Tag Archives: Ethan Ampadu

Tales From 1970 And All That

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Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 28 February 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

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

1970, eh?

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

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

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

I’ve had quite a journey, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a game-changer.

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

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

Chelsea.

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

Leeds United.

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

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

Leeds were in town.

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

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

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

Mixed blessings.

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

PD ran through the team.

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

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

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

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

Hideous.

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

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Gilchrist

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Mudryk – Sterling

Jackson

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

Conclusion : I am getting old.

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

We were off.

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

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

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

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

The away hordes roared.

After just eight minutes we were one-nil down.

The away end went through a few favourites.

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

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

“Marching on together.”

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

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

Lovely goal.

It was back to 1-1.

Another shot from Enzo, but easily stopped by Meslier.

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

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

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

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

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

He stood in front of his detractors.

“Ви казали?”

We were 2-1 up.

The visitors were not impressed.

“2-1 and you still don’t sing.”

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

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

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

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

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

It was now 2-2.

On sixty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Conor Gallagher for Madueke.

Ben Chilwell for Gusto.

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

Our play went to pieces.

“We’re second-best here.”

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

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

Mudryk crossed high but Jackson was always underneath it.

On seventy-four minutes, more changes.

Levi Colwill for Gilchrist.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

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

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

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

Get in you beauty.

Now it was our turn to scream and shout.

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

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

Chelsea 3 Leeds United 2.

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

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

Wimbledon.

Brighton.

Blackburn Rovers.

Newcastle United.

Preston North End.

Aston Villa.

Leeds United.

Leicester City.

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

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

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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

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

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

“Couple years younger, I think.”

“Right.”

We walked on.

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

Ron smiled.

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

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

Tales From CFC Versus AFCB

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 20 December 2017.

After a couple of pints of “Estrella” – in training for Catalonia in March, no doubt – in the cosy boozer at the very southern end of the North End Road, I could feel the stresses and worries of work receding. Here we were again, in our preferred meet for midweek games, surrounded by a number of fine friends, awaiting yet another home match. I was cocooned in my own little Chelsea world, and loving every minute of it. There was laughs all around me, with talk of games past, present and future. Music played in the background. The beers brought smiles. Perfect. Or almost perfect.

One friend confided to me – “have to be honest, finding it hard to get up for this one.”

I understood completely. If we are anything at Chelsea in 2017/2018, it is spoilt. This League Cup match against Bournemouth had not managed to get my pulse racing. The much-derided competition was easily priority number four of four this season. And whereas, with us appearing in a home quarter-final, it would normally represent a very good chance for silver wear, we knew all too well of a likely trio of tough opponents waiting for us in the semi-finals.

On the previous night, Arsenal had beaten West Ham and I had listened to Manchester City triumph on penalties against Leicester City on the radio. While we were playing Bournemouth, Manchester United would be playing at Ashton Gate against Bristol City.

A final four of Manchester’s City and United and London’s Arsenal and Chelsea?

It did appear likely. We had to admit that silver wear still seemed a long way away. But first there was AFC Bournemouth.

Glenn was able to break the team news to the rest of us.

“Looks like Ampadu is playing in defence. Michy is playing. Drinkwater and Fabregas in the middle. Kenedy starts too.”

Outside, it was a mild night in London town. I walked past the blue and white tinselled Christmas tree outside the West Stand, which itself was decorated with thousands of white lights, hanging from the roof like icicles. I bought a match programme. Once again, the cover again harked back to a previous League Cup campaign, this time from 1994/1995 when we played Bournemouth in a two-legged tie in the autumn of that season. Believe it or not, only 8,974 watched the first game at Stamford Bridge while the gate in the return leg at Dean Court was 9,784. I only attended the away leg, watching on the terraces in the home end alongside a relative visiting from Australia, who was visiting friends in Bournemouth. It was an enjoyable night, but in that particular season with European travels dominating my thoughts for the first-ever time, the League Cup certainly seemed like “priority number four” that year too. We would lose at West Ham in the next round.

Inside, I noted yawning gaps in the three thousand seats allotted to the away fans.

“That’s bloody poor. Only £25 a pop. Their first-ever cup quarter final appearance. Shocking.”

I checked out the team as it lined up towards The Shed.

Caballero

Rudiger – Ampadu – Cahill

Zappacosta – Drinkwater – Fabregas – Kenedy

Willian – Batshayi – Pedro

The game began and, before we had time to settle, the youngster Ampadu gave away a silly cheap foul, and was booked. His game could not have started any worse.

The away fans could be heard :

“Is this The Emirates?”

It was a quiet start, for sure, though on thirteen minutes we carved open the Bournemouth defence in a very fine move. Batshuayi played the ball to Kenedy, cutting in from the wing, and a tasty back heel set up Cesc Fabregas. He rolled the ball across the six yard box.

“This is our first goal” I whispered to Alan.

Willian crashed the ball into the roof of the net.

The letters and numbers : CFC 1 AFCB 0.

After his booking, Ampadu looked relaxed and confident and I noticed how soon he released the ball forward to team mates. No dilly-dallying from this boy, the lad with crusty dreadlocks and a loose and yet composed style. It is hard to believe he is just seventeen.

As we dominated play, I was pleased to hear a little more noise than against Southampton. Jermaine Defoe was substituted early on, and we relaxed; the bugger always seems to score against us. Willian pulled up, expecting a free-kick to be whistled by referee Lee Mason, but there was nothing. Bournemouth pounced on the loose ball, but substitute Jordon Ibe struck wildly over.

Just before the half-hour, Michy appeared to swing and miss at the near post after good work by Pedro. A couple of minutes later, Batshuayi did connect, going close. Gary Cahill then volleyed narrowly over from distance. It had been total domination from Chelsea, but now the atmosphere had quietened completely. It had certainly been a competent performance from our players. I liked the quiet industry of Danny Drinkwater, a latter day John Bumstead, even wearing the same shirt number. In our goal, Caballero hardly touched the ball. He had borrowed Thibaut’s word search and I suspect that he did rather well. Batshuayi, though, had not shown a great deal, being shoved off the ball on a number of occasions. But not many complaints.

This was men against boys.

Or at least ten men and a boy called Ethan against boys.

The second-half began, and – bloody hell – Bournemouth earned a couple of corners. Ampadu was soon showing fine positional play as he cleared several forays into our box. The upturn in the away team’s performance, now clearly a much bigger threat, resulted in a resounding reaction from all four sides of Stamford Bridge.

“COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA.”

Bournemouth, miraculously, bizarrely, worryingly, dominated possession, but hardly created anything of note. How they missed Defoe.

This was, undoubtedly, turning into a game of two halves. What a strange game. In the stands, things became nervy.

We spotted that the away end was now completely full. I wondered if a few hundred of the away supporters – on a Darby & Joan outing from a few sheltered residences in the Bournemouth area – had decided to go Christmas shopping in the West End, getting presents for their grandchildren, and had been waylaid by the window displays on show.

“Selfridges put on a simply wonderful display, and well, we had to go in. Oh and the lights were wonderful on Oxford Street.”

Despite much possession, shots on our goal were rare. A lone shot was blasted over. However, we were pegged back, and hardly enjoyed any meaningful attacks of our own.

The manager Conte sensed the need for a change, bringing on Hazard and Bakayoko for Willian and Pedro. Hazard tucked in alongside Michy and a more resilient 3-5-2 took shape. Kenedy, having a patchy game – just like Zappacosta on the other flank – had tried one or two audacious moves in a few of our rare attacks down below us. In one last move, he approached his marker and attempted a ridiculous back flip. I was shocked by his – what is the word? – chutzpah, but was left wondering if this sort of move is best reserved for a futsal court rather than the English game. His appeal for a handball once the move floundered was met with a similar “tut tut” from me too.

Morata replaced Michy, who had been a virtual spectator throughout the second period.

The message came through that Mourinho’s United were trailing at Ashton Gate. Now then, the Chuckle Brothers hate Bristol City (Glenn, PD and little old me can trace this back to August 1984, but that is another story) but we hate United more.

The Chuckle Brothers chuckled away.

Bournemouth blazed over via Gosling.

The crowd rallied again :

“CAREFREE WHEREVER YOU MAY BE, WE ARE THE FAMOUS CFC.”

Our visitors went wide with Ibe wasting a good chance. With ten minutes remaining, Caballero sprawled and clawed away a cross at the near post with strikers waiting to pounce. This was just ridiculous. There were more nerves in the stands.

Alan : “ They are going to wonder how on Earth they haven’t scored in this half.”

United equalised down in Bristol.

The final four looked a good bet, still.

With one-minute left, we all feared the absolute worst as a high ball was launched into our box. Morata’s header was weak and the ball was worked to Gosling, who swept the ball past Caballero. I saw it coming. We all saw it coming. We know football.

FUCK IT.

A dreaded extra thirty minutes of extra time beckoned, the worst possible scenario for my little band of football fanciers from Frome. It would mean another bloody late night.

Bollocks.

With the away fans still celebrating, and with us still huffing and puffing at our bizarre and listless performance throughout the second-half, we kicked-off. The ball was quickly moved through towards Morata, who pushed the ball on to Hazard. Morata continued his run, and Hazard read the situation perfectly. His back-heal was magnificent. He virtually walked it in to the net, flicking it past Artur Boruc, with consummate ease.

Football. Bloody fucking hell.

I was smacked in the chops by a sudden and complex mix of emotions. There was shock at our ridiculously quick response to the equaliser. There was joy. But as the players celebrated wildly down below me, a very small part of me – oh don’t worry, infinitesimally small – almost felt sorry for the visitors.

What a crazy night.

On an evening where several clichés seemed appropriate to describe what I had witnessed, another one raced through my mind; that there is no riskier a time to concede a goal than when one is scored.

There was just time for a last, timely, save from Caballero at The Shed.

Phew.

Into the final four we went.

On the walk to the car, the word went out that the hated Bristol City had scored a late winner against the hated United.

Oh my aching sides.

In the twenty minutes of our patient wait to head out onto the A4 at Barons Court, and for an impatient wait for the semi-final draw, the five Chuckle Brothers rued the possibility of a long-overdue visit to Ashton Gate with Chelsea. My last visit was for a pre-season shindig in 1995. There was the memory of that other game in 1984. And a visit, so long ago, in 1976 too. I recollected how Bristol City reached the League Cup semi-final in 1989 – eventually losing to Nottingham Forest – and how a then workmate was embroiled in the excitement of it all. We waited, and hoped.

Alas, it was not to be.

Chelsea vs. Arsenal.

Manchester City vs. Bristol City.

Oh well. Arsenal it is. We can’t seem to avoid them these days. I will get to see them at least six times this season.

On Saturday, we visit my favourite away stadium, the grand old dame at the bottom of Stanley Park.

See you there.

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Tales From The League Cup

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 25 October 2017.

After parking the car, and before we were able to enjoy a very pleasant pre-match drink-up in two Chelsea pubs, I could not help but notice that there were posters advertising the Moscow State Circus at Eel Brook Common, no more than half a mile from Stamford Bridge. At times in Roman’s fourteen years at the epicentre of Chelsea Football Club, a few of my mates have often likened proceedings to that of the famous Russian spectacle.

I silently hoped that I would not have to reference said circus in a negative way during the match report for the evening’s game.

The five Chuckle Brothers were split up for the visit of Everton and their dog’s dinner of an away kit for the League Cup tie; I was alongside PD and Glenn in The Sleepy Hollow of the Matthew Harding wraparound, Parky was in the Parkyville section of The Shed Lower, while Young Jake was watching in what is officially the Matthew Harding Upper, but what is really the connecting section of the East Upper.

It was another mild night in SW6, and I expected a mild atmosphere too if I was honest.

Over in The Shed, there was a yawning gap where the missing one thousand away fans should have been. Two-thirds of a Nike swoosh was visible instead. The away section took ages to fill; I was full of disdain when I first saw how empty it was at about 7.30pm. Everton do not always bring the numbers to Stamford Bridge. The evening’s match day programme was another retro edition and I immediately recognised the font and design from season 1985/86, and I am sure that our League Cup game from the late autumn of that campaign against the same opposition was the inspiration. It brought back memories for me of midweek afternoon jaunts by British Rail to London from Stoke for Chelsea games. On that particular evening – Daryl had to remind me that the game ended 2-2 – I well remember how few Evertonians had bothered to attend. They numbered around five hundred. Remember, back in 1985 they were reigning champions. In the league match at Chelsea a month earlier, they had only brought a thousand. A poor show on both counts in my book. It seemed that the Everton tradition was continuing in 2017. However, I soon remembered back to our League Cup semi-final at Goodison in 2008 when we sadly failed to fill our three-thousand allocation. A Joe Cole goal on the break gave us a narrow 1-0 win on that very pleasing night on Merseyside – there have been a few – and the game is remembered for the best Chelsea away support of that particular season. I woke up the next day with a sore throat. The way it should be. It was the last time that the two clubs met in the League Cup.

On the walk from the bar to the stadium, I had announced that Danny Drinkwater was to make his debut for the club. There were also, possibly predictable, starts for Charly Musonda and Ethan Ampadu.

Our manager had certainly rung the changes since the weekend.

Caballero

Rudiger – Christensen – Cahill

Zappacosta – Drinkwater – Ampadu – Kenedy

Willian – Batshuayi – Musonda

If ever there was a Chelsea “B” team, this was it.

The Everton line-up included a lad with the most ridiculously Scouse name that I think that I have ever heard; Johnjoe Kenny.

“Sound, la.”

There was, quite evidently, another full house for a League Cup tie at HQ. Quite fantastic.

For a great part of the first-half, the football formed a backdrop as Alan and myself chatted away about the players on show, our recent performances, our plans for the trip to Rome, and the days when the League Cup actually meant something. If the FA Cup has fallen from glory over the past two decades, them this is even more true of the nation’s secondary cup competition. We remembered how crestfallen we were when we lost to Sunderland in the 1985 semi, the QPR quarter final in 1986, away at Scarborough in 1989, the Sheffield Wednesday semi in 1991, away at Tranmere Rovers in 1991, at Crystal Palace in the rain in 1993, Bolton 1996, the list goes on. It felt – stop sniggering at the back – that for a decade or more the League Cup represented Chelsea Football Club’s only realistic chance of silverware.

These days, it is way down our pecking order. An irrelevance? It hurts me to say it, but yes.

Unless we play a major rival of course.

Are Everton a major rival? Not quite.

Danny Drinkwater soon impressed with a display of crunching tackles and solid passing. Alongside him was Ethan Ampadu looking like a crusty at a Levellers gig circa 1991. At just seventeen years of age, although not his debut, this was a huge night for him. In that first half, with his nerves jangling, he did not look out of place though some of his long-range passing was amiss.

The two-thousand away fans could not seem to get past their one song.

“And if you know your history it’s enough to make your heart go…”

However, no Chelsea songs were forthcoming from us, save the rousing “Antonio.”

Alan and myself chatted about our players.

We hardly noticed Charly Musonda. He was having a very quiet night. I noticed a passing resemblance of Davide Zappacosta to Groucho Marx. I wondered if our right back’s moustache was real. I pondered if Michy Batshuayi would have a memorable a game as his white undershirt.

My mind was clearly drifting…

After twenty-five minutes of huff and puff, but not much quality – nor any noise – we had our first corner, in front of the away fans in the far corner. Willian played it short to Musonda, who sent over a long cross towards the far post. We watched as Rudiger, falling back, did ever so well to head the ball back across the goalmouth, over ‘keeper Jordan Pickford, and into the far corner of the goal. The crowd loved that.

We were up one-nil, get in.

Everton created hardly anything during the first-half. Wayne Rooney was as innocuous and insipid as his grey shirt. A tame effort from Michy straight at Pickford was the only effort on goal. One from Groucho rippled the side netting.

There was wholesome applause from the Chelsea faithful at the break, but there was a realisation that this was in support of the youngsters, the fringe players, the manager, rather than for a recognition of any great period of play. However, Willian had been predictably busy, Christensen looked so natural, and everyone warmed to Zappacosta’s honesty and desire, to say nothing of his ability to stoop low, twiddle a cigar between his fingers, and crack one-liners to the West Lower.

But it had not been a memorable forty-five minutes.

At the interval, Bjarne Goldbaek trod the sacred turf. Forever etched in our minds is that thunderbolt of an equaliser at Three Point Lane in 1998. He looked well, bless him. I’m sure for many new fans – why do I always think of that prick Jeremy Clarkson when I talk about new fans? – it had might as well have been Barney Rubble out on the pitch.

We had heard that Tottenham were winning 2-0 at home to Wembley. There was the rival that would undoubtedly make the competition interesting.

The second-half started.

I commented to Alan that there did not seem to be a weight of expectation on the players. If mistakes were made, especially by those without much first-team exposure, there were less boos than normal.

The second-half had more urgency, and the challenges became more physical. Without warning, the away team turned the screw. Their resurgence was a shock.

Willy Caballero was right in the thick of it. A fantastic save from Rooney drew loud applause, but then soon after a terrible clearance from the ‘keeper gave us all kittens. Thankfully, he cleared before an Everton player could capitalise.

An effort from right under the bar at the Shed End was diverted over for a corner. Everton were on top for sure.

On the hour, the Chelsea support – realising that the team needed us – suddenly roared.

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

Danny Drinkwater, possibly our best player until then, was substituted and replaced by Cesc Fabregas. The former Leicester City player with the classic footballer’s name was given a very fine round of applause. There is just something about players with the same letter starting both of their first names and last names; Joey Jones, Damien Duff, Didier Drogba…Steve Sidwell. Er, perhaps not.

Our man Caballero kept pulling off some stunning saves. This was becoming a man of the match performance.

In a rare break, Willian ran at pace but drilled his shot wide of the near post.

Pedro replaced the unimpressive Musonda.

Everton still bossed it.

However, it was so gratifying to hear that the Chelsea support was back in the game. The quiet first-half seemed a distant memory. Batshuayi pick-pocketed a loose ball and touched it past Pickford, only for himself and his undershirt to see the back-tracking ‘keeper recover and push the ball away. Michy smacked the upright and for a few minutes looked like he had done himself a classic ‘seventies sitcom “mischief.”

An Everton effort rattled the top of Caballero’s bar.

Alvaro Morata replaced Michy.

We took an ineffectual short corner. I moaned to Alan.

“I bloody hate short corners. By all means, do it to get a different angle and whip the ball in early, but don’t just play it to a team mate, idly, then ponce about with it for a few moments. Certainly don’t bloody receive it back from the person you passed to.”

With injury time being played, Fabregas played a short corner to Willian. He shimmied and danced past Tom Davies, then played a sublime one-two with Fabregas who had accelerated away into space. Willian caressed the ball past Pickford into the Everton goal.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

I turned to Alan.

“As I said, I bloody hate those short corners.”

In the aftermath of the goal, Willian was mobbed by his team mates right down below us in Cathy’s Corner. He had been, I think, our star performer on the night.

As an afterthought, Dominic Calvert-Lewin toe-poked a goal for Everton. How typical of football that a team chasing a game admirably could only score once they conceded a further goal.

Into the last eight we went. Not a great game, not one that will live long in my memory, but a win is a win is a win is a win.

On the walk back to the car, I could hardly believe that Tottenham had managed to lose 3-2 to West Ham. Oh how I laughed. Not even Groucho Marx makes me giggle as that lot from N17.

Back in the car, we all agreed.

“Bristol City away please.”

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