easy goal, but awful defending again.

Chelsea 5 Port Vale 0.

On seventy-four minutes, a rare shot from a Vale player; a firm strike was well-saved by Sanchez, pushed out for a corner.

On seventy-eight minutes, a debut for Ryan Kavuma-McQueen, who replaced Romeo Lavia, quelle surprise.

On eighty-two minutes, a lovely ball set up Garnacho who struck a shot against the post, only for Estevao to tuck in the rebound. There was a suspicion of offside, but VAR disagreed.

Chelsea 6 Port Vale 0.

I chuckled when the visiting fans taunted us :

“Is there a fire drill?”

On eighty-five minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

In the last minute of the match, strong hold-up play from Delap set up Garnacho who was up against a lumbering Vale defender. He tumbled, and a penalty was signalled.

It looked to me like Garnacho had to argue with Delap about who would take the kick. In the end, Garnacho took the ball, and we waited.

I almost expected him to dribble the ball in.

But no, a confident strike.

Chelsea 7 Port Vale 0.

I would like to say “magnificent” but the opposition were truly atrocious.

They were lucky to get nought.

Right then…

Charlton Athletic, Hull City, Wrexham, Port Vale.

Who is next?

The Frome Trilogy

Chelsea vs. Port Vale

Tales From Beyond The Dock Wall

Posted on March 30, 2026 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 21 March 2026.

The trip to see Chelsea’s first ever game at Everton’s new stadium was our first journey to Merseyside since December 2024. There were no visits in 2025. Sometimes it works out like that. I can’t deny it; I had been relishing this game since we heard of the fixture list back in the summer. A new stadium, a new experience, a new routine; just beautiful.

Despite the chances of others attending, it boiled down to just the three of us. I collected Paul at 8am and Lordy at 8.30am, and we were soon on our way via the usual stop at Melksham for a quick breakfast.

I had worked out the logistics for the day, and I had given myself more than ample time to travel up to Liverpool, meet friends, relax a little, but also spend time checking out the Hill Dickinson Stadium on the banks of the River Mersey. I know that naming rights are “the thing” these days, but what an ugly name. Still, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers in such circumstances. I have heard that some Evertonians have already dubbed it “The Dixie” in lieu of Dixie Dean, and there has already been the typically English abbreviated version of “Hill Dicko”, which just sounds too Scouse, and too ridiculous. I think it will take me a long time to stop calling it Bramley Moore Dock.

However, on multiple occasions during the build-up to this trip, I found myself mentioning the stadium as Goodison, by mistake, so entwined has Everton Football Club been with its old home.

So, that’s the pre-amble, the entrée, and there has been no mention of the actual game. On this occasion, I was suffering from a strong case of stadiumitis and – to be blunt – after our previous showing against PSG, it was probably just as well that I had something else to occupy my mind. The football would take care of itself. And I was hoping that it wouldn’t spoil a good day out.

The weather was grand as we headed north. The skies were clear of rain, with little hint of clouds. I ate up the miles. My first port of call was to be “Ye Old Hole In Ye Wall”, allegedly the oldest pub in Liverpool, a favourite pub among many favourite pubs in Liverpool’s historic city centre, and where we dived in for a pre-match drink on the two previous visits to Anfield at both ends of 2024. The aim was to get there around 1pm.

I was soon heading into the city from the M62, that oh-so familiar route in. I am prone to chatting to Paul and Parky about the sights that we encounter on these football trips, and if I am honest, I am never sure if they take too much notice of my wittering. I was genuinely amazed that when we approached the huge art deco building that used to house the Littlewoods Pools company, and which I have chatted about a few times, PD wondered if the rebuilding – it is set to become a film studio – had started yet.

I wanted to stop and grab his little cheeks and shower him with praise.

“Bloody hell, you do listen.”

Dropping down into the city by car is one of the great moments on my travels, like some sort of modern-day footballing Pevsner, around This Football Land and it didn’t disappoint on this pristine Spring Day. The two cathedrals, the Radio City Tower, the Liver Building and even a glimpse of the river came into view.

I dropped the lads close to “Ye Old Hole In The Wall” at about 1.15pm. It had been about a five-hour drive; I tend not to speed these days. I can’t afford getting more points. I said that I would be back at around 2.30pm.

I then headed up towards the stadium.

There is no doubt that one of the main problems with the placement of the stadium on the river is a lack of close match day parking, and access routes to and from the venue.

Logistics.

Thankfully, I had lucked out. A friend’s daughter lives in an apartment about a twenty-minute walk from the stadium, and I was able to park – for free – in one of the visitor spaces outside. I had to swear blind that I was visiting her to the poor bugger that manned the entrance hut, and who noted some personal details, but I suspect that he knew I wasn’t being honest. I am sure that the visitors’ car park is full to bursting on Everton home games yet not used on other days. Oh well. I was parked up, job done.

I grabbed hold of my SLR and marched north. It was ridiculously warm and I wished that I had not chosen one of the warmer jackets that I keep in the boot of my car.

I briefly looked south and spotted the Liver Bird a mile or so away, facing out to the river, perhaps unwilling to acknowledge the shiny new stadium to the north.

I was soon appreciating the historical nature of the setting. Waterloo Road became Regent Road, and there were red-bricked buildings to my right, and these no doubt acted as warehouses when the docks to my left were in full usage. I started to see that a few of these old warehouses, industrial premises and houses had been turned into watering holes for the area’s new clientele.

It was around 1.45pm, just under four hours until kick-off, but there were supporters already heading up to the stadium. I walked past a couple more bars, including “The Dock Wall” where I would be meeting up with friends later. Just after, I walked over an antiquated iron bridge that links Collingwood Dock and Stanley Dock and couldn’t resist a few photos. The Titanic Hotel, where Chelsea and other teams stay, was to my right. Then, the huge hulk of a former tobacco warehouse, a truly impressive sight, now turned into apartments.

Whereas Goodison was locked into the terraced streets of Walton a couple of miles away, this new stadium is placed in an area that reeks of the city’s sea-faring past, and it already has an amazing sense of place.

In the distance was the stadium and, against a clear blue sky, it looked stunning.

I noticed that at every break in the Dock Wall, which runs all the way from where I was parked to the south past the stadium to the north, there is a rounded tower, and these are not too dissimilar to the Everton “lock-up” Tower, dating from 1787, featured on their badge.

A nice little synergy, there.

I was soon outside the stadium. I had driven past it on the way to Anfield in 2024, and I had visited it by foot on the first day of the season in 2022. On that occasion the stadium was just being started, with a couple of stands creeping into the sky, but it was mainly a construction site full of cranes.

I include the link to that match report – and photos – later.

My first thoughts?

It’s a stunning piece of architecture, but I find the two distinct parts to the exterior a little jarring.

First there is the red brick façade that houses the stands, the offices, the corporate area, the function rooms, that obviously references the city’s industrial heritage, the nearby warehouses, even the red-bricked terraced streets around Goodison Park. It gives the stadium some solidity, and that’s fine.

Then we have the space-age curves of the roof, that floats above the under structure, and it almost seems that the two different halves of the stadium are too different to completely work as one.

But you have to say, especially on a sunny day when the sunlight is dancing on the steel curves, it’s a physically stunning piece of architecture.

I think I read somewhere that the architect wanted the stadium to have two distinct parts; the lower part grounded in Everton’s local history, but the upper part a reflection of the club’s desire to fly off into unchartered territory as it faces a bold and exciting future.

If that’s the desire, it’s mission accomplished.

There’s just something about it that grates a little.

I guess it’s a typical post-modern stadium.

It just doesn’t look like it ought to.

I took a bundle of photos, and I include some here.

One of Goodison’s trademarks was the criss-cross design on the Archibald Leitch balconies, and while there was to be no permanent mirror of that inside the new stadium, I heard that there would be a section on the outside, on the brickwork, that echoed this. I didn’t see anything. Maybe that’s a task for my next visit. I did, however, spot the famous design atop the fence that marks the southern boundary of the stadium.

I hoped that wasn’t it.

I absolutely loved the mooring bollards that have been left in situ, weather-beaten and rusting. There is also a tower just inside the premises that – I believe – houses an Everton information centre.

I walked under the roof on the South Side and along to the western edge but annoyingly seemed unable to advance any further. It seemed to me that the West Stand, overlooking the River Mersey, was accessible only via a turnstile, somewhere. This was a shame, since I wanted to take photos from the river, looking back at the stadium. Maybe I can make that a goal next time; maybe I missed a secret entrance. I am usually good at the powers of persuasion. I will try my luck next time.

I really wanted to have a little moment to myself, looking out at the river and the surprisingly high land of Birkenhead over the water, and remember my great great grandparents who set off on the SS City Of Philadelphia from Liverpool in the August of 1854, heading out to a new life in the USA. I wanted to stand still and remember them. On 7 September the ship was wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race, but thankfully nobody was killed. It was, unnervingly, its maiden voyage. They went on to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.

Maybe I can remember them at that place on a later visit.

Instead, I took some panoramic shots of the sweeping scene to the south, with the Liver Birds still visible if you knew where to look.

At the southern side there are paving stones featuring some Everton greats. These are surrounded by the names of fans on smaller slabs, a familiar feature these days at stadia. I wondered if the Dixie Dean memorial and the Holy Trinity will one day migrate to the new stadium from their current homes outside Goodison.

At about 1.15pm, I hopped into an Uber outside the Bramley Moore pub on Regent Road and I soon joined up with my two mates at the same table that we used in 2024. On that day we were joined by Josh from Minneapolis and Courtney from Chicago. On this occasion, Brian and Kev from South Gloucestershire wandered in and sat at our rather cramped table. Another Chelsea fan – face familiar, name unknown – sat close by too, with his daughter. We chatted to the friendly locals, who were virtually all Evertonians and heading up to the match, and were “made up” that Liverpool had lost in the early kick-off.

At about 3.45pm, we caught an Uber north. At that moment, all the pubs in the city centre were overflowing with punters. This seemed like the first day of Spring. People were everywhere. They couldn’t be all going to the game. However, the new stadium is closer to the city centre than Goodison, so maybe a new switch has been taking place for Evertonians. A lifetime of drinking close to Goodison is in the past. A new regime of drinks in the city centre awaits.

Up, up and away.

I was dropped off where my car was parked and swapped my SLR for a smaller camera – I wasn’t ready to risk it at the new stadium, despite never ever being stopped at Goodison – and swapped my warm coat for a light rain jacket. While the other two were taken closer to the stadium, I retraced my steps and headed to The Dock Wall.

From “Ye Old Hole In Ye Wall” to “The Dock Wall.”

The crowds on Regent Road had thickened now, and a huge number of the locals were wearing blue. I wondered what the local scallies back in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties would have reckoned to that.

The Dock Wall was packed. Luckily, I soon found the two sets of mates that I needed to see. First up, just outside at the rear by a small car park, were Deano and Dave. They had travelled down from near Lancaster and were happy that I had been able to sort out tickets for them. Deano has just returned from Sri Lanka. Dave told me a very interesting piece of information about the previously mentioned dock wall, that runs the length of stadium to the east. Apparently, it is a grade 2 listed building and so cannot be dismantled and removed.

I also met up with the Brothers Grimm, Tommie and Chris, along with Tommie’s son and daughter. I had met up with Tommie at Wrexham. I was reminded of the fact on the way up that it is not very often that I get to visit two new stadia in consecutive away games.

I have been lucky this season.

Chris is a life-long Evertonian and season ticket holder. He used to have a seat near the half-way line in the Upper Bullens at Goodison. His new home is in the corner of the Upper Tier where the West Stand meets the South Stand. It was Chris who recommended this boozer.

“I came down here a few years back and there was just one pub. Now there are bars appearing all the way down here. But I like this one because they serve the ale in glass pints not plastic.”

It was rammed. I decided against queuing up for a drink. I had a good natter with both sets of mates. Like me, Chris loves Stiff Little Fingers, and I had to comment on the two little badges he had on his lapel.

“SLF” and “UTFT”.

As one we said the same thing.

Chris : “My life.”

Chris : “Your life.”

We laughed.

Chris instigated the famous old Everton fanzine “When Skies Are Grey” back in the mid-to-late ‘eighties, and Tommie has done plenty of work with the Welsh-speaking media channels in his homeland. They are an interesting set of brothers.

I excused myself and headed out. It was about 4.45pm. I was bloody parched though, so imagine my joy when I was handed a small can of Coke by some young’uns on a promotion on Regent Road.

There were discarded remains of blue flares littering the pavement. The local ultras had obviously been putting on a show, presumably on a march to the stadium. I could just about detect the lingering aroma of sulphur.

I am glad Chelsea’s younger element don’t go for this “dress in black, walk to stadium, wave flags” nonsense that doesn’t seem to fit our club. Just have a drink in the pub and sing your hearts out inside.

Simple.

I made my way over the iron bridge again and walked to the final of four gaps in the dock wall that was the designated place for us away fans to enter. This, of course, was the busiest of the four. I walked through a full-size metal detector with my pub camera clenched in my fist and there were no bleeps. I walked on. There was another small queue in the north-east corner, and I was patted down, but no hold-ups and I was in.

I had a seat in Row 6 of the lower tier, but everyone needs to climb a few flights of stairs to access the two tiers of the seating bowl. Both tiers are served with a mid-level concourse. It seemed pretty airy, and decent, a long way from the cramped area at Goodison. I didn’t hang around and soon found my place adjacent to John. Alas, no Gary or Alan on this occasion.

First thoughts?

Steep.

The two tiers are super steep.

It used to be the case that, to save space, tiers used to sit on top of one another, with the lower tier covered by the overhang of the upper. Goodison used to be like this. The North Bank at Highbury used to be like this. The Matthew Harding Stand at Chelsea is like this. I suppose there is a slight overhang in the lower tier at Arsenal. But not at Anfield, in any stand. In these new stadia, with more room, there are tiers in name only. They simply sit higher but are not really attacked.

Therefore, the Everton architect helped with sightlines by making the rake the steepest in the United Kingdom.

But I wasn’t particularly blown away by the interior and found it a little bland. There are no quirky bits, no features that make the place unique. The northern end, to my right, is slightly different in that the upper deck is cut away to enable a large section of glass to be placed at the rear, presumably to aid the growth of the grass on the pitch.

Above, there are a million metal beams holding the roof up. I tried not to dwell too much on that. It’s a really ugly sight.

Chelsea had three thousand fans located in three sections in the north-west corner; all in the Lower Tier.

I was in 118 along the side, 119 was by the corner, 120 was behind the goal-line.

The players, in green, went through their shuttle runs, and I soon spotted my photographer mate David, who was seated behind the advertising boards to my right. I met David at Goodison a few years back as he caught me taking some photos outside. He came over for a nice little chat, and I knew there would be a few candid photos of yours truly coming my way later.

I momentarily had to focus on the game. Bollocks.

Our team?

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

With about five minutes to kick-off, I was dismayed to see cheerleaders to my left doing whatever it is cheerleaders do. What a load of old crap.

I noticed that on a couple of occasions the advertising boards flashed with some Evertonian phrases and chants :

“The People’s Club.”

“Up The Toffees.”

“Come On The Blues.”

And also, the LED version of the Leitch crosshatch.

Oh, that looked lovely, combining old with new faultlessly. I had heard whispers of this a few months ago. I hoped that it would reappear many times during the game.

“It’s A Grand Old Team To Play For” was bellowed by the home fans as it came on the PA.

Then, the big moment.

The sirens, then the drums…I captured “Z Cars” on my phone and immediately shared it on “Facebook.”

I looked up to where Chris would be sitting, way up to my right, and momentarily Goodison Park entered my head.

It’s the only stadium that my Dad visited before I came along, and jolted his life with my love and football, and Chelsea, and Chelsea games.

Goodison will always be a part of me.

Back to the game.

At 5.30pm, it kicked-off.

Everton were attacking our end, Chelsea the South Side. The early afternoon heat had subsided, and I needed my rain jacket to keep warm. The first ten minutes or so didn’t amount to much on the pitch, and I spent a few moments eying up the various parts of the new stadium and wondering if the home fans would ever get going. The atmosphere wasn’t brilliant. I spotted a fair few empty seats opposite in what looked like a corporate zone. I had heard rumours that this was the case at the new stadium, and that Evertonians were far from happy that seats were appearing on third party sites way too easily. Sound familiar?

There was another in the long line of Sanchez mishaps after ten minutes as made an absolute balls-up of ushering the ball to a colleague, but thankfully, he was able to scramble the ball clear before Beto could cause the ultimate embarrassment. The away end howled their derision.

We were playing our usual slow build-up in which the two central defenders touched the ball more than our more creative players. I moaned to John that “football has got right up its own arse the past few years” and I hope we – somehow – return to a looser style of play.

With twenty minutes on the clock, and with just a lazy shot from Caicedo that had drifted wide to our name, it was all Everton. They were sharper on the ball and sharper off it. A shot from James Garner, whoever he is, was cleared by Gusto.

A voice behind me, booming out so that everyone could hear him, was winding me up. His voice was loud and boorish. He was calling several Chelsea players the most hideous of names. I bit my lip until I could bite it no more. I turned around.

“Listen mate, I admire your passion, but you can’t say that word here.”

It was a word that I had not heard on the football terraces ever before, nor outside of football – in polite society or not – for decades. My comment had riled him, and he then used several other unpleasant words over the next fifteen minutes or so with the sole intention of winding me up. I did not turn around. I did not react.

I was tempted to get out of the stadium, defeated. But I stayed, resolutely. I didn’t want this person to win.

Our play then improved a little for a few minutes, and we managed to conjure up a flurry of shots from a variety of players, all of which were blocked on their path to goal.

Sadly, on thirty-three minutes, out of nowhere, a lightning break caught us flat-footed at the back, and we all sensed danger. Garner sent the ball through for Beto, who had out-raced and out-thought Fofana, and he dinked the ball perfectly over Sanchez. It was a gut-wrenching sight to see the ball end up in the net with thousands of Evertonians behind the goal cheering along.

Fackinell.

Everton 1 Chelsea 0.

We hadn’t created too much from open play, and our best chance came soon after the Everton goal when Neto floated a corner in from the far corner, but Jordan Pickford flapped. The ball fell nicely for Enzo to smack the ball goalwards. However, Pickford threw up an arm and managed to palm the ball over. It was an amazing recovery and a fine save.

A chance fell for Lavia, from an Enzo cross, towards the closing moments but his header went wide.

By now, the bloke behind me had disappeared.

At half-time, I spoke to a woman in front, who was watching with her young son, and I mentioned to her that it was the look of pure disgust on her face that had prompted my words. She mentioned that the woman in front of her had reported the bloke to the stewards. He didn’t return for the second half.

A bloke to my left had a little word about the two goalkeepers.

“Imagine if we had Pickford in goal. Not Sanchez. The calm it would create in the defence.”

I had to agree.

At half-time, there was more Leich “criss-cross” being flashed on the advertising areas, but there had been nothing during the game, which was a shame from my perspective. Why not display this famous design a few times for a few minutes each half?

Liam Rosenior replaced Malo Gusto with Alejandro Garnacho and it took me and the bloke to my right a few moments to work it all out.

“Who has gone off” he asked.

“Looks like Gusto. Caicedo to right back” I replied.

That didn’t feel quite right to me, shades of Michael Essien filling in at right back in 2008. But it also meant Enzo sitting deeper and Palmer coming inside.

Everton still looked hungrier, with more energy, while we looked lazy and lethargic, a horrible combination. Chances were at a premium.

On fifty-seven minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Lavia, who still hasn’t got close to a full game for us.

Well, for a while we improved slightly and Enzo conjured a shot on goal, a curler that Pickford saved well.

Then, on sixty-two minutes, another quick break after Idrissa Gueye picked up a loose ball. He played the ball into the path of Beto – this had “goal” written all over it, that footballing sixth sense – and he sped away before slamming a low shot at goal. From a hundred yards away, we saw the ball emerge past Sanchez, and there was a futile attempt to hack it away. But the line had already been crossed.

Everton 2 Chelsea 0.

The replay was shown on the big screen, and there were howls from the away end as we saw the ball squirm under Sanchez.

Fackinell.

The noise, that had been simmering all afternoon, now took over the steep-sided stadium.

“Everton. Everton. Everton. Everton.”

It was loud as hell.

Chelsea carved out a rare chance after a neat Enzo one-two with Joao Pedro, but his lifted effort was well-saved by Pickford again.

The manager changed things again. On seventy-minutes, Estevao replaced Neto. His brightness down in front of the away support brought an up-turn in our noise, though in all honesty it felt that the game was well gone by this stage. He certainly added some zip to our play. One corner that he whipped in came crashing down onto the bar with Pickford for once well beaten. There are few players in this squad that I have a rapport with, but Estevao is one of them. His smiles are refreshing, his skills are lovely, his whole demeanour is of a “nice kid.”

A second corner was whipped-in, and that caused a problem too.

I chirped to John that “Estevao our best player and he’s only been on the pitch for five minutes.”

Alas, with fifteen minutes remaining, Everton moved the ball to Beto, who passed it on to Iliman Ndiaye. Bizarrely, I found myself leaning forward to get a good look at his approach on goal. I might have preferred, perhaps, to look away, or to move back. I saw the player curve a magnificent shot past Sanchez. I watched it every bit of the way.

Ugh.

Everton 3 Chelsea 0.

There followed more incredible noise from the Everton faithful. I would read a few days after the game that many Everton fans thought that the new stadium “came of age” against us. Some even said that it was on a par with some of the noisiest days at Goodison Park, notably the ECWC semi-final against Bayern Munich.

It might be the only honour we get this season.

Our section then thinned out steadily for the remaining minutes. On seventy-eight minutes, two more substitutions.

Tosin Adarabioyo for Moises Caicedo.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Yep, proof that Rosenior has a sense of humour.

At the end of the game, only around 20% of the 3,000 Chelsea supporters were still in the stadium. I must be a glutton for punishment as I was one of them. I stayed to see the reaction by the players to the supporters and from the supporters to the players.

It was grim stuff really. I think I momentarily clapped for a few seconds. The players faces were stern. At least they didn’t all sprint off down the tunnel. Rosenior clapped us, and I didn’t know what to think. But I do think that it was important that they stared down our bleak expressions.

If that miserable moment helps them understand our pain, then so be it.

The tide has turned against Rosenior. There are no more “Liam” chants at games. It seems that the bloke is out of his depth. He did relatively well in France at Strasbourg, but that is a relatively weak league where one team dominates and a few lesser protagonists jostle for scraps. I suspect that Madame Cholet could successfully manage a team in France.

I met up with the lads, and we took the lift down to ground level. Everyone around us was irritable and fed-up. We slowly walked out towards the exits, and we eventually shuffled through one of the four exit gates. Four exit gates for 52,500 seems crazy; the place needs more. We then began the – very – slow walk south. The walk back to the car took the best part of an hour. I suppose we pulled out of my parking spot at around 9pm.

To be fair, the car journey through the city and out to the M62 and then the M6 was surprisingly quick. We stopped off in Kensington, unlike the London version, a very low rent part of the city, and wolfed down some burgers and a kebab. Then, the long road south.

I eventually made it home at 2am.

Gallery

Staring Us Down

Goodbye

Hello

2022

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms

Smiles Before Kick-Off

We Will Be Back

Tales From The Anniversary Game

Posted on March 15, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 14 March 2026.

I was in early for the match with Newcastle United. I had left the chaps in the pub and fancied a little mooch around the stadium prior to entering. It was a sunny afternoon, with an occasional chill to the air.

As I approached my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, I heard my name being called. I spotted Joe, who is Hersham Bob’s son, and comes to occasional matches at The Bridge. Hersham Bob wasn’t going to be at this one, instead giving his ticket to Joe so that he could bring his Godson along to his very first Chelsea match. Instead, Bob had spent the afternoon watching his local team Walton & Hersham defeat Farnham Town. Joe asked if I could take a few photos of the two of them and I duly obliged.

I explained that I liked the synchronicity of this, since my first-ever Chelsea game was also against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. In fact, for the second time in three seasons, the football calendar almost gave me the perfect date for this game.

Back in 1974, Chelsea played Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge on Saturday 16 March.

Two years ago, approaching the fiftieth anniversary of my debut, Chelsea played Newcastle United at home on Monday 11 March. So near and yet so far from the perfect match.

And here we were, in 2026, closer still.

Prior to this game, I had seen Chelsea play the Geordies forty-three times at Stamford Bridge in the fifty-odd years since that momentous day in my life. Apart from the COVID season of 2020/21, you must go way back to 1985/86 to when I last missed a home league game against them. The appearance of those black and white shirts at Chelsea is always an important moment for me; it reconnects me with my childhood and some of the loveliest memories of going to football over the years.

That first game in 1974, the 6-0 rout in 1980 with Phil Driver on fire, watching as Pat Nevin ran riot in 1983, seeing the emergence of the Kevin Keegan-managed “Toon Army” from 1993 until 1996, and then meeting Keegan in the tunnel before a game in the Spring of 1995, then a hugely enjoyable 1-0 win against them as the league leaders a little later in 1995 and the utter domination of them for many years. In all of the thirty-six league games I had witnessed against them, there were just three Chelsea losses. In 1983, a 0-2 defeat with Kevin Keegan a player, in 1986 and a poor 1-3 defeat, then in 2012, a 0-2 loss and those two Papiss Cisse wonder strikes. There was also a 3-4 loss in a League Cup tie in 2010.

Like us, Newcastle are a strange team this season; they have been underperforming, and have been under Sunderland too, which might be seen as more of a concern to their followers.

While Hersham Bob was watching his hometown team winning in southwest London, my hometown team were winning in the southwest of England. Frome Town stormed to a 4-0 half-time lead at home to Bishops Cleeve – what a quintessentially English name – but there were no further goals to report. The win left Dodge with a mighty fine 27-5-2 record, and with a twelve-point gap at the top of our division. This outstanding record is the highest points-per-game yield in the first nine levels of the football pyramid in England and Wales. If there isn’t a trophy for that, there bloody well should be.

The spectators drifted in. There were still blue skies overhead.

The team?

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Plamer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

I had watched the PSG game on Wednesday on TV and thought we had been tasty until the Filip Jorgensen error that gifted the home team their third goal. I think this is a commonly held view. However, I couldn’t believe the amount of people who reckoned that we were poor for most of the game. Nah, couldn’t see that.

More than a few people outside the stadium had quizzed me beforehand:

“Can you play in goal?”

So, I returned the favour and asked others.

Alas, none of us could.

Outside on the Fulham Road, I spotted two new Nike advertisements on two billboards involving Estevao. The one on Brittania Road – a prime site – has featured Chelsea players before. I took one photo of Estevao’s image behind the ever-present religious missionary who has been at Stamford Bridge for around two decades (also spotted recently at Arsenal, you have to admire his persistence, I have never ever seen anyone stop and intelligently engage with him in all these years) and so I titled the image “Estevao The Redeemer.”

There were pre-match huddles – no, I didn’t spot the referee Paul Tierney in the middle of ours – after the usual pre-match flag-waving, flames and fireworks. Much was made of Reece James signing a six-year extension by the shouty-shouty match announcer, and his crowd-surfer flag appeared to my left in the MHL.

No Clive, no Alan; just PD and little old me in row D of the Sleepy Hollow for this one.

The lovely royal blue and the famous black-and-white stripes began their battle once again. There were a couple of Geordie staples to set things off :

“We are the Geordies, the Geordie Boot Boys…”

“Oh me lads, you should have seen us gannin…”

It was a pretty decent start, quite lively, and we enjoyed most of the early pressure, with Garnacho racing down the wing on the left. At times his running style is rather odd, like a hyper-active cartoon character. Unfortunately, many of his final decisions appear to be made by Bugs Bunny.

A corner was pinged into the box and Fofana leapt to meet the ball – snap! – but it flew over. Not long after, the ball was played inside to Palmer, but he sliced his shot well wide of the left-hand post. There were efforts from James and Garnacho, forever looking to creep inside and shoot. On the quarter of an hour, a nice break involved Garnacho passing to Enzo but his shot was blocked.

Alas, on eighteen minutes, Newcastle caught us out. They had not really threatened too much but former blue Tino Livramento was afforded too much space, but he also spotted space, a huge tract of land that would be worth millions if it was to be sold at market prices, knocking an early ball through our defensive lines to Joe Willock. I feared the outcome. He advanced and Sanchez rushed out. Instead of shooting, he passed to Anthony Gordon who easily pushed the ball in. The appeals for offside were too pathetic for further comment. We had been undone as simply as it gets. We were caught too square, and nobody was remotely close to Willock. It was shocking defending.

Bollocks.

Buoyed by this goal, the visitors now took command as the frustration grew in the home areas. Unfortunately, this manifested itself in one of my co-supporters calling Moises Caicedo a “C-word” and I inwardly fumed.

The Geordies pieced together a couple of half-chances, but thankfully the danger passed.

On the half-hour, Garnacho advanced and passed to Enzo, who intelligently dummied for Palmer to take aim. Alas, his shot was blocked.

Just after, after a terribly long lull, I heard the first real chant of the day from the home supporters, a half-hearted “Amazing Grace.”

Must do better.

Then, Sanchez did well to claw away an effort from Willock at the near post.

On thirty-six minutes, a strong curling effort from Palmer was turned around his post by Aaron Ramsdale in The Shed goal.

I then heard from the depths of the Sleepy Hollow, someone call Reece James, the club captain, a “C-Word.”

Simmer. Simmer. Simmer.

There was a rather unorthodox save, late on, from Sanchez, and the worry of a VAR check on some pushing-and-shoving by the captain at a corner. Thankfully, no penalty.

There were boos at half-time. I felt like booing our support; we had been as quiet as lambs.

It had been a poor game of football thus far, and I momentarily thought back to that intoxicating game of football that took place in December 1995, forty percent of the way through my history with this lot, and the personalities and players on the pitch and the sidelines. At the time, our manager Glenn Hoddle had begun to use wingbacks and ours were Dan Petrescu and Terry Phelan. Eddie Newton and Dennis Wise were our stalwarts in midfield, while Mark Hughes lead the line. The visitors were managed by Kevin Keegan and his team included Lee Clark, Keith Gillespie, David Ginola, Peter Beardsley and Les Ferdinand. A powerful angled strike from Petrescu gave us the 1-0 win. Over thirty years on, I can vividly remember the thrill of watching a magnificent match at an absolutely rammed Stamford Bridge from the temporary seats at The Shed. The gate was 31,098, and the Geordies lost their first game of the season to us that day. It is a match that is often overlooked in favour of the more high-scoring triumphs – take your pick – against the Tynesiders, but that game and that atmosphere and that victory were huge.

It was a wonderful Chelsea performance, but the best was to come after the game had ended. In 1994, a book called “Blue Is The Colour” was written by Khadija Buckland, a native of West London, who was living close by in Chippenham in Wiltshire. Glenn and I became acquainted with her via her friendship with Ron Harris and, after a while, we arranged to take Khadija up to Chelsea so she could sell her book in the executive areas of the East Stand. Anyway, to cut to the chase, as a reward for taking her up, she had arranged for Glenn, my Geordie mate Pete and me to gain entrance to the players’ bar after the game with Newcastle. We shuffled around by the entrance to the tunnel and waited by a door. I remember that pop star Robbie Williams quickly left the bar and we were then escorted in by Khadija.

Talk about the inner sanctum.

In a small room behind the old changing rooms (which I am sure no longer exists, what with the enlarging of the home dressing room area), we stood at the cosy bar, while Dennis Wise, his girlfriend and mother were chatting in a small group. A few players flitted in and out. I always remember Mark Hughes; arriving quietly, standing at the bar alone, silently sipping a lager. I went over to ask him to sign the programme and I was genuinely awestruck.

Shall we go back to 2026?

Do we have to?

The manager took off Gusto and replaced him with Liam Delap. The shuffle around was easy to work out. James to right-back, Enzo in midfield, Joao Pedro behind Delap. It had a far more attacking feel.

Garnacho was soon involved down below me, but how I wished that he wouldn’t cut back onto his right peg…Every. Single. Time.

Harvey Barnes raced away on a quick break, taking the ball right into the danger area, and I feared danger, but his final pass to Nick Woltemade was heavy, and the chance evaporated.

Delap then looked lively, picking up a loose ball and shooting at goal, but Ramsdale was able to push the ball wide.

At last, some noise from the Matthew Harding.

“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”

For the first fifteen minutes of the half, with the Stamford Bridge crowd now energised a little, and with the volumes at pretty reasonable levels – for 2026, not 1995 – it honestly felt like an equaliser was on its way and we would be in contention for a much-needed win. Chances didn’t really materialise though; a shot from Joao Pedro was blocked – snap – but there was little else. We found it difficult to penetrate Newcastle’s two banks of players. God knows what Kevin Keegan would have made of it all.

There was an odd substitution on sixty-one minutes; arguably our best player Caicedo was replaced by “half-a-game” Romeo Lavia.

On sixty-eight minutes, a really fine save from Sanchez down at The Shed denied Gordon. Just after, a Delap run in the inside-right channel but his shot came to nothing. Just after, a delightful cross from Reece found Cucurella who set up Delap. Alas, his effort from merely yards away was unceremoniously booted over the crossbar.

We screamed in anguish. This was the golden chance.

Damn it.

Then, a corner was cleared, Reece crossed the ball in again, but the ball went wide.

On eighty-two minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

Four minutes later, Chalobah met a James corner with a high leap at the far post – snap – but the ball sailed high and wide.

Fackinell.

Then, another Delap chance; a header, over.

The narrative is clear here, isn’t it? Half-chance followed half-chance, but our finishing was woeful.

Eight minutes of added time were signalled, and I remained – stupidly, naively, pathetically – optimistic. Two minutes in, a free kick was awarded in a good area. Messrs Palmer and James met in a two-man huddle thirty yards out to discuss who would take the kick. In the end, the captain shot.

There was a roar and I was up celebrating but could then hardly believe that it had not caused the net to ripple and flutter.

Ballbags.

One last chance, a looper from Joao Pedro from a Palmer cross that nestled apologetically on the roof of the net.

Sigh.

We lost 0-1.

Newcastle finally had our number.

There were more boos at the final whistle.

Despite that ridiculous rollcall of chances, did we ever look like scoring?

I bumped into Long Tall Pete on the Fulham Road and he suggested not.

We had been poor. Newcastle were no great shakes either. It was another example, in a long, long list, of games that just failed to entertain us all.

Just after meeting up with Pete, I spotted the world’s most pathetic and useless sign, which was advising pedestrians as they walked along the road to do the following:

“PLEASE KEEP TO YOUR LEFT OR RIGHT.”

And I immediately thought how this had summed up our play not only on this day, but on many others too. Don’t worry about hitting players early with a direct ball up the middle, to keep defences worried about how to defend, nor hit incisive passes forward into the path of breaking midfielders, but just keep passing laterally to your left and to your right, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

If there was one thing that had made the game slightly bearable it was the occasional glimpse of the sublime talent that is Cole Palmer. He wasn’t exceptional, nor even great, but there were moments when he mesmerised both his markers, and me, and this was no mean feat on a day of such poor play.

If this game had been played forty years ago and had not been on TV in every nation that wanted to see it, the result would have not merited much of a debate.

“I see Chelsea lost at home. Did you go?”

“Yeah, never looked like scoring. Just couldn’t put many moves together. Cole Palmer was worth the admission money, mind.”

In 2026, immediately after kick-off, millions of words were exchanged about our inadequacies, and everything seemed magnificently overblown. I am all for debate and appraisal and all, but sometimes I just want to scream at the levels of toxicity. Inside the stadium, we had hardly played our part, leaving it unfashionably late to start to cheer the team on. But such is modern football and the dynamics have changed.

I have written over two million words on this website about Chelsea games and I fully suspect thousands have been written about the decay of the Stamford Bridge atmosphere. Our traditional support has become older and less likely to engage in boisterous singing, while our newer generation of fans have perhaps become spoilt or even blasé, plus there is the view that clueless visitors from foreign fields do not understand the fan culture, nor add to the atmosphere. Crucially, there are real fears that our bedrock support is being priced out. All those factors play a part in the terrible demise of our matchday atmosphere.

There has also been a subtle shift in attitude. As I have said before, we used to go as supporters. Now everyone is a bloody expert.

Among all this doom and gloom, I still think that we are just a decent goalkeeper and an experienced central defender away from competing, but that just might be the naïve and overly optimistic me. Can Clearlake commit to that? It doesn’t match their model – buying young kids for resale – and that is the big problem. But surely if we fixed those two areas, we would increase our chances to make money which is all that they bloody care about.

Right then, who’s going to the second leg against that French lot on Tuesday?

See you there.

Tales From An In-And-Out Mission

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2026.

I have previously penned ten match reports involving Chelsea away games at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace and I suspect that in each one of them I have mentioned the difficulty in reaching the stadium via whatever means possible.

It’s just not an enjoyable journey by train nor car.

Also, once the immediate area of the stadium is reached, there is only one pub that is hospitable to away fans.

For these reasons, and for the fact that the kick-off time on this Sunday in January was 2pm, it was soon decided that this would be a simple “in-and-out” trip with no pre-match, and a hopefully quick exit after.

PD had recovered from his ailments that forced him to miss Pafos, and I collected him at 8.30am, and Parky at 9am. Bizarrely, my sat nav took me east into very familiar territory – Fulham Broadway – before I shot over Wandsworth Bridge and straight south to a pre-paid parking spot to the north of Selhurst Park on Holmesdale Road, from which the Palace home end is named.

I spoke to the lads about my trip to Bristol the previous day to see my first Frome Town game of the year, and my first for over six weeks. My home town team defeated our old rivals Bristol Manor Farm 3-2 and are now, quite remarkably, a massive eleven points clear at the top.

This last section of driving took me a full forty-five minutes, and it honestly felt that I had driven on every street in south London. In the last couple of miles, my car climbed to the summit of Beaulieu Heights – and the views over a misty south London caught my breath – thus placing me within a hundred yards of the famous TV mast that has peered over Selhurst Park for decades.

Every time I see that mast, it takes me back to my first-ever visit to Selhurst Park in August 1989 when we lost 0-3 to tenants Charlton Athletic, my last Chelsea game before I disappeared off to North America for ten months. Emotional goodbyes to a loved one, surely, should never be that crap.

I dropped the lads off as close to the away turnstiles as possible, and was parked up at 12.30pm, a full four hours after picking up PD.

I had been expecting a typically soggy Selhurst, especially since I was in the front row for this game. However, on the walk to the away end, I was amazed how mild the weather was, and that the rain had held off.

There is an impressive mural in honour of Wilfred Zaha on the end of a house that overlooks that top corner of Selhurst. It sets the scene nicely. There are street vendors, vloggers, and both sets of fans milling around. You really get a sense of how the pitch was dug into the hilly contours of the area, much like at Hampden Park and Molineux. The rising line of houses on the hill at the far end evokes memories of players such as Don Rogers, Alan Whittle and our own Charlie Cooke playing for Palace in the early ‘seventies. It seems that Selhurst Park will always be set in the past, despite a flash upgrade on the main stand being given the go-ahead recently.

Inside, I soon bumped into PD and Parky – with the famous Druce brothers – and spotted the Kentuckians who were still in town. They were amazed how Selhurst sat cheek-by-jowl with tight residential streets. The visitors had seen Bromley play – and win – on the Saturday. They were looking for three straight Chelsea victories on this trip. There was also time for a photo with Stuart, a Chelsea season ticket holder from a nearby village to me. Lastly, a chat with Dave from Alsager in Cheshire, who has recently started penning some entertaining match reports this season.

I reached my seat in good time. Damn that winter sun shining bright above the main stand. And damn the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car.

I was joined by my mate Stephen from Belfast, via New Orleans, and we had a good old natter.

After years of awful sightlines in the away end, I was just happy to have an unimpeded view of the entire pitch, even the corner flag away to my left, an object that I only ever presumed existed having not seen it since a visit to see us take on Wimbledon – another tenant – in 1998 when the Chelsea fans were lodged behind the goal that was to my right.

The kick-off approached.

Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James

Benoit Badiashile

Trevoh Chalobah

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Estevao William

Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Flames, fireworks, and the sky was flecked with red, white and blue plumes of smoke.

Crystal Palace were in the latest version of their red and blue stripes and Chelsea were in the off-white ensemble but with those muted green socks.

The Chelsea lot were in good voice as the game began.

We attacked the curved roof of the Holmesdale Road Stand, but the first chance for either team took place at the Whitehorse Lane End. The much-derided Badiashile lost possession, and the striker Jean-Phillippe Mateta struck a firm effort goalwards. Thankfully Sanchez was in fine form, the ball hitting his right-leg, and then flying away to safety.

As against Pafos, we watched a succession of James corners being flighted towards the near post. There was a shot from Enzo, centrally, that was fired over the bar.

Mateta was a towering presence, and he was involved with a few good battles with Chalobah as the half-developed.

The home team had been going through a tough time, with their manager deciding to let on that he was feeling perhaps too claustrophobic among those narrow and overcrowded Selhurst streets and that he would be away in the summer. Their form had dipped prior to this game. There seemed like a degree of tension from their fans.

We goaded them with chants about their “famous atmosphere.”

It was a mixed start to the game with dull build-ups from us, but then occasional rapid breaks. Both Stephen and I noticed that Estevao was quiet in the first twenty minutes.

I tended to become nervous when the ball was played to Badiashile. I always feel that his left boot is on his right foot, while his right boot is on his left foot.

Meanwhile, Cucurella was charging around, covering the inadequacies of others with his usual terrier-like dynamism.

Limited chances were exchanged. Both teams struggled to find their feet, and the game took some time to really get going.

On thirty-four minutes, a defensive mistake in front of the old main stand – an errant back-pass from Jaydee Canvot, whoever he is – and Estevao was away, racing at top speed towards the Palace ‘keeper and captain Dean Henderson. I thought that he had taken the ball too far, but he lashed it past the ‘keeper and the Chelsea crowd roared.

FACKINGETIN.

Huge celebrations from us all, and I turned my pub camera towards my fellow fans in the front row.

Euphoria.

From a few yards away to my left.

“THTCAUN.”

Alan was at the game, fantastic.

The home team improved after our goal, and it became a decent contest.

There was still time to annoy Palace though : “where’s your famous atmosphere?”

Stephen commented “give it to Estevao, he’s more of a threat than the rest put together.”

Five minutes before the break, Estevao took off on a brilliant run, racing past his marker with aplomb, but we watched in agony as his low shot whizzed past the far post.

Fackinell.

At half-time, I was happy. The players had improved in that first forty-five minutes. With them attacking us in the second period – and with me in the front row with my camera – everything was looking positive. The rain was still holding off.

The players “huddled” before the second half, and I wondered why.

Four minutes into the second-half, Chalobah won a battle with Mateta and intelligently passed to Joao Pedro, who passed to Enzo. Enzo passed to Estevao who lofted a beautiful first-time pass towards Joao Pedro. He sold Adam Wharton a dummy, cut inside and struck at goal. I saw the ball fly up and into the roof of the net.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

More noise.

I felt a hand push me forward from behind – “here we go, these celebrations at Selhurst can get ridiculous” – but that was it. I steadied myself, as best I could, and snapped away.

We were 2-0 up and our play improved further as the second half continued. This was very enjoyable.

Estevao – “Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o!” – then let fly at Henderson who kept him at bay with an acrobatic one-handed save.

On sixty-four minutes, Henderson got a hand on a cross from Enzo, and the ball fell to Joao Pedro. He shot, but it was blocked. Play continued, we thought nothing of it.

Then after the best part of a minute, VAR chirped up.

Another minute.

Why do these fucking reviews take so long?

The mic’d up referee Darren England spoke…

He first talked about an “accidental handball” but then pointed to the spot, and I could not have been more at a loss as to working out the modern laws. The “accidental” bit saved him Canvot – yes, him again – from a red.

Enzo collected the ball from down in front of us, placed it on the spot and steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

He shot.

I shot.

Goal.

We were 3-0 up.

GETINYOUBUGGER.

More up-close-and-personal photos.

Lovely stuff.

I had not noticed Wharton’s first yellow, but on seventy-two minutes he fouled again and a voice nearby went up :

“Second yellow!”

Indeed, the referee agreed and off he went.

This reminded me of the away game at Manchester City at the start of the month when a nearby wag shouted “second yellow” every time a City player tackled a Chelsea player with extra aggression. Ah, that terrace humour.

On seventy-four minutes, changes.

Wesley Fofana for Caicedo.

Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

On eighty-one minutes, another change.

Jorrel Hato for James.

On eighty-five minutes, a final change.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Bizarrely, being down to ten men seemed to inspire Palace and they enjoyed a surprisingly positive end to the match. On eighty-eight minutes, Sanchez saved well from a Jefferson Lerma header, but Chris Richards was on hand for a consolation goal.

A huge nine minutes of extra time were signalled, and yes – of course – this caused ripples of concern in the Arthur Wait stand.

But we saw them out.

The players came over to milk the applause, and shirts were hoisted into the away end.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

I am warming to the bloke.

Outside, I met up with a few mates and eventually Parky joined PD and myself. We trundled back to the waiting car.

We were happy as hell.

It had been a fine day in deepest South.

Tales From A Day Of Total Football

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Woverhampton Wanderers : 8 November 2025.

Rarely would a day be as totally devoted to football as this one.

When I went to bed on the Friday, I knew that as soon as I woke up, I would be on a conveyor belt of football-related activities that would last the whole day.

There would be a breakfast with my good friend Courtney from Chicago, visiting for a Frome Town game, then a blog to finish off, then a Frome Town game at 3pm, then a drive to London for a Chelsea game in the evening. And heaven knows what time I would be home from that.

During the week there had been, of course, the game in Baku and it was bittersweet to see so many friends travelling over for the match with Qarabag while I remained in England.

To coin a phrase from the Falklands War, “I counted them all out, and I counted them all back.”

Everyone enjoyed the trip by the look of it.

I was awake at 6.45am, and I drove into Frome to collect Courtney for a breakfast at one of the Farm Shops that have evolved over recent years in the local area. We chatted over a breakfast that included black pudding and Bubble & Squeak, and Frome Town was the dominant topic rather than Chelsea. It wasn’t surprising. He is, after all, the Frome Town chairman. Courtney had hoped that our game with Wolverhampton Wanderers would be shunted to the Sunday so he could attend two matches during his very short stay, but it wasn’t to be.

On the way back to Frome, I drove through a few local villages to give Courtney a taste of the local scenery. We drove past the majesty of the George pub at Norton St. Philip – built in the fifteenth century – and saw the stocks on the village green at Faulkland, then on into Frome via Hardington and Buckland Dinham, with the autumn colours giving a vibrant backdrop to our journey, and with a pure blue sky above.

Once I was home, I finished off the “match section” of the Tottenham blog after editing the photos and typing out the “pre-match” a few days before. As ever, it took me between three and four hours to complete the entire thing.

I eventually posted it at just after midday.

It was at this time that my usual match-going colleagues – PD and LP – were arriving in London at Paddington. They had made their own way up and were going on a mini pub crawl with “Greek” and “Salisbury” before the match and were then coming home with me.

I arrived earlier than usual at Badgers Hill, at around 1.45pm. It was still a beautiful day, no clouds above, and I was able to stop and chat to a nice selection of friends – a couple I met back in 1978 – and match-going acquaintances before the game with Hartpury. The visitors represent Hartpury College in Gloucestershire, and this was our first-ever meeting.

I was hoping for a gate of around 500 for this game. The two games before drew 525 and 514.

Before the match, the crowd quietened and the players of both teams stood in the centre circle. A bugler played “The Last Post” and this was followed by two minutes of pristine silence. I stood, head bowed, near the corner flag.

I was pleased that Courtney was able to witness this moment.

Of course, there is a special link with Chelsea Football Club and the recognition of remembering those lost in conflict, and I hoped that I would arrive at Stamford Bridge later that evening to witness the pre-match ceremony. If not, at least I had this.

Unfortunately, the first half of the game was a very scrappy affair and not many chances were created for either side. I thought the visitors shaded the first half-an-hour, but Frome slowly improved. I photographed a header from Albie Hopkins that brought a fine save from former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. We watched the first half from the Clubhouse End but switched to see the second half in The Cowshed along the side. Courtney chose to watch from the Clink End alongside the Ultras’ flag that bears his name.

I love the many little parts that make up Badgers Hill, all with their own little quirks and charms.

My Chelsea mate Glenn appeared to watch the second half with my gaggle of Frome mates, and we were rewarded with a much-improved second half showing. We turned the screw as the game continued and played the last half-an-hour with three strikers. Although we went close, that all-important goal wouldn’t materialise.

It stayed at 0-0 and the gate was just shy of my target; 495.

It meant that Frome Town were in third place in the league but were top of the attendances by some margin.

Frome Town 473

Melksham Town 379

Westbury United 327

Malvern Town 311

Portishead Town 306

I met up with Courtney, with Glenn by my side, at the end of the game, just before I left the stadium.

“Well, I just wish both of you could hop into my car and we could go to Chelsea tonight, but…”

My voice trailed off.

I pulled away from the Selwood School overflow carpark dead on 5pm.

I was on my way east.

My GPS signalled that I would roll in at about 7.20pm.

“Perfect.”

On the drive to London, I half-listened to the Sunderland vs. Arsenal game. There were intermittent reports from Twickenham and the England vs. Fiji rugby union game, and after each one I belted out “no one cares.”

At around 6.30pm, I found myself driving right past Twickenham, and I certainly didn’t care.

When Arsenal went 2-1 up, I turned the radio off.

Traffic slowed a little, and I wasted a few minutes finding somewhere to park, but at 7.30pm I was parked on Barons Court Road opposite West Kensington tube station.

Despite my best efforts – and with speed limits always honoured – I reached the Matthew Harding Stand at 8pm. When I reached the turnstile, there were only four people behind me. However, I didn’t reach my seat until 8.07pm, thus missing the minute of silence, and the kick-off.

PD was happy to see me as I sidled past.

I would soon learn that we had got off to a very decent start.

I would also find out that a very late Sunderland equaliser had spoiled Arsenal’s day out in the North-East.

Right. I needed to acclimatize.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Garnacho

Delap

This was our second game against the Wanderers from Wolverhampton in ten days, but since the last match they had dispensed with their manager, and were now being coached by committee, one of whom could well have been their coach driver.

With just two points on the board this season, it felt like they were down already. Their team was largely unfamiliar to me; here was an ensemble of whoevers, whatevers, and even a Hoever on their subs bench.

Well dear reader, despite the apparently decent start, as soon as I plonked my ‘arris on Seat 369, the game went to pieces. It was if it was my punishment for arriving unfashionably late.

So, for this, I am truly sorry.

The game meandered along at a very leisurely pace.

One incident on twenty minutes summed up my frustration and the frustrations of those around me. The ball was just outside our box after a tepid Wolves foray into our half, and Enzo was on the ball, centrally. I looked up to see Pedro Neto, right on the halfway line, holding his position, but ready to bust into acres of space, his marker tucked inside.

I yelled out “hit him Enz’, it’s in your locker.”

He ignored me – maybe I should learn Spanish – but chose to play trigonometry in the “D”, knocking the ball to a spare defender, who then played it to Sanchez; we favoured tiny triangles in the penalty box rather than a long chip into space.

How irritating.

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, we then saw a flurry of activity at The Shed End.

Enzo crashed a bouncing bomb of an effort at the Wolves goal, but their ‘keeper Sam Johnstone tipped it over. From the resulting corner, Enzo’s inswinger was hacked off the line by a defender. We then hit the side netting with a shot from close in.

On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding suddenly realised that it is their job to support the team and a rather lacklustre and lethargic “Come On Chelsea” was heard.

The play down below me was equally lacklustre and lethargic.

I mumbled to myself “the new Chelsea ethos – why take one touch when you can take five?”

There was a slightly more spirited show of support when an “Amazing Grace” rumbled around The Bridge but this was a poor game, both on and off the pitch.

In the closing moments of the half, Joao Pedro screwed a shot wide of the far post after an effort from Enzo was blocked. Alejandro Garnacho was the instigator of this chance, and he looked like the only one who was being a little more direct. Marc Cucurella was full of fight, but only these two seemed to be playing with much integrity.

Just before half-time, my Frome mate Steve messaged me: “another 0-0 would be cruel.”

At the break, I heard from PD about their four-stop pub crawl from Paddington to Fulham; seven hours of it. Gulp.

The second half began with Steve’s words ringing in my ears.

Two goalless draws would indeed be cruel.

In the first minute, a bursting run from Pedro Neto and a cross to the otherwise quiet Liam Delap, but his delicate touch went well wide.

Five minutes later, Garnacho and Cucurella teased an opening down below me. The former sent over a cross with his right foot, and I watched with pleasure as Malo Gusto arrived at the back post to head down and in.

Chelsea 1 Wolves 0.

Phew.

My rise to my feet for this goal was slow, and it honestly shocked me. Maybe I was just fed up I didn’t have my camera out to snap the goal. I made sure I took some of the celebrations. It was Gusto’s first-ever goal for us.

A strike from outside the box from Delap was hardly worthy of the name.

On the hour, the first shot of the game from the visitors.

On sixty-four minutes, a change.

Estevao Willian for Delap, and Joao Pedro was shunted forward. This warmed the crowd, especially in the absence of Cole Palmer; someone to excite us.

His impact was sudden. He accelerated past two markers and aimed a low cross towards Neto in the box – on film, but too poor to share – but the ball was deflected towards Joao Pedro. He slammed it in.

Goal.

Chelsea 2 Wolves 0.

Lovely stuff.

Wolves were faced with the choice of “stick or twist” and chose the latter. They opened up a little. On seventy-three minutes, an aimless punt was headed away by Trevoh Chalobah, and Enzo adeptly pushed it up towards Garnacho. This time, my camera was ready. He put the burners on and raced past his marker. As he neared the box, he spotted Neto inside. My photo is a little blurred, but I think it captures the moment. Neto slammed it in.

Chelsea 3 Wolves 0.

That goal could have been Pedro and Diego Costa in the autumn of 2016.

We were home and dry now, and the manager changed things again.

Marc Guiu for Pedro Neto.

The substitute came close, soon after, when Moises Caicedo won the ball back, and set up a move involving Estevao and Joao Pedro, whose shot was parried, and Guiu could only stoop and head against the post on the follow up.

If only Marc Guiu could be a little more like Mark Hughes.

Garnacho was on fire, and set up Guiu, but a shot went wide.

Two late substitutions.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Jamie Gittens for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-five minutes, a Cucurella error and a rare Wolves shot on goal.

Meanwhile, in the closing moments, The Shed occupied itself with some old-school chanting…

“We’re the middle, we’re the middle…”

“We’re the west side, we’re the west side…”

It would have been pretty funny if Wolves joined in.

“We’re the white wall…”

The game was won – well won – in the end, but oh that first-half, as at Frome, was so poor.

I met up with Parky for the first time of the day as I picked them both up on Lillee Road.

Sadly, traffic delays on the M4 and a diversion via the A4 meant that I did not reach home until 2.30am. I couldn’t even be bothered to check the photos from both games and shot straight to bed soon after.

6.45am to 2.45am.

Sixteen hours of football.

It’s a good job I am on time-and-a-half on Saturdays.

See you all at Burnley.

FROME TOWN VS. HARTPURY

CHELSEA VS. WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS

Tales From A Black Country Comedy

Posted on November 4, 2025 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2025.

On an increasingly cold night in Wolverhampton, we watched Chelsea produce a fine first-half performance but to then self-implode in an increasingly bizarre, and at times comedic, second half. We ended up edging the game in a seven-goal thriller, although it was hardly a bona fide thriller. If anything, it was a black comedy.

A Black Country comedy.

After a decent but lengthy trip up to Lincolnshire for our first battle in this season’s League Cup, we could hardly resist a nice little jaunt into the West Midlands for a tie with Wolves.

I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, and the three usual protagonists were joined by my work colleague Simon. For a while, Simon was a bit of a Jonah on these Chelsea trips; he went winless in around seven trips a while ago. If we lost this one, I wondered if I should leave him up in in the wilds of the Black Country.

Heading north and over the M4, the trusty Sat Nav sent us on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the Southern Cotswolds, apparently avoiding roadworks and delays on the usual M4/M5 route. There was a little drama as Parky had difficulty in locating the email containing the elusive ticket for the evening’s game. Eventually, Simon sorted him out.

My ETA at Broad Street Car Park was around 6.15pm. The journey time of just over three hours would be longer than usual. Oh well, rush hour traffic south of Birmingham can’t be – er – rushed,

At least I was rewarded with some cracking views as I descended from The Cotswolds and into the Severn Vale at Coaley Peak. Then, for a while on the M5, while the others slept, clear blue skies to my west contrasted with wild and towering clouds over the hills to my east, the whole of that section of sky coloured with a lavender wash, but with dark grey brooding clouds in the distance, but then the tops of clouds were searing white, given life by the fading sun.

I wished that I could have stopped on the hard shoulder to take a few photographs.

A quick stop at Frankley Services, and then the slow approach into Wolverhampton through Dudley and Coseley.

The Sat Nav was bang on; I was parked up at 6.15pm. Simon sorted out the relevant parking App, and we then walked the ten minutes to Molineux.

All along I doubted that this game would sell out, despite the cheap ticket prices. We paid just £15 in the away section. I presumed that home areas were similarly priced. We stayed a while in the concourse, chatting to a few loyalists. Simon devoured a Balti Pie; PD supped a hot chocolate. After the Sunderland defeat, nobody was clear what performance was coming from Team Maresca.

I headed into the seats at 7.15pm. I was in row K, the tenth of fourteen in that elongated away tier, towards the Wolves’ South Bank.

The squad were running through their stretches, sprints and drills.

The substitutes were stretching with those elasticated resistance bands on their calves. From a distance, it looked like a load of blokes, hungover after a night on the ale, trying to put their underpants on.

The stadium at this stage was barely a third full. Our section took a while to fill too.

It was getting colder, but my new fleece-lined K-Way jacket was doing me proud.

With ten minutes to kick-off, there was a very half-hearted “Hi Ho Wolverhampton” and I wondered if the crowd would grow any further.

Next, “Firestarter” was played as the flames were set loose in front of us, and it temporally warmed us.

Then an homage to their life president Robert Plant, “Whole Lotta Love” and Kashmir” as kick-off approached. There were gaps everywhere, in the top corners of the main stand opposite, the odd “temporary” seats in the far corner to my left were devoid of people, as was the right-hand side of the ugly two-tier stand to my right.

As the teams appeared, a very odd choice of songs.

“Those Were The Days” by Mary Hopkin.

Ah, Mary Hopkin, my first-ever girlfriend, stop laughing at the back. I remember being exited when I heard that she was from Wales and that we were going to Tenby in South Wales for a family holiday in around 1968 and I wondered if I would meet her. I was only three.

I’m still waiting, Mary.

Now, I’m not sure if this song was meant to reference Wolves’ glory years. If it was, it was a decade out. A song by the Beverley Sisters would have been more apt.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Acheampong – Tosin – Hato

Lavia – Santos

Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens

George

It did not come as much of a surprise that Josh was the only player to retain his place from the Sunderland debacle, squad rotation et al.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked off.

Chelsea, in a crisp all-white kit, attacked the South Bank.

Very soon into the game, the locals teased us.

“We can’t say it, you know what you are.”

Oh boy.

“World Champions, you mean?”

We began well, and after just five minutes, Jamie Gittens picked up a loose ball inside the Wolves half and the ball ran on and into the path of Andrey Santos, who calmly slotted the ball home past Jose Sa.

Santos raced over to celebrate to my left.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.

The home team came at us on the occasional break, and their wide men floated in a couple of testing crosses. It was a lively start.

One of the blokes to my left had already claimed that “Tyrique George ain’t a striker” – I knew what he meant, he’s a wide player, and doesn’t have the physicality to lead the line in a traditional way – so imagine the looks he received when a really fine move flowed through our team, and Gittens set up George to push the ball in from close range.

Only a quarter of an hour had elapsed.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.

Just after, we went close again. A Gittens shot was blocked by Sa, but George was just unable to control the rebound, and the ball went wide.

Gittens was enjoying tons of space on the left, close to us, and a clipped cross caused havoc again.

It was lovely to be so close to Gittens as he continually exploited space on our left. I lost count of the times that he advanced with confidence, teasing their right back.

The lad hadn’t really enjoyed a great start at Chelsea.

Kev sagely commented that the adage of giving everyone one season to settle in at a new club still rings true, and we both hoped that Gittens will go on to find his true form. This first-half performance from him lit up the cold Wolverhampton night.

“Their right back will be having nightmares later on…”

On forty-one minutes, Wolves attempted to play the ball out, but Chelsea were having none of it. Santos stole the ball, and it ran towards Estevao. One touch to control, one touch to cheekily lob the ball over Sa.

Get in.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.

At half-time, the temperature worsened.

As our team took to the pitch at the start of the second period, I experienced a very odd feeling. I quickly glimpsed at them all, in an unfamiliar all white kit, and the players, taken as a whole, suddenly seemed oddly unfamiliar.

This jolted me.

I quickly attributed this to our large squad of mainly young, and relatively new players, and the fact that our team changes so bloody often.

It honestly felt that I hardly knew these players.

A few friends and acquaintances often say they feel no connection to the players in the current squad and here was a similar feeling for me. For a few fleeting moments, it felt that the players were ghosts in my consciousness…

Little did I know then, but for the next forty-five minutes, they played like they were bloody ghosts too.

The home team, with two half-time substitutions, suddenly upped their game, and went close with a cracking volley from Arokodare, who had headed just wide from a Wolves free kick in the closing minutes of the first half.

On forty-seven minutes, Buonanotte gave the ball away cheaply and the ball was worked out to Arokodare – a suspicion of offside? – who swept the ball in from their left.

Wolves 1 Chelsea 3.

Get out.

A succession of petty fouls from us gave Wolves some sort of motivation and they seemed emboldened. We, however, lacked desire and application.

On the hour, Maresca made three substitutions.

Marc Cucurella for Malo Gusto.

Enzo Fernandez for Romeo Lavia.

Liam Delap for Estevao.

As Delap strode onto the pitch, I thought to myself “yeah, we have missed you mate.”

I wondered if we had created a single effort on goal in this half. I thought not.

On seventy-two minutes, George gave away a damn silly foul on a Wolves defender. The defender was about twenty yards away from his own goal line, going nowhere. My message at times like this is always the same.

“Pen him in.”

Those around me were fuming at George too.

One lad said, “if we let in a second, nightmare.”

From the resulting free kick, the ball was knocked forward, and Wolves won a throw on the far side.

Oh great, a long throw.

The ball came in, the ball bobbled off heads and finally dropped for David Moller Wolfe who slammed it low past Joregensen from an angle.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 3.

Get out.

On seventy-six minutes, Pedro Neto replaced George.

Delap received a yellow card for bringing his hands up to push away a marker, and I lambasted him for being so silly.

On eighty-five minutes, Moises Caicedo replaced Buonanotte.

It seemed that the manager had taken too bloody long to realise the paucity of quality in this half and that he chose to bring on our strongest – in every sense of the word – player with just five minutes to go speaks volumes.

A minute later, I watched closely as Delap jumped with his marker, untidily, then elbowed the defender.

A second yellow.

No words.

Ugh.

Down to ten men, again, we were now hanging on in a game that looked done and dusted at the break.

The minutes ticked by.

I admitted to others that “we don’t deserve to win this.”

There was a comment about Halloween coming up soon, and this being a premature horror show.

At that exact moment, Gittens was put through and without a single touch to steady the ball, he lobbed the Wolves ‘keeper with an amazing first-time effort.

Get in, Gittens.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 4.

I looked at Kev and said “that’s just funny” without the merest hint of a celebratory cheer.

As six minutes of extra time was announced on the PA, I was checking my ‘phone and I looked up to see both the ball and Cucurella end up in the net.

They must have scored straight from the kick-off, how I do not know.

Wolves 3 Chelsea 4.

Get out.

What a ramshackle, preposterously bad, comedy-show of a football match.

Fackinell.

As we assembled outside before walking back to the car, it honestly felt like we had lost. I took little pride in this match. It had been, ultimately, a mess of a football game.

It could, of course, have been worse. Also playing during the evening were Frome Town, at home to local rivals Larkhall Athletic. Frome went 1-0 up but eventually lost 1-3. Two losses would have been hard to take.

There were diversions on the way home, too, and it meant that I didn’t reach my house until 1.20am. On that drive back to civilisation, we learned that we had been drawn away again in this competition, at Cardiff City.

There’s nice.

Postscript : when I woke on Thursday morning, it still felt like a loss.

Tales From The Long Haul

Posted on October 26, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Ajax : 22 October 2025.

Our second home game of the Champions League campaign was to be against the famous Ajax of Amsterdam, but this match report does not begin in either London or Amsterdam, but in Miami.

A month or so ago, UEFA “reluctantly” – their words, not mine – allowed the first-ever games to take place outside national European boundaries.

There was to be a game between Barcelona and Villareal in Miami, Florida and a game between Milan and Como in Perth, Western Australia.

Thankfully, on the morning of our game, it was announced by La Liga that their game would not be happening, and I – and hopefully most football supporters – was extremely happy. It felt like a glorious rebuff to the shady money-makers that lurk in and around football’s commercial landscape these days.

One down, one to go.

The Italian game might be a harder nut to crack, but let’s hope Serie A refuse to allow it too. The San Siro is being used for the opening ceremony of 2026 Winter Olympics, and I believe that the Milan directors are using this as an excuse to find an alternative venue for their home game with Como two days later. But surely, a venue swap should take place here? Milan are due to play Como at San Siro on 8 February 2026, while Como are at home to Milan on 21 December. Just swap the venues on those dates. Easy.

As an aside, Milan and Como are just fifty miles apart. How mad to expect their fans to travel to Australia.

This important parcel of football news dominated my early morning thoughts as I endeavoured to get some work done during another 6am to 2pm shift that would allow me to get up to London in good time.

However, I was rather tired, and it was all my own doing. The previous evening, I had decided to traipse over to Portishead to watch my local non-league team Frome Town tackle one of the early pace-setters Portishead Town. Rather than rest up and go to bed early on the Tuesday ahead of a very long day – 5am to 1am – I was lured to the game by the thought of Frome winning and us going top of the league for the first time this season.

The game itself wasn’t much to shout about; it was a niggly, physical battle played out on a 3G pitch at a very anaemic venue. Frome withstood some early pressure, but defended resolutely, and created a few chances, and settled for a deserved 0-0 draw. There were some road works on the return journey home, and I didn’t get in until just before 11pm.

I got through my work and collected Pinky and Perky at just after 2pm. I made good time en route to London.

I explained to the lads that I just wasn’t feeling much in the way of excitement for the evening’s game, and PD admitted the same feelings. With eight games in this phase, their just doesn’t seem to be the same degree of tension, drama and excitement in each individual match.

This new process features thirty-two teams. Eight make their way automatically to the first knock-out round in the New Year, while sixteen get a chance to qualify via an extra knock-out round. It honestly seems like it will take forever to unfold and be resolved.

When we won in 2012 and 2021, we played six group games, six knock-out games and the final, a total of thirteen games.

This season, should we win again, we could play up to seventeen games.

More games, more games, more games; it’s the UEFA way.

After my usual dip into “Koka” for some food – a few Dutch lads were eating outside – I joined everyone at “The Eight Bells”

Jimmy had lost his father, Stavros, a few weeks ago, and I toasted his memory.

We also toasted the memory of Matthew Harding, our former director, who perished on this night in 1996.

I have told my story about Matthew Harding before; meeting him in the Gunter Arms before our game with Viktoria Zizkov and then giving him the thumbs up from the East Lower, but Jimmy had a nice story too.

He had travelled up for our FA Cup game at Ayresome Park in January 1993, but only heard late on, when they were on Teesside, that the game had been postponed. They darted inside a local pub for a drink, and Matthew was in the pub too, and bought the Chelsea fans present a drink.

I have always said that Matthew would have loved these European nights, bless him.

RIP Stavros

RIP Matthew

Stamford Bridge was under a deluge of rain as we reached our allotted seats.

The news of the team had trickled through, and it was a mix of experience and youth, and one that surprised me a little. Only Romeo Lavia remained from the first half at Forest.

Jorgensen

Caicedo – Fofana – Tosin – Hato

Lavia – Enzo

Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens

Guiu

Of course, there had been some recollections of our last meeting with Ajax; the pulsating 4-4 draw in 2019 and our recovery from 1-4 down, plus the agony of the disallowed goal from Dave very late on. There were no Ajax fans allowed at that game, so this would be their supporters’ first view of Stamford Bridge. In that game, I was so pleased to see Ajax in their world famous white and red kit. This time, we were not so lucky. They appeared in an insipid off-white number that was probably named after a frothy coffee variant that didn’t exist thirty years ago.

There was a timely mention of Matthew Harding before kick-off and the large flag bearing his image was floated over the heads of the spectators below us in the MHL.

The game began with us attacking The Shed, and very soon a respectful “One Matthew Harding” rang out from the stand that bears his name.

I must admit that it took me a few moments to realise that Caicedo was indeed an inverted right-back, and it looked a very fluid formation, with Buonanotte and Enzo playing well ahead of the other two in midfield.

Ajax had a little of the ball to begin with, but we soon started to dominate the play.

But we all waited for the first effort on goal from either team.

Ten minutes, eleven minutes, twelve minutes, thirteen minutes…it seemed that the lack of urgency in getting this first phase completed – the last of the knock-out games isn’t until 25 February – had transmitted to the players on the pitch.

“In your own time, lads.”

On the quarter of an hour, the game changed.

A lunging studs-up tackle by Kenneth Taylor on Facundo Buonanotte resulted a very quick VAR review, and then a red card.

Facunell.

Ajax were down to ten men.

Just after, a cross from the right from Buonanotte was ably headed back across the six-yard box by Wesley Fofana for Marc Guiu to stab home.

I turned to the bloke next to me – Alan from Wandsworth – and said “he needed that goal, great.”

In the immediate aftermath of the goal, I experienced the ache of having to endure “Chelsea Dagger” and I turned to the people behind me in the MHU and looked on in disgust.

Their actions were, indeed, a dagger to my heart.

(As an aside, I found no solace in the fact that the link that I posted to the “Stop This Shite” petition in one of my most recent match reports garnered just five clicks…)

However, my spirits were immediately lifted by two lovely text messages :

Alan, Sarf London : “THTCAUN.”

Josh, North America : “THTCAUN.”

I replied “COMLD.”

Game on, let’s go to work.

The first reaction from the home support was aimed at the Ajax manager John Heitinga, in lieu of our fine work on the banks of the River Trent a few days previously.

“Sacked in the morning. You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

Shots from Jamie Gittens and Caicedo were aimed at the Shed End goal.

On twenty-seven minutes, with Caicedo again within distance, the crowd yelled “SHOOOOOOT” and shooooot he did.

I was right in line with his effort but didn’t see the deflection that took the ball away from Remko Pasveer in the Ajax goal.

The net rippled, 2-0 to Chelsea, and a nice run down to Parkyville by the scorer.

I hoped for more goals.

Alas, on thirty-three minutes, during a rare Ajax attack, Tosin Adarabioyo tangled with Raul Moro, and the referee signalled a penalty.

Ex-Burnley and Manchester United loanee Wout Weghorst was rather lucky as his shot went under the full-length dive from Jorgensen.

The penalty was their first effort on goal.

The Matthew Harding serenaded the scorer with “you’re just a shit Andy Carrol” and this chant was often repeated during the game; in the second-half, Weghorst was defending a corner, and he gave a smile and a thumbs-up, a nice reaction.

On thirty-six minutes, a fantastic cross from Gittens on the left set up Enzo but he was unable to get a good-enough touch.

On forty-five minutes, Gittens to Enzo again, but our Argentinian was scythed down by Weghorst. His lunge was accompanied by a large splash of rain that could be seen from one-hundred yards away, though not quite as prominent as in the Tom Finney photo from 1956.

Enzo stroked the ball confidently in.

In the sixth minute of injury time, Estevao was tackled twice on the edge of the box, and at least one of these resulted in a penalty. If it was the second tackle, it looked outside the box.

Whatever.

Enzo gave the ball to Estevao, who confidently lifted the ball into the left-hand top corner.

Blimey, 4-1 at half-time, and three penalties.

By this time, I had been chatting to Alan alongside me, and we shared a few Chelsea stories. I told him about this blog, and he mentioned a podcast that he is involved in. I spoke a little about Frome Town and Alan said how he loves the non-league scene too. He referred to a good friend, Adam, who follows Derby County and Mickleover Sports. Well, what a small world. I know a lad from Frome who lives in Derby, follows Derby County and watches Mickleover Sports too. It turned out that my mate, Mark, who visited us in the Eight Bells last season when Derby’s FA Cup game at Leyton Orient was called off, knew of Alan’s friend Adam. They live very close to each oter, a few miles apart maybe.

Here was proof that football, yet again, is a very small world.

At the start of the second half, Enzo Maresca made three changes.

Trevoh Chalobah for Tosin.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Tyrique George for Guiu.

With the game surely won in the first half, the second period took on the feel of a friendly, or at least a training match, with Ajax encamped in their half for virtually its entirety.

After only three minutes, Lavia played in Andrey Santos but the ball held up for Tyrique George to score, again via a deflected shot. Alas, I didn’t catch his long slide into our corner, but I did capture the aftermath.

5-1 to Chelsea now, and game over.

The rest of the half involved us warming to the talents of Estevao and sitting back to hope for extra goals.

Estevao did not disappoint. He displayed some great control in tight areas, and almost netted with a goal from an audacious bicycle-kick and another from a powerful drive that was touched over by the Ajax ‘keeper.

Jamie Gittens endeavoured to screw a shot past Pasveer from down below us, but all his continued efforts never paid off.

Reggie Walsh, barely seventeen, came on for Lavia on sixty-five minutes.

Despite the ease at which we took Ajax apart, the noisiest chant of the night, “Carefree”, on eighty minutes, came as a shock and a surprise, out of the blue even.

Stamford Bridge had been quiet on this European night, a shame.

The Ajax fans had made some noise all night long and increased the volume and intensity as the game neared its conclusion. I had no idea what they were singing about though; no doubt that much of it was about the hated Feyenoord.

The game came to its conclusion. There had been plenty of goals in this week of Champions League football and it was nice to be able to join in.

PSG 7

Barcelona 6

PSV 6

Chelsea 5

Liverpool 5

Arsenal 4

Bayern 4

Borussia Dortmund 4

Inter 4

Maybe here is a clue why some supporters don’t mind this elongated phase before we reach the more dramatic style of UEFA football that I grew up with. Is there a tendency for teams to be able to relax, now, knowing that each game is not quite so important? Who knows? Answers on a postcard.

I was absolutely drenched on the walk back to the car but thankfully didn’t feel too tired – a miracle – and eventually made it home at exactly at 1am.

Everyone on social media was seemingly upbeat about the evening’s game with a lot of the focus on the youth in our team, not least the three young scorers.

Whether we are good enough to secure an automatic place into the fabled round of sixteen in March, yes March, remains to be seen.

Onwards!

Podcast : https://www.youtube.com/@talkfootballpodcast

Tales From West Bridgford

Posted on October 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2025.

For the second time in less than four weeks, I was headed up the Fosseway for an away game.

Then it was Lincoln City, now it was Nottingham Forest.

Due to the lunchtime kick-off, at 12.30pm, the three of us had agreed that this would be an “in and out” mission, with no time to have much of a pre-match – no drinks – nor a post-match. This was football but cut to the most basic of away days. Sometimes it happens like this. Burnley at 12.30pm on another Saturday in the near future is another one.

Everything was dark as I pulled out of my driveway at 6.40am. I quickly sped over to Nunney Catch to top up the car’s petrol tank, and then picked up PD at 7am, and then Parky at 7.30am. After a quick pitstop in Melksham for an early breakfast, we were away.

The journey north-east was pretty decent apart from a slight detour through Cirencester due to an RTA and then a quarter of an hour wait at traffic lights at Moreton-In-Marsh.

Overhead, the skies were light grey. It conjured images of the Chelsea away kit from 2018/19, but – alas – with no orange to sit alongside it. The autumnal colours outside were not at their visual peak simply because the sun was unable to penetrate the thick cloud cover and light up the autumn hues. It was all rather muted.

I hoped that our performance alongside the River Trent would not be something similar.

I was parked up at 11.30am at my JustPark slot on Fleeman Grove, just a fifteen-minute walk from the City Ground. I have used JustPark for Chelsea away games for quite a few years now, and during the week I found out that it began life when the founder asked a friend where he parked at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea home games.

“We just asked someone if we could park in their driveway, and we have been doing it ever since.”

West Bridgford seemed a decent location, full of pre-War semis, with neatly trimmed gardens, and it seemed that there still might be families tucked away behind lace curtains, fathers with Brylcreem, mothers with pinnies, listening to the home service. I almost expected a “Just William” character to appear at a gate, wearing a cap, holding a slingshot catapult, and sporting a cheeky grin.

“Alright, me duck?”

While PD and Parky trotted off to the away turnstiles, I had a little mooch around the rear of the Brian Clough Stand, originally the Executive Stand, that dates from 1980. The lower section of this stand used to house some of the away supporters, and I have a vivid memory of watching a game there in 1987 when taking celery to Chelsea games was at its height. Although I managed to smuggle a bunch of celery in under my voluminous jacket, the police were out in force to search others, and as a result, there were several large piles of celery deposited outside the away turnstiles that day. It was a comical sight.

From celery in 1987 to cameras in 2025, I was at it again.

Alas, my allotted “pat down” steward spotted my camera bag bundled up in my hand-held jacket and for a moment, I was a little agitated.

“On that’s a nice camera. In you go.”

My SLR was in.

If only all grounds, including Stamford Bridge, was as easy.

It was around midday, so the away concourse and the away seats were filling up now.

A steward asked to see my ticket as I approached the top of the aisle that led to my section. I had to chuckle as she advised me that “the rows are alphabetical, and the seats are numbered.”

Shocker.

I caught the players going through their pre-match drills, dressed in subtle green training tops that matched the colour of the shorts.

The skies overhead were still light grey with no hint of the sun breaking through. As kick-off approached, we were treated to the usual assault on the senses with pumped dance music booming around the stadium.

“Freed From Desire” and “Insomnia” are fed to us ad nauseum now and are the modern day equivalents of the more organic and natural supporter-generated classics such as “Chelsea Agro, Chelsea Agro, Hello Hello” and “You’re Gonna Get Your Fuckin’ Heads Kicked In.”

Joking aside, these musical interruptions work against an atmosphere rather than add to it.

The teams entered the pitch, and as they broke, the old Forest anthem of “Mull Of Kintyre” signalled Kop-style scarfing, with the home supports joining in at the allotted time.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent, my desire is always to be here, oh City Ground.”

On the drive up to Nottingham – we were calling it Dottingham in lieu of an old ‘seventies advert for “Tunes” – we rued the fact that our injuries would impact Enzo Maresca’s team selection, and here was the evidence.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Romeo Lavia – Andrey Santos – Malo Gusto

Pedro Neto – Joao Pedro – Alejandro Garnacho

Or something like that.

In truth, it took me all the first half to work out the midfield positions, and after forty-five minutes, only Gusto remained so from then on it didn’t bloody matter anyway.

The game began.

Nottingham Forest – red, white, red.

Chelsea – white, green, white.

There was a very early scare within the first minute as sloppy play from Malo Gusto – probably the most erratic player in the squad – allowed Taiwo Awoniyi, now fully recovered from last season’s health scare, a chance but he sent the ball wide of the goal at our end.

On four minutes, some neat Neto trickery on the right was followed by a cross that pin-balled around for a few seconds but that eventually flew over the bar via Andrey Santos at the Trent End.

Alejandro Garnacho on the left and Neto looked lively, but the midfield trio seemed lost.

On the quarter of an hour, there had been a litany of mis-placed passes from both sides, and I wearily commented to Gary : “gonna be 0-0, this.”

On eighteen minutes, Trevoh Chalobah nervously let in Morgan Gibbs-White, but his effort smashed against the red post that held the netting taut rather than anything more worthwhile.

Then, in the very next minute, the same Forest player jumped high to try to connect to a Douglas Luiz set up but only succeeded in lashing it high and wide.

“Has Santos touched the ball?” bemoaned Gary alongside me.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free kick at the Trent End and Reece James took aim. Sadly, the kick was so poor that it resembled a bloody pass back.

Neto kept applying himself on the right, but Garnacho had faded.

On thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match involving the two Pedros, but Santos walloped over. Then just after, Joao Pedro lost his marker with a lovely shimmy / twist / turn and chipped a decent pass on to Santos. I expected a goal. Sadly, the low shot was struck wide of the right-hand post.

Fackinell.

In truth, it had been a poor first-half.

I turned around and chatted to Richard from Swindon and Jason from Swanage, and to be blunt, the half-time natter was more entertaining than the forty-five minutes of dire football that had preceded it. As the combatants returned to the pitch, Gary amused himself by lampooning the sheer size and length of Forest’s Murillo’s shorts.

Despite the inadequacies of our play thus far, none of us could believe the wholesale changes at the start of the second half.

Moises Caicedo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Santos.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

I was happy to see Caicedo on the pitch but wondered why he had not started.

Just four minutes into the second half, as Neto took hold of the ball on the Chelsea left, and therefore right in front of the support, he touched the ball on.

Showing my uncanny ability to grasp the situation and to impart my quite considerable knowledge of football, I muttered, with disdain, “no you should have played it first time”, but I then watched as he strode on, advancing towards the goal-line in front of me before chipping a cross into the box. I looked across to see the leap of Josh Acheampong and the ball fly into the corner of the net closest to me.

I celebrated wildly and called myself several unsavoury names.

My camera was called into action, but the viewing position is so awful being so low down at Forest that I just blindly shot a few photos.

However, I like the one I took of the players – blurred – celebrating but with the faces of the home supporters – crisp and in focus – sternly watching from the stand behind.

I spotted Neto completely losing himself as he double fisted during a celebratory scream towards the Chelsea faithful.

Soon after, strong play from Guiu won us a free kick. The twin threats of Neto and James stood over the ball. After a wait, James touched it sideways, and Neto struck it home. We celebrated again. This time, there were no photos taken, I was simply lost in the moment.

Neto celebrated with another clenched fist salute and primeval scream.

“You deserve that, matey.”

This two-goal blitz had come out of nowhere, but we didn’t care.

The calls for the Forest manager Ange Postecoglu to be sacked in the morning rang out from the away end.

With Chelsea at ease with the two-goal cushion, this became a lot more pleasing to watch.

However, football is a cruel mistress and Gary warned “next goal is important.”

I replied, “let’s hope there isn’t one.”

Just before the hour, the increasingly impressive Joao Pedro tucked the ball just wide of the near post.

However, not long after, Neco Williams appeared to have the goal at his mercy but blazed a shot wildly over the bar.

From a deep corner, Robert Sanchez managed to get down to smother a goal-bound effort from Nikola Milenkovic and then sprung up to tip over a follow-up effort from Ibrahim Sangare. These were two bloody great saves.

As a shot stopper and claimer of crosses, he is a solid 8/10, but his distribution and footballing intelligence seems to be stuck at 5/10.

I realised that despite our far better showing in the second half, the game could easily have been tied at 2-2.

There was more drama ahead. Callum Hudson-Odoi, who appeared as a second-half substitute when we went 2-0 up, set Igor Jesus up in front of the goal. As he swung at the ball I whispered “goal” and the ball crashed into the back of the net.

Bollocks.

2-1.

But within a nano-second, the ball had come back out and had appeared to hit a post on the way.

No goal.

“How did that not go in?”

From the ensuing break, Guiu blasted way over.

Fackinell.

On seventy-eight minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the tireless Neto, my man of the match.

I wanted us to keep it tight, but I also wanted Estevao to show us some trickery. Very soon after his appearance, he did ever so well to doggedly win a tackle – a great part of his game – and I was hoping for some nice bits of skill too.

I commented to Gary that our lack of players in the centre of defence due to injuries was so bad that John Sitton was un-zipping his tracksuit.

Instead, on eighty-one minutes Tosin Adarabioyo replaced young Josh.

Soon after, a loose ball on the edge of the box, and a Forest defender and Reece James both went for it. At that moment, I thought that the Forest player was going to get to the ball first but might do some damage to our captain in the follow through. The intent was there from both sides. In fact, both players met the ball – fairly and squarely – and the resultant noise boomed around the stadium. Rarely have I heard a louder tackle. It made me shake, well almost.

I said to the bloke next to me that I was happy that Reece didn’t pull out of the challenge. An injury might well have followed.

From the resulting corner, Estevao stroked in a ball that Matz Sels could only flap at, and the ball fell conveniently towards Reece James. The captain slammed it home. I did not see the net ripple; I just heard the roar.

More intense celebrations to my right, but with arms flailing away, I was only able to obtain three decent snaps.

By now the away was booming.

“Cheer up Postecoglu. Oh, what can it mean to a fat Aussie bastard and a shit football team.”

Peter Reid has a lot to answer for.

In the dying moments, a ridiculously poor sliding attempt to get the ball by Gusto gave the referee no option but to hand out a second yellow.

Oh boy.

Well, that was just daft.

But it did illicit a little gallows humour from the travelling faithful.

“Red card again, ole, ole.”

“Ten men again, ole, ole.”

By now, the home fans were flipping up their seats and heading home.

“Is there a fire drill?”

At the final whistle, a roar from us and we waited for the players to walk over. The last to arrive, dramatically, was the captain, and we serenaded him.

He replied with wide smiles.

It had been a very odd game. A poor first-half, but a much better second-half. Despite the 3-0 margin, we were lucky not to concede. Let’s put it behind us and try to iron out some inconsistencies.

We walked back to the car, but before we reached the final few hundred yards, a couple of smiling Forest fans shouted out “he’s sacked”, and – quite frankly, and despite the songs – I was flabbergasted.

It was around 3pm, and my Sat Nav guided me through the city. The return route was not a repeat of my journey to Nottingham. Instead, it took me further west, down the A42, the M42 – a stop at Tamworth Services, a very rare visit – and back home via the M5, the M4 and the A46.

Frome Town were playing at home against Winchester City as I drove home, and a couple of friends flashed-up score updates.

The previous Saturday – the international break weekend – I had watched Frome beat Falmouth Town 2-0 on a perfect afternoon for football with a few good friends. There had been autumn sun, pitch side drinks, chats with mates, a keen game of football, a home win, a decent gate, only £12 to get in, and then Glenn and I treated ourselves to a lovely post-match meal in a cosy local pub. And we were home by 7pm. It was as near perfect a Saturday afternoon as I could imagine.

Later that evening, I texted Glenn “I think we’ve seen the future.”

On this occasion, the footballing Gods were not on our side.

Frome went 1-0 up early on, then conceded an equaliser, then missed a penalty in the second half, and then apparently had a genuinely good goal ruled out in stoppage time. At least the gate was a season-high 525.

I reached home at around 7.30pm.

It had been a decent day.

Next up, two home games in quick succession, against Ajax on Wednesday and Sunderland on Saturday.

Oh, and an away game at Portishead on Tuesday.

See you there.

Tales From A Beautiful Game

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 October 2025.

As with the last time that we played Liverpool at home, on Sunday 4 May, we had decided to forego our usual pre-match in “The Eight Bells” in favour of “The Tommy Tucker” because of logistical reasons. The closure of the District Line was again the cause, but we didn’t mind one iota. This pub is only fifty yards from Fulham Road and serves as a decent enough substitute for our usual boozer a mile or so to the south.

I was hoping that it would prove to be a lucky omen since we defeated the newly crowned champions 3-1 on that sunny day five months ago.

The day had begun in deepest Somerset with the rain lashing down outside, and with low dark clouds above. The outlook looked bleak.

Thankfully, the weather improved as I drove to London with PD and LP, so that by the time I was parked up, the skies were clear. Walking to the pub was a lot easier than I had expected with blustery gusts of wind the only negative. As soon as I reached the bar, I spotted Tommy Langley and we enjoyed a brief chat before he darted off to the stadium to commence his pre-match hospitality routine.

I stayed in the pub from 1pm to 4.30pm, and a few acquaintances joined us at our table, all of whom seemed to be called Steve or Dave.

We semi-watched the Leeds United vs. Tottenham Hotspur game on the TV screen that faced our table.

I was on the “Diet Cokes” of course and occupied myself with occasional peeks at my phone to see how my local team Frome Town were faring at Willand Rovers in Devon. During the week, on the Wednesday, I had enjoyed a cracking game of football between Frome Town and Bristol Manor Farm, our great rivals. My hometown team eventually prevailed 3-2, with a late goal from new fan favourite George Dowling, who rifled home on eighty-eight minutes after seeing an early 2-0 lead collapse. This gave Dodge our fifth win out of five in the league this season. Sadly, Willand won 1-0 and so I was downbeat about that.

With virtually every single Chelsea fan that I had chatted to expecting a loss against Liverpool, but hoping for a draw, I prepared myself for a bleak afternoon.

As I made the short walk from the “The Tommy Tucker” to Stamford Bridge, the wind was still blustery, and I was pleased that I was wearing my light jacket to fend off some surprisingly cold bursts.

I smuggled my SLR in using “Method 9/F” and quickly made my way up to The Sleepy Hollow.

It was 4.45pm. As I took a few photos of the dormant stadium from the very back row above our seats, waiting for things to liven up, I recollected a few things from that Liverpool game last May. It would prove to be dear Albert’s last-ever Chelsea game, and I thought back to him once again.

As friends drifted in, I chatted away, but none of us thought we would get much out of the game.

Enzo Maresca had chosen this starting eleven :

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

With the appearance of the teams from the East Stand tunnel, we were treated to fireworks exploding from both roofs of The Shed and the Matthew Harding. The air turned a hazy blue/grey for quite some time, and the whiff of sulphur permeated our nostrils.

At 5.30pm, the game began.

Liverpool began brightly, and as they attacked our end, it gave the Chelsea supporters the chance to boo the new Liverpool striker Aleksander Isak at close quarters.

Then Chelsea began to make inroads, and there was an opening for Malo Gusto but he fluffed his lines when presented with a chance.

With an extended “sesh” having taken place in the boozers around Stamford Bridge – I had deposited the lads outside the pub at 12.15pm and they didn’t leave much before 5pm – there was a tipsy atmosphere inside the ground, and the noise was excellent, a complete improvement to the horrible Brighton atmosphere.

We had started to move the ball around well, with the two wingers looking mustard.

However, on fifteen minutes, a fluid attack took place in the centre of the pitch, well away from Messrs Garnacho and Neto.

Benoit Badiashle pushed the ball forward to Gusto, supplementing the midfield as is the style these days, and he in turn played the ball forward to Moises Caicedo. There was no shortage of red shirts around him, but he deftly created space and advanced. He pushed the ball on, gave the impression that he was about to let fly, but touched the ball again, possibly putting defenders off balance or of kilter, and let fly with a blast from twenty-five yards. As soon as he had taken that extra touch, the Red Sea had parted, and I was right in line with his thunderbolt as it slammed into debutant Giorgi Mamardashvili’s goal.

Euphoria from me, euphoria from everyone, and I was up and celebrating like a loon, only slightly troubled that I didn’t get a snap of the goal. I followed Caicedo’s triumphant run past Parkyville and into the corner, buzzing all the while.

What a stunner.

Bollocks to the pre-match gloom, we were 1-0 up.

Liverpool had their share of possession in the ensuing half-an-hour, but we did not let them create much at all. We were playing the best football of the season thus far, not allowing the red-shirted players much space, and kept the ball well when in possession. Enzo seemed revigorated in that first-half, but Caicedo was even better. Out on the wings, the tireless Neto kept asking questions of their left back, while Garnacho, right in front of the Scousers, was lighting up his wing with some nice movement.

There was a powerful block by Badiashile from a Dominik Szoboszlai shot. The often-derided defender was surprising us all with an accomplished showing alongside the equally impressive Josh Acheampong.

On thirty-three minutes, Liverpool found themselves in our box, and a shot was hacked away by the ever-reliable Marc Cucurella.

There was a lung-busting, and quite thrilling, run by Neto down his right flank, and he eventually cut the ball back into the box, with Virgil van Dijk beaten, but the chance went begging.

Just after, Garnacho curled an effort just wide.

By this stage, the three-thousand Mickey Mousers in the far corner were as quiet as I could remember.

Garnacho went down inside the box, but after a VAR review, the play resumed.

Isak headed the last chance of a pulsating half over Robert Sanchez’ bar.

We were supremely happy at the break.

Soon into the second half – I timed it as just twenty-one seconds – Chelsea lost possession cheaply and the Liverpool substitute Florian Wirtz set up Mo Salah, who had struggled to get involved in the first period, but the Egyptian striker fired wide.

Sensing a dip in our play, the Chelsea spectators at Stamford Bridge turned into Chelsea supporters and noisily got behind the team with a barrage of noise.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

This warmed my heart.

The visitors improved and enjoyed a spell on top, and Sanchez saved a long shot from Ryan Gravenberch. Then, a one-on-one race between Salah and Badiashile, but our former striker fired over with his usually trusted left-foot.

Ten minutes into the half, Badiashile was injured and was replaced by Romeo Lavia, with James sliding back alongside Josh in the centre of the defence.

Then, two quick chances down below us. Garnacho took a long ball down to perfection but his intended pass inside to Joao Pedro was poor. Then a lovely flowing move that began with Lavia and ended with Cucurella’s floated cross towards the far post, but Pedro Neto’s header was deflected over.

This was a great game.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t hating modern football quite so much.

A dink from Neto, and Enzo wide.

Sadly, on the hour, Liverpool crossed from our left and it looked like Cucurella’s leg changed the flight of the ball slightly.

I found myself commentating.

“Oh deflection…here we go…goal” as Gakpo rifled it in past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

So, back level, and it felt like we had been hard done by.

There were further changes.

On sixty-seven minutes, Acheampong was injured and was replaced by Jorrel Hato. I found it odd that Hato didn’t come in for Badiashile, but what do I know?

At this rate, Tommy Langley will come on to play in our patched-up defence.

This was a pulsating game, though, and it seemed to be in the balance.

What next?

On seventy-five minutes, I could hardly believe seeing a triple substitution.

Estevao Willian for Garnacho.

Jamie Gittens Pedro Neto.

Marc Guiu for Joao Pedro.

We went on the offensive again. It seemed to be Chelsea attacking at will now.

Gittens to Enzo, a cross that begged to be converted, but the chance passed.

Next up, a sublime long pass from James found Gittens, looking lively, and he brought a decent save from Mamardashvili. Estevao picked up the loose ball, danced towards goal, and floated a shot towards the far post that Mamardashvili managed to get fingertips on, and I managed to snap that exact moment.

With minutes passing by, PD asked for his stick and left early. He needs a good half-an-hour to slowly walk back to where I collect him on Lillee Road.

The Chelsea chances still piled up. A shot from Caicedo – shoot! – and Mamardashvili (I am sick to death of typing out his name) nudged it over the bar.

A corner from the far side, Enzo unable to convert with a difficult header.

I wondered if PD was not too far away from the stadium that he could hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the increasingly mesmerized home support.

Szobososzlai – the hirsute Hungarian henchman, a certain woolyback if his legs are a clue – then shot wide at The Shed End.

The assistant linesman signalled seven minutes of extra time.

PD was surely out of earshot now.

The lively Estevao sent over a magical cross towards Enzo, who contorted his body to fashion a header, but although Mamardashvili was beaten, the ball struck the post.

Ugh.

Ninety-six minutes were on the clock and PD must have reached the North End Road by now.

The last moments of this super game began.

An amazing move from the right of our defence, right through the team, found Cucurella on the left, who passed outside to Gittens, then to Enzo, who now controlled the ball amidst a crowd of opposing players. He waited and chose his moment. He spotted the run of Cucurella. The Spaniard whipped in a cross towards the far post, and I looked up. To my amazement and joy, I saw Estevao arrive, sliding and off-balance, but within a blink of an eye, the young Brazilian had the coolness of mind to push the ball over the line.

Mamardashvili was beaten.

The.

Crowd.

Exploded.

I pumped the air with my fists, bellowed some primaeval roar, lost in the moment. I then tried to remain cool to snap the melee over on the far side. What a scene. What madness. What a goal. What a finish. What a win.

I would later learn that PD had heard the roar along the North End Road.

“Chelsea Dagger” played, and I hated it, and the fans bounced along and I hated it more. But there were crazily mixed emotions, and I loved the buzz of it all. We were all taken to another place.

There was, worryingly, a mere whisper of VAR involvement, and the guy in front of me looked very concerned.

No. They can’t do that to us surely? Was Cucurella off? Surely not.

No.

The goal stood.

The whistle blew.

Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1.

I bloody love you, Chelsea.

Next up, “One Step Beyond” and everyone losing it.

I stayed behind for a few minutes, more than usual, long enough to hear “Blue Is The Colour” begin.

After a chorus or two, we made our way down the stairs in the north-west corner, and one song dominated.

“Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Do do do do – do do do do do.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.”

Out on the Fulham Road, a sea of noise.

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

…like something from the ‘seventies.

Ah, what a beautiful, beautiful feeling.

What a beautiful game.

Tales From An Evening Out In London

Posted on August 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 22 August 2025.

I always look forward to the first away match each season. I will bump into a ton of mates at the first home game of a new campaign, but way more at the first away fixture. At such games, in pubs or on concourses or in the away section, it’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without seeing someone that I know. It’s all about big numbers in small spaces.

The first away fixture of the new season would be sending us out to the East End of London, and despite the inconvenience of a Friday evening kick-off, that was alright with me.

West Ham United vs. Chelsea at 8pm on a Friday night?

Oh, go on then.

I was parked up outside Barons Court tube station on Margravine Gardens at 5pm, and I fancied a jolt of caffeine before Parky, PD and I headed out east. Our usual café just across the way from this red-bricked station, where Parky and I chatted to Seb Coe after a game at Arsenal in 2012, was closing and so we tried “Gail’s Café” for the first time.

“If we lose tonight, we shan’t be coming here again” I warned my two mates. My football-going routines are full of such superstitions.

After some expensive but bland coffee, we caught a District Line train to Westminster, then a Jubilee train to Canary Wharf. On these two journeys, we were the only Chelsea fans. We saw a just a few West Ham. The ratio on this day would be around 60,000 to 3,000 or 20 to 1, so it was not surprising that we were the lone Chelsea contingent. At Canary Wharf, we ascended into the light at the airy train station and into the London of finance, tall tower blocks and evening commuters heading away to their homes in the suburbs.

We turned a corner and spotted the first Chelsea presence of the evening; Leigh, Darren and a few others, mainly from Basingstoke as far as I could see, were drinking at “The Alchemist” and although we were tempted to stop, the consensus was to head over to the stadium even though it was still two hours to kick-off.

“Nice to see you chaps though evidently not that much”, I exclaimed, smiling, as we left them to walk over to the Docklands Light Railway. Before long, we had boarded the driver-less train (I was hoping that West Ham would be equally devoid of a leader) and we soon found ourselves at Pudding Mill Lane, which not only acts as the destination for away fans going to the London Stadium, but also for those attending the ABBA arena too.

It was a quarter of an hour walk to the away turnstiles, and it’s all so familiar now. This would be my ninth visit. Because we were there so early, and the foot traffic was very quiet, the immediate surroundings seemed even more anaemic than usual. There wasn’t the usual hustle and jostle of a football crowd. There were no street vendors, no hawkers of tat, no grafters, no food outlets, no noise, no nothing. It was a bland approach to the stadium, which itself is as bland as it gets. I was never a fan, even in its Olympic year.

There were quick security checks – no SLR this time either, my Sony pub camera was clasped in my hand and nobody spotted it – and the three of us were soon taking a lift to the area outside the away turnstiles. Sharing the tight space was a lone West Ham supporter.

“Here we go for another nine months of hell” he grumbled.

“That’s the spirit” I thought, remembering how awkward it used to be back in the ‘eighties when home fans talked to you as one of their own, and you tried to say as little as possible. I remember settling down to some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” on the Barking Road in 1986 and the West Ham fan sitting opposite trying to strike up a conversation with me about Tony Cottee or Mark Ward, and me being very taciturn.

More checks, more security, but we were in. I did say to the lads that I had fancied walking around the stadium to see if there are any things worth seeing, but without thinking, I was pulled into the away concourse, like a moth to a flame.

West Ham’s London Stadium might be the worst football stadium in London, in the topflight, maybe in the whole country, but I do like its airy concourses outside the steps to the away seats, which provide plenty of space for fellow fans to assemble, drink, and share a laugh. We soon bumped into “Eight Bells” regulars Jimmy and Ian. The latter bought me the dearest Diet Coke ever apparently.

“Cheers mate.”

And there they all were; many familiar faces, far too many to name, ready for the battle against our London enemy.

Yes, I love away games.

And yet, it has not been a good summer regarding away games in the up-coming season. To cut a long story short, many in our support base have felt let down by the club. Firstly, news about the away season ticket took forever to be communicated by the club. Then came the horrific news that away tickets were non-transferable, with the added piece of news that sporadic ID checks would take place at away games, a repeat of what allegedly happened at Tottenham last December.

This panicked many people. Two friends who have been away season ticket holders for a while have very kindly offered me their away tickets over the past seven or eight years if they could not attend games. They immediately contacted me to say that if they could not transfer tickets, they would opt out of renewing in 2025/26. This was understandable. But it meant that I would not be able to help many close friends to tickets, including Parky and PD on occasion.

If you are reading this and have received away tickets from me in this period, they have more-than-likely come via these two mates.

Then, long after the away season ticket cut-off time, we found out that Chelsea Football Club had reneged on this ruling – in other words, away tickets could be transferred – but without any clear communication in the change to their stance.

Everyone I knew was livid, not least my two mates.

It is rumoured that during this period of uncertainty, around two-hundred supporters left the away scheme.

That hurts.

What hurts even more is the near certainty that many away seats in the Chelsea sections at stadia in 2025/26 will be on sale on third party sites for extortionate and obscene prices. By creating a period of uncertainty in the ranks, perhaps on purpose, it’s likely that the club succeeded in weeding out some of our most loyal fans to gain financially from moving tickets to third party platforms.

It sickens me.

I was inside the upper tier with a good forty minutes to go as I fancied settling myself and clearing my head. I had been awake since 4.45am and was feeling a little jaded. My seat was in a very familiar position; the second row of the tier, right in line with the touchline. I was sat next to John and Gary.

The stadium took forever to fill up. I hated the booming dance music that sucks all the life out of the pre-match. I remember the days when football grounds would be bubbling away before kick-off, with songs being sung, and players being serenaded. Not so in 2025.

At last, bodies appeared. The stadium filled.

We heard, late on, that Cole Palmer had injured himself in the kick-in, so he was replaced by Estevao Willian.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Adarabioyo – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Pedro Neto

Delap

“Bubbles” boomed as the players entered the pitch, the longest walk in football.

Chelsea were in all black.

Although this new kit looks clean and neat from a distance, I am not a fan of its odd white “false collar” but I absolutely loathe the Chelsea Collection badge from 1986. It was hated, really hated, when it came along almost forty years ago and there was a real sense of relief when the “lion rampant” badge was reinstated on our centenary in 2005.

In many circles, it was known as the “Millwall badge” and it is obvious why.

I then thought back to the “World Champions” logo on the rear of the hotel wall at Stamford Bridge and it all made perfect – muddled – sense.

Never mind, the oddballs who collect Chelsea shirts like a mania will love it.

West Ham themselves looked a little odd. There were no light blue sleeves, nor much sign of light blue anywhere on their kit. Their kit reminded me of the one they wore in 1986 when they finished in second place in the old First Division, their highest-ever placing.

At 8pm the evening’s entertainment began, and – as always – we attacked the other end in the first half.

It’s so difficult to get our whole section singing as one at West Hame, since there is that hideous void between the two levels. I have always had seats in the upper section and the view from there is bad enough, so God knows what it is like thirty-five rows behind me. I have had contrasting opinions of the view from the lower tier. Some say it’s OK, some hate it. The away fans tried to get behind the players as the game began.

In the first five minutes, Chelsea edged possession but then came the sixth minute.

The ball was played in to Lucas Paqueta, a long distance out, but allowed to advance. I immediately sensed the danger and yelled out “block the space” but nobody heard me. Chelsea backed off and the West Ham player strode on. To my utter disbelief, he struck a brilliant shot – moving and dipping over the flailing and failing arch of Robert Sanchez – and the ball crashed in. To my horror, I was right in line with the path of the ball.

Gutted.

The scorer shot off to celebrate in the right-hand corner and the home fans were in ecstasy.

Well, bollocks. After our staid draw against Palace, this was a horrible way to start our next game.

Behind me, four fans howled “we hate Sanchez” and I just glared at them.

We huffed and puffed and tried our best to get back to level terms. On fifteen minutes, we were given a corner on our right and Pedro Neto aimed at the near post. I captured the moment that Marc Cucurella lept and headed the ball on – a waning skill these days – and we watched with glee as a Chelsea player, no idea who, headed the ball in as it dropped inside the six-yard box.

GET IN.

Then, a scare. West Ham broke down our left in front of us, and the ball was played square. I immediately thought the recipient was offside, so when the cross was turned in by Niclas Fullkrug, whoever he is, I was adamant that VAR would rule it out. There was a wait, but yes, no penalty. Jean-Clair Todibo, whoever he is, was just offside.

Phew, but fuck VAR right?

Five minutes later, we did well to win the ball in the inside-right channel and Joao Pedro flicked a great cross over to a Chelsea player to sweep the ball in. I was too far away to be sure who scored and was too busy celebrating to watch the scorer run to the corner flag where he was mobbed.

A blue flare was dropped from behind me into the void below and the sulphurous fumes filled my nostrils.

On the pitch, we began to purr. You know we played well when I use that word.

The Chelsea support was loving this. With each move, we grew in confidence. Lovely.

On thirty-four minutes, a nice little moment of interplay between Liam Delap and Estevao enabled the young Brazilian to dance away inside the box – quite beautiful – and send over a teasing cross that a Chelsea player swept into the goal.

We were up 3-1.

You beauty.

Another race to the corner flag, more celebrations, more fist-punching from me, more snaps of the lads in black.

I thought back to New Jersey.

Another first-half with three goals.

I realised that I had sat the entire first half, leaning on the safe-standing rail in front of me, but totally engrossed in everything. It had been a cracking game thus far. As the players left the pitch at the break, there were audible boos from the home section.

We eventually learned that the three scorers were Joao Pedro, Pedro Neto and Enzo Pedro Neto, whoever he is.

What would the second half bring? Hopefully more goals.

To be honest, the second period was just funny.

We continued as we had finished. Enzo, though, shot over with a good chance.

On fifty-four minutes, a corner from Enzo down below us and the West Ham player in orange – their goalkeeper apparently – flapped at the ball. Moises Caicedo was on hand to smack the ball in.

More crazy celebrations.

Beautiful.

I remembered the poor bloke’s horrible debut on that sunny Sunday two years ago at the same stadium. Since then, what a revelation he has been.

Just four minutes later, a Pedro Neto corner from down below us, mayhem in the West Ham box, and the ball fell for Chalobah to smash in from close range.

5-1.

Heaven.

More celebrations in Chelsea-ville.

With half-an-hour to go, we hoped for more goals, but no. It wasn’t to be. But we didn’t care. To be honest, the home team conjured up a few chances, but we never looked like conceding.

The hapless Graham Potter was serenaded by the Chelsea faithful. Has there ever been a more lack-lustre personality linked with Chelsea Football Club? I think not.

Substitutions were made.

62 : Andrey Santos for Delap

69 : Reece James for Gusto.

69 : Wesley Fofana for Chalobah.

69 : Jorrel Hato for Cucurella.

A good chance for Estevao, running freely, but a mis-control and a touch too many and over. Ugh.

We didn’t care.

77 : Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

I spoke to the bloke to my left.

“This must be our biggest ever win at West Ham. Does it even up that 0-4 loss to them in 1986…that year again…no, I guess it doesn’t.”

I had answered my own question.

The last part of the game drifted away, as did a good proportion of the home fans.

My player of the match was Pedro Neto. His efforts up and down the wing were the stuff of legend.

At the end of the game, just happiness and smiles.

“Top of the league, lads.”

However, it has to be said; how poor were West Ham?

I trotted out to the concourse and went to use the gents before the trek back West. One of the idiosyncrasies of the gents at West Ham is that the toilets are like a maze, a never-ending pattern of urinals, going on forever. You’re lucky to get out. I reckon it’s one of the reasons why West Ham have gates of 62,000 every game. There was one bloke in there from the final day of the 2012 Olympics.

I met up with PD and Parky and we re-traced our steps. The first DLR train was an odd mix of West Ham fans and ABBA fans. People were dolled up for their night out and were wearing gaudy make up with bright and lurid fashions from the successful era of the mid-‘seventies to the early-‘eighties. The others were the ABBA fans.

From Pudding Mill Lane to Canary Wharf, the night now dark, and the return journey to Westminster, which always seems to be like something out of a dystopian sci-fi horror, then back to good old Barons Court at 11.30pm.

“Gail’s Café” passed its test.

I reached home at 2.20am and I fell asleep at 2.45am.

This Chelsea day at lasted from 4.45am to 2.45am.

Mamma mia.

Next up, another London Derby awaits.

See you in the pub.

BARONS COURT TO PUDDING MILL LANE