Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.
This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.
Thus far, four games and four wins.
Players.
The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.
There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.
But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.
There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.
We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.
But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.
Managers.
The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.
At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.
Modern Football – Part One.
My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.
The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.
Modern Football – Part Two.
I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.
Modern Football – Part Three.
Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.
If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.
Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.
At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.
“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.
There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.
It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.
I was in at 7.45pm.
Teams.
Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella
Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez
Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho
Tyique George
Kick-Off.
Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.
“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.
Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.
Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.
The First-Half.
From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.
I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.
The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.
There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.
After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.
On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.
Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.
I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.
GET IN.
And then my night got worse.
“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.
My heart sank.
I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.
Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.
I hate modern football.
The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?
It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.
On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.
Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.
Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.
The Second-Half.
The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.
Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.
On the hour, two more substitutions.
Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.
Joao Pedro for George.
This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.
He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.
“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”
“OI OI OI.”
It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.
I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.
If only, eh?
If fucking only.
After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.
We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.
On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.
Reece James for Gusto.
Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.
Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.
We howled.
It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.
Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.
In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.
For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.
At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.
It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,
Let’s Go Home.
It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.
We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.
Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.
We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.
We were in Wroclaw.
I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.
Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?
“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”
Parky immediately chimed in.
“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”
Howls of laughter followed.
Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?
Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.
Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?
It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.
Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.
We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.
Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.
We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.
On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.
On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.
I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.
We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.
With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.
We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.
After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.
In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.
We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.
The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.
Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.
Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.
You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.
Enough of these history lessons.
On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.
Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.
For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.
I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.
RIP Stephen Rouse.
The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.
Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.
The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.
Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.
Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.
We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.
Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.
When in Rome.
Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.
At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.
At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.
At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.
Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.
PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.
Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.
My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.
I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.
I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.
The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.
We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.
It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.
Fackinell.
Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.
I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.
The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.
“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”
To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.
We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.
At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.
At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.
That made me laugh. What a small world.
We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.
Michelle led the way, and we followed on.
It was her finest hour.
We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.
I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.
If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?
At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.
At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.
Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?
Everyone wins. Everyone wins!
I hate modern football.
But here we all were.
Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.
Why were we here?
To see us win it all. Again.
Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.
Result.
I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.
The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.
Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.
Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.
The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.
Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.
Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.
I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.
I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.
The minutes ticked by.
There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.
The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.
Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.
I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.
“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.
Fantastic.
The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.
It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.
It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.
It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.
The desire was seemingly with them, not us.
Sigh.
Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.
The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.
“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”
“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”
On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.
At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.
Time to check the team again.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.
Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?
Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?
Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.
I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.
At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.
I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.
On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.
Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.
They were together at West Ham United.
The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.
Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.
The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.
Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.
Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.
We looked poor.
There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.
Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.
But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.
Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.
Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.
On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.
The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.
Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?
Oh boy.
At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.
It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.
On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.
Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.
On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.
From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.
We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.
On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
No complaints from me.
We pushed on.
On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.
We were level.
GET IN.
Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.
Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.
On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –
“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”
He didn’t let me down.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.
We erupted again.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.
We were ahead.
Fackinell.
Our end boomed now.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The World has ever seen.”
Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.
Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.
“Get up, you fool.”
On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.
Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.
In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.
And we were 3-1 up.
More beautiful noise.
The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :
“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”
Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.
With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.
Lovely.
There was still more to come.
With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.
Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.
What a feeling.
Phew.
We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.
At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.
“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”
The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.
At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.
I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.
Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.
I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.
And what a night.
We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.
If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.
Europe really is our playground.
And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.
We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.
PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.
In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.
And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.
Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…
I will see some of you in Philadelphia.
Phackinell.
REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL
Our final league game of this typically odd Chelsea league campaign was to take place beside the River Trent against Nottingham Forest. This game represented a couple of milestones for me. This would be another 38/38 league season, my third-in-a-row (I haven’t completed too many, I always seem to miss one or two games), but also Chelsea game number one thousand five hundred. It honestly doesn’t seem that long ago that we travelled up to Burnley for the first game of 2014/15 for my one-thousandth.
I suspect that my mindset for this game was quite different to most. Yes, we were in with a very decent chance to secure a UEFA Champions League spot for 2025/26, but if I am perfectly honest, I do not think that my mind was as besieged with a “do or die” mentality like many of our supporters.
At the start of the season, before a ball was kicked in anger, my prediction for us under a relatively untested new manager was to finish between sixth and eighth. That view did not really waver too much as games were played. We all know how the quality of this year’s Premier League – God, how I dislike the term “Prem” – has not been great, and so as our rocky league campaign stalled in the New Year – God, those back-to-back Brighton games – at least I thought that we might be able to sneak into a European place, as a result of other’s failings as well as our own.
We then hit some form, reached the UEFA Conference League Final, and a Europa League place next season seemed attainable via whatever means.
Going into our last game against Manchester United, I remember thinking that the Europa League is maybe our level for next season; maybe we are not quite ready for a full Champions League campaign,
We are, we must be reminded, a young team, finding its feet,
So, of course I wanted us to win at the City Ground in the way that I want us to always win as many games as we can, but I was not about to fling myself off Trent Bridge should we be pipped by Forest, or Newcastle, or Villa, to a Champions League place.
In the words of the song, whatever will be will be.
At this stage of my life and my Chelsea life, European campaigns are increasingly more about new cities, new teams, new grounds, new experiences, rather than total global domination.
It’s all about the journey, right?
That’s what I keep telling myself in quiet reflective moments, but then Chelsea Football Club comes along and buggers things up by habitually reaching finals and we then become trophy-hunting savages.
Wink.
I left work on Friday, and a lovely football-fuelled break was ahead of me, a tantalising notion. The game in Nottingham would be immediately followed by a trip to Wroclaw.
This is the, Chelsea, life.
However, the game would not be taking place in Nottingham at all.
My friend Craig – Stoke, 1984/85 and all that – who is an ardent supporter of Notts County always likes to mention that Notts County are the true team of the city since they play in Nottingham, yet Nottingham Forest, who ironically play at the City Ground, only play in West Bridgford, but in the county of Nottingham.
Confused, me owd duck?
I had collected PD at 9am. However, he managed to quickly get himself in a pickle when he ordered me to quickly return to his house as he had forgotten his Polish currency.
“Poland is tomorrow mate.”
I collected Parky at 9.30am and I drove due north, via the beautiful and scenic Fosse Way, bypassing Coventry and Leicester, then north for a few more miles. Ironically, this was the first time that I had driven on the A46 – still the Fosse Way – this far north since game number seven hundred against Hull City in October 2008.
The plan was to avoid Nottingham city centre and the noisy pubs around the ground and have a few drinks in a country pub somewhere.
Thankfully, at about 1pm, we pulled up outside “The Plough” in the quaintly named Normanton-On-The-Wolds. I am never sure of the origin of the term “wolds” but for a few minutes shy of two hours we were on one of them, and it was a very pleasant experience.
Four pints of “Cruzcampo” for the drinkers, three “Diet Cokes” for the driver.
I was parked up on Radcliffe Road at 3.10pm, and by 3.30pm I had smuggled my SLR into the away enclosure and had made by way to the fifth row alongside my usual awayday companions Gary, John and Alan. Annoyingly I had left my sunglasses in the car, a similar story to last year. I hope the sun overhead would soon disappear behind some clouds.
The team were going through their drills in front of us.
One wag behind me yelled out “smile, you should be enjoying this, you’re on a hundred grand a week.”
I had a look around. There were two new structures in the opposing corners; a Craven Cottage style rack of executive boxes to the right of the Trent End, and what looked like a TV studio perched high to the left.
Dotted around the ground was the “Forest” logo with the two European Cup stars. I think I have mentioned before about how the “FOReST” logo looks a little odd, and it garnered a little discussion on the internet recently. Somebody suggested that the lower case “e” flowed better with the curve of the “R”, but there was a further commend that had me chuckling.
“It’s the san serif of Nottingham.”
Kick-off approached and the sun played hide-and-seek. I was low down, and I prepared to be frustrated that I would not be able to take too many decent photos apart from the area on the pitch close by.
“Mull Of Kintyre” boomed out with the words changed to echo the spirit of 1977/78.
Then, the Trent End lit up with a full mosaic.
“TAKE US ON A TRIP”.
A crowd-surfing minibus began its movement “To Europe” just before the game kicked-off but then ran out of steam and collapsed on peoples’ heads as the game began.
A metaphor for the game? I hoped so.
It was a lively, physical and energetic start to the match The home team were not afraid to venture forward, and they were roared on by their red-clad supporters. Chelsea enjoyed a few counterattacks. There was a fine advance by Enzo Fernandez down the right using the dummy run of Noni Madueke to exploit space, but his cross way out to the right flank was not only an odd pass but was hopelessly overhit. If it had hit its intended target, I would have realised that Jadon Sancho was playing. It took me a quarter of an hour to realise it.
Our team?
Sanchez
James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Neto
Pedro Neto, the winger turned false-nine-figurehead kept finding himself out wide but wasted a couple of decent chances to ping over a decent cross.
After eighteen minutes, Marc Cucurella had already headed three dangerous crosses away. He covers space so well. There was a constant aerial threat from Forest, and Tosin Adarabioyo began heading away crosses, and blocking, and tackling.
Elsewhere, goals were not forthcoming.
Aston Villa 0 Manchester United 0
Newcastle United 0 Everton 0.
Our songs had quietened down and so a loud “Carefree” was met with derision and disdain from the noisy locals to our right.
We attacked when we could, and we seemed to own possession for much of the second half of the first period. We moved the ball rather slowly, and Cole Palmer often dropped very deep.
“I just can’t see us scoring, Gary.”
On the half-hour, a decent move found Noni Madueke, who passed to Palmer. His cross found Neto, close-in, but his effort flew over the bar.
I sensed that the home crowd – red hot last year – were not quite so intense and loud this year. I think the nerves were getting to them.
On forty-two minutes, a great cross from them and Chris Wood really should have hit the target. His effort flew over, in much the same way that had happened with the Neto effort. Both efforts came off shins.
The locals yelled “Come on you reds” and the place heated up again.
I noted how Tosin was in the right place to clear so many times. His battle with Wood was an attraction all by itself.
At the break, the home team were cheered off the pitch.
I just wondered where on Earth a goal would come from.
There was a second huddle of the day from Chelsea, and another rendition of “Mull Of Kintyre”. I was if both teams wanted to reset and go again.
The Chelsea team attacked us in the Bridgford Stand. On fifty minutes, a Chelsea move resulted in the ball being headed around the box. Neco Williams meekly headed the ball to Neto who, simply playing percentage football, pushed the ball across the six-yard box, the ‘keeper stranded. I did not see whose leg prodded the ball in, but I saw the net bulge, and I saw everyone explode.
Limbs.
I punched the air continually. I knew I would not be able to take any shots of the scorer celebrating. Instead, I looked ahead and saw the wide grin from Palmer as he trotted towards us. A photo of him would have been a nice and cool comparison to the noise and madness happening all around me.
But the limbs were still getting in the way.
Drat.
As against Manchester United, Palmer’s celebration was to flip up a spare ball and welly it into the sky.
Bosh.
“Who scored?”
“Colwill.”
In a moment of quiet :
Alan, two seats away : “THTCAUN.”
Charles, in Texas : “THTCAUN.”
Ben, in Massachusetts : “THTCAUN.”
Garret, in Tennessee : “THTCAUN.”
Rick, in Iowa : “THTCAUN.”
Me, in Nottinghamshire : “COMLD.”
This single goal pushed Chelsea above Newcastle United into fourth place.
Fackinell.
All around me was noise and happiness.
But could we hang on?
On fifty-seven minutes, Wood was close-in on Sanchez again, but his effort was blasted over. The offside flag had been raised anyway.
A loud guttural roar from us.
“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.
SUPER CHELSEA FC.
WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM.
THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”
Some substitutions.
Romeo Lavia for Sancho, a poor game from him.
An update :
Newcastle United 0 Everton 1.
We were now three points up on the Geordies, the team we lost against just a fortnight ago.
It was happening.
The play continued.
I said to Gary :
“Forest are currently seventh. It’s going to be a scramble to get back to my car tonight.”
Thankfully those days are over.
An update :
Manchester United 1 Aston Villa 0.
It was happening, Villa were out of the equation now surely.
Malo Gusto replaced Neto, who had put in a fine shift.
Forest attacked sporadically, but the defence – and that man Tosin – was exceptional.
There was a shout of “Celery” in the crowd in the corner section, and I wondered what was happening? In days of old, this was usually prompted by the sighting of an attractive girl or woman, please don’t judge us.
Well, lo and behold, Bonnie Blue (who? her?) was indeed sighted and it just about summed up the craziness of the day. From what I could remember, this woman had been banned from the City Ground. How she managed to get a ticket in our away end, God – or maybe Todd – only knows.
She was wearing the new Chelsea shirt too.
Perhaps, she should have gone with the current shirt; the design is more appropriate, cough, cough.
The ball was booted clear and ended up behind me. Gary – a kleptomaniac – reached down and would eventually hide it away in his rolled-up jacket.
I then looked up and found out that Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was on the pitch, replacing Madueke.
An update :
Manchester United 2 Aston Villa 0.
A Forest corner at the Trent End resulted in a series of mad blocks from our resolute defenders. Sanchez eventually fell on the ball, and we breathed a sigh of relief.
I found it funny that the home fans were not happy with the referee Anthony Taylor, in much the same way that we are not too enamoured.
“Anthony Taylor. It’s all about you.”
On ninety-three minutes, the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sels trotted up field and launched a fantastic ball towards Wood. Thankfully, the striker missed the target, the ball flying high into the stand.
Fackinell.
In truth, an equaliser for Forest would not have hindered our progress into next season’s Champions League.
After eight and then nine minutes of injury time, the referee blew.
We were in our happy place once again.
Back in Europe.
Back in the Champions League.
Back at the top table.
What a mad, noisy, funny, crazy – but perfect – day.
There was time for a few hugs and handshakes in the concourse and outside. My good mate Callum approached me.
“Never been a big fan of the manager, but he has done it, he has to stay.”
“Yeah, would be churlish to want him out.”
A last photo of the season, and then a slow walk back to the car.
It was a bloody magnificent drive home, through the shires of England, as the sun set to our right, above The Cotswolds.
I reached home at 10.15pm.
It had been a great day.
I will see many of you in Wroclaw.
1,500
Game 1 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United – 16/3/74
Game 100 : Chelsea vs. West Ham United – 23/3/87
Game 200 : Coventry City vs. Chelsea – 4/2/95
Game 300 : Chelsea vs. Real Betis – 5/3/98
Game 400 : Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough – 31/3/01
Game 500 – Chelsea vs. Real Zaragoza – 8/8/04
Game 600 – Chelsea vs. Levski Sofia – 5/12/06
Game 700 – Hull City vs. Chelsea – 29/10/08
Game 800 – Manchester City vs. Chelsea – 25/9/10
Game 900 – Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea – 19/8/12
Game 1,000 – Burnley vs. Chelsea – 19/8/14
Game 1,100 – Chelsea vs. West Ham United – 15/8/16
Game 1,200 – Perth Glory vs. Chelsea – 23/7/18
Game 1,300 – Chelsea vs. Villareal – 11/8/21
Game 1,400 – Chelsea vs. Newcastle United – 28/5/23
Game 1,500 – Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea – 25/5/25
For a long time, it looked as though I would not be able to attend the return leg against Legia Warsaw at Stamford Bridge. I had been selected to attend Bristol Crown Court for jury service from Monday 7 April, potentially until Friday 25 April, and if I couldn’t go, neither could Paul nor Parky. If my attendance at court on the day of the game was required, our three tickets worth £85 would be wasted.
Thankfully, on the Wednesday, I was released from duty, and I was able to walk, a free man.
I worked from 6am on the day of the game, but due to a variety of problems, I couldn’t collect the two of them until just before 2.30pm. With another 8pm kick off ahead, this would be another long day for me. I was up at 4.45am and I predicted getting home around 1am.
Despite the late start, I still dropped the lads near “The Eight Bells” at around 4.45pm. They were happy; they went off for a few scoops with Salisbury Steve, while I drove away to park further north in my usual spot just off Lillee Road.
On the slow drive through Fulham, I spotted some Legia supporters outside “The Brown Cow” pub on the Fulham Road, the first sighting of the day. First a girl in her late teens wearing a replica shirt, then two chaps with two young boys, the boys wearing Legia shirts, the two grown-ups not. I presumed that they were headed to the game.
There had been a lot of talk in the media, and on social media, about the presence of Legia supporters in and around Stamford Bridge on this night. Both Chelsea Football Club and the Fulham Police were, shall we say, concerned.
Chelsea had been on the front foot and offered Legia a much-reduced allocation of around 1,000 instead of 3,000. Legia retaliated with an allocation for us of just 740. Thankfully I heard of no trouble in Poland. It seemed that the local police kept the away support well protected. Additionally, despite a once fearsome reputation, the supporters following Chelsea in Poland were hardly battle-hardened hooligans. I suspect that the locals soon realised this and opted to give us an easy ride, a free pass. There would have been no kudos in attacking our – aging – band of supporters.
But that’s not to say that the game at Stamford Bridge would go without incident. I believe that ticket sales were restricted to people who had previously purchased seats this season, though of course there is a rather fluid purchasing pattern evolving of late. Touts who masquerade as Chelsea supporters would be purchasing tickets to then sell on to any Tomasz, Dariusz or Henrik.
As I drove past Fulham Police Station, I spotted a couple of police vans heading up to Stamford Bridge. I wondered what checks would be in place on the Fulham Road and at the turnstiles before the game.
I had a flight of fancy and wondered if there might well be a re-enactment of the famous scene in “The Great Escape” involving Gordon Jackson as he boards a train, and a sly German soldier says “good…luck” but this time the conversation takes place a few yards before tickets are due to be scanned around the Stamford Bridge stadium. I wondered if the phrase “powodzenia” would be answered with a reply in Polish, a surprised smile, a wink or befuddlement and a stony silence.
After parking at the same spot as on Sunday, I quickly visited “Koka” on the North End Road and gobbled down a four-cheese pizza. While I was eating, a medley of ‘eighties songs were being aired in the restaurant.
Which brings us nicely to 1984/85.
On Tuesday 16 April 1985, Chelsea played a home game against Aston Villa. I spent the day in my home village in Somerset and did not attend. My diary tells me that I hoped for a gate of 16,000. In the end, just 13,267 attended. We won 3-1 with goals from John Bumstead, Mickey Thomas and a Villa own goal. Our form was starting to improve after a poor month of results.
I rolled into the pub at 6pm and stayed until just after 7pm. On the Tuesday night, I had gambled and booked flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw for the potential final in this competition. Salisbury Steve had already booked seats a while ago, and now PD, Parky and yours truly were on the same flights. Should we reach the final, we would get to Wroclaw at just after midnight on the Tuesday and would leave at 10.35am on the Thursday, a stay of three nights. The price was just £105.
I feel that as a fan base we have an odd relationship with this new-fangled Europa Conference competition. When it first appeared in 2021/22, there was general scorn from us and from elsewhere in the football world. This seemed like a needless competition. Should teams finishing far from the top of their leagues really be rewarded with participation in a pan-European competition that would add games and travel to an already busy schedule?
I thought it too pathetic for words.
And yet, you look at the teams that have won it; Roma (under Mourinho, oh the irony of him poo-pooing teams playing in the Europa League, let alone this…), West Ham United, Olimpiacos.
Big clubs for sure.
When we qualified for this competition at the very end of last season, my main thoughts were : firstly, new cities, new stadia, new countries, new experiences. Secondly, I wasn’t massively bothered about winning it. In essence, it offered some potentially new life experiences, and I am all for that. And then I thought of our “we’ve won it all” boast, and I realigned my thoughts about winning another competition. Yes, let’s win it.
Almaty in Kazakhstan in December was a bloody magnificent experience, no doubt, but I have shied away for other destinations thus far. In the pub, we discussed heading over to Vienna for a semi-final against Rapid even though I have visited the city before, but Stockholm didn’t thrill us too much. Expenditure-wise, I have the two games in Philly to take care of, so this has been a major factor in me attending just one away game in Europe thus far.
The pub was quiet, and when we arrived at Fulham Broadway just before 7.30pm, it was as quiet as I have known on a matchday for years. On the walk up the Fulham Road, a group of around thirty policemen were assembled in three lines near the Oswald Stoll. That’s a rare sight indeed at Chelsea these days. There were more dotted around and about.
We had seen a glimpse of the team in the pub, and considering we were 3-0 up from the first leg, the strength of the team surprised me. It certainly felt odd to see Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson in the starting eleven, especially since they had started against Ipswich Town.
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella
James – Dewsbury-Hall
Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku
Jackson
I was in at 7.35pm to the sound of “Our House” by Madness, a lovely welcoming song. Above, not a single cloud in the sky. Opposite my corner, around a thousand away supporters were assembled, mainly in the upper tier of The Shed, but a little group of around thirty in the lower tier. The balcony wall was full of flags. Their dress code was black, white, grey. I soon came to the conclusion that those five Legia fans outside “The Brown Cow” were not in this section.
As kick-off approached “Blue Day” was played and then at 7.50pm, the Legia ultras, who had been virtually silent until then, started. For just a choir of just one thousand strong, they made a massive noise.
Then came “Blue Is The Colour” and I found myself joining in automatically, as if I could not stop myself. However – correct me if I am wrong – it seemed too short, an abridged version perhaps.
Then “Parklife”, then “Liquidator” – and this seemed like we were returning to our roots.
In the East Stand there were huge swathes of seats unused, the section of the upper tier towards The Shed especially. There were clear gaps in all other parts of the stadium too. What was the reason for this? An incorrect pricing structure? Were Chelsea fans content we would get through so there was little point in attending? A stringent admission process for this one game? One game too many?
The result was a surreal, odd, feel to the game.
European nights at Stamford Bridge in April and May used to be the stuff of legend.
That Hughes winner against Vicenza, the place wet but rocking. Going three-up against Barcelona in 2000. The tense struggle against Liverpool in 2005 and then in so many subsequent games. Iniesta in 2009. Barcelona again and a Drogba goal in 2012. A penalty shoot-out against Frankfurt in 2019. The list of games goes on.
This seemed like it was a lot less important. And European games should not be like this. These nights should be the pinnacle. And there lies the problem with the UEFA Europa Conference.
Dear UEFA,
Less is more.
More is shite.
Thank you.
Chris.
We attacked The Shed, and within two minutes, there was a horrible repeat of Sunday’s start. Cole Palmer was sent through, one on one with the ‘keeper. I sensed that he took a breath and relaxed – a good sign – but his effort was off target, and I murmured “here we go again.”
Not so long after, Palmer headed at the Warsaw ‘keeper Vladan Kovacevic after a shot from Christopher Nkunku was saved.
Alas, on ten minutes, a Legia player was able to run unchallenged and played in Tomas Pekhart. He pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen, no doubt inviting a lunge, and the result was a clear penalty.
In it went, despite our ‘keeper getting a good hand to it down low.
Bollocks.
I was surprised that there was no noise nor activity from anywhere in the stadium apart from the thousand in the far corner and a group of around a hundred in the middle tier of the West Stand, an area that is often used by visiting European teams. I guess it housed the Legia club officials, associates and executive club members. There didn’t appear to be any Legia fans in The Sleepy Hollow, though it would have been probably difficult to tell.
After the goal celebrations had ended, virtually all of the Legia fans – supporters, ultras, call them what you will – took their shirts off. Soon, the whole away section had turned pink, coloured with occasional deep blue ink.
I remember Leeds United having a fad for taking their shirts off at half-time at games a few decades ago, but this was clearly on a different scale.
The ultras are an odd phenomenon in Europe. The Legia lot put on a show at the first leg last week, and my friend Jaro – who grew up in Poland as a Legia fan but is now solidly Chelsea – was able to attend the game. He explained to me that the Legia ultras see themselves as the dominant partner in the player / fan relationship, that it is all about them, and woe betide any Legia fan who does not share their views.
It was so noticeable that the Legia support was 99.9% male.
Although impressive to watch, I am not much of a fan of the highly choreographed routines that they, and other ultra groups elsewhere, put on each game. Often, they ignore the actual game taking place in front of them. Capos will often turn their backs to the action and face their disciples. It is all about them.
I class this as backward thinking.
I much prefer our organic way of supporting the team in the UK, and the fact that we tend to favour more spontaneous, and humorous, shows of affection. We focus on the players and the game, and our chants rise and fall accordingly. If we hit a poor match, and the players need us. We get behind them.
Or we used to. In theory.
And humour is such a huge part of our game.
The reaction of The Shed to the sight of the pre-planned removal of shirts on the tenth minute of “get your tits out for the lads” is a great example of this.
On the pitch, there was nothing to get us excited. We were struggling. Sensing the need for some sort of positive input, Alan reached for the Maynards wine gums and shared them out.
On nineteen minutes, a dart behind our lines and the dangerous Ryoya Morishita drove a shot just past the post.
This was not going according to plan. We were poor. The passing was slow, nobody was moving for each other, the play was all in front of the Legia team.
However, on thirty-three minutes, Jadon Sancho advanced down the right and played a nice ball in to the feet of Marc Cucurella who easily stabbed the ball home.
I sat.
It was my least enthusiastic response to a goal for years.
Still, it was now 1-1 on the night and we were 4-1 up on aggregate.
With Rapid Vienna 1-0 up from their first game, it looked like we might be following up games against Panathinaikos (green), Shamrock Rovers (green), Legia (green) with them (green) and possibly Real Betis (green) in the final.
Claude Goncalves attempted an optimistic lob from maybe forty-five yards but was off target.
Our play was laborious and without pace nor imagination.
It was our version of anti-football.
I commented to Alan that “you wouldn’t cross the road to watch this shite if it wasn’t your team, would you?”
With that – seconds later – a brilliant ball from the otherwise quiet Palmer found Cucurella on the far post, with Nkunku alongside him. Between the two of them, we fashioned a chance that Cucurella tapped home.
Again, no celebration from me.
However, VAR wiped out the goal anyway.
As the first half ended, there were boos.
At the break, I chatted to a few friends and acquaintances.
“So shite.”
“If they were playing in your front garden, you’d close the curtains…”
At the break, Tyrique George replaced Nicolas Jackson who had been quite abysmal. I quite expected to Nkunku to take up a central space, but the substitute played in the middle.
We continued to struggle. I moaned to Alan that “we never play the unexpected pass” to which he replied “apart from to each other” and I laughed, but I knew exactly what he meant.
A white, red and green chequered flag was floated over a section of Legia fans in the far corner.
Down below, a twice-taken corner kick was floated in towards the back stick, where Goncalves was lurking. His shot bounced up off the turf and Steve Kapuadi was able to nod in from very close range with no Chelsea player close.
We were losing again.
Fackinell.
On fifty-seven minutes, a substitution that annoyed virtually ever Chelsea supporter present.
Off came Cucurella, our best player on the night by a country mile.
On came Malo Gusto.
Noni Madueke also replaced the virtually anonymous Palmer.
The home crowd, that had been sitting and standing without much in the way of positive support, was possibly riled by the treatment of Cucurella and decided to wholeheartedly roar the team on with a defiant rendition of the old second-half favourite, “Amazing Grace”.
“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA, CHELSEA, CHELSEA.”
It’s appearance at the game was much needed.
We had our best spell of the match, around the hour mark, and two shots came in quick succession, one from Madueke, one from George.
Then, the away section upped the ante and turned bright red with the appearance of around fifty flares. I, along with others, looked on in awe. In a sobering moment, I realised that the once feared – and fearsome – Chelsea home support had been reduced to watching in silent admiration at the latest in a long line of European opponents that had brought along thousands of loud and energetic supporters. We had seen it before with the likes of Olimpiacos, Napoli, Malmo, Frankfurt and Dortmund among others.
And here we were.
Our mouths were open, metaphorically, as we watched on.
I may not really agree with the ethos behind the Ultra movement but there is no denying that they certainly put on a show.
But I felt uneasy. I felt awkward that we had nothing in reply. It felt like we had been neutered. It felt like we were a passive bunch of voyeurs at some sordid party, onlookers with not a clue how to behave.
Dumbfounded.
Found out.
Was this what it was like to be passengers on a cruise ship full of middle-aged dullards passing by a Croatian nudist beach?
Not sure where to look, nor how to react.
Fackinell.
On seventy-three minutes, a great ball out of defence from James found Madueke who advanced and had two choices; to hit the ball at goal himself or pass square to George. He chose the latter, and the youngster tapped it in. Sadly, an offside flag had been raised, and I felt Tyrique’s pain as he looked to the sky in disgust. Madueke was the guilty party.
On eighty-three minutes, Pedro Neto took over from Sancho.
Just after, a shot on goal at The Shed End from an unknown Legia player was booted so high over the crossbar that I severely wondered if anyone in one-hundred and twenty years had been so far off target in a game at Stamford Bridge.
At the final whistle, there were boos and it surprised nobody.
This was, truly, one of the dullest Chelsea performances that I have ever seen. I have never warmed to Enzo Maresca, and my patience with him is at an all-time low. If I am honest, I am fearing our next match at Fulham on Easter Day, and I honestly do not expect us to win any of our last six league games.
The gate was just 32,549.
In the Conference League, we learned that we will be paired with Djurgarden of Sweden.
The home game against Leicester City was to be followed by three more trips to London for me in the following week. There would be two more Chelsea matches, but also a drive up to London on the one-hundred-and-twentieth anniversary of the formation of the club on Friday 10 March 1905.
Unbeknown to me, it seems that the club must have sent emails out asking for nominations to attend a stadium tour in the evening of Monday 10 March to mark the moment, and to my great surprise and pleasure I had been selected as one of the chosen few, or rather one of the chosen one-hundred-and-twenty.
I am still unaware who nominated me.
If it is you…THANK YOU SO MUCH.
It was a great evening.
I met up with my good friend Luke in the “Butcher’s Hook” where the club was formed all those years ago, and we chatted to other lads that I know, the brothers Dan and Eddie. Our tour was the last of the night, beginning at 6.30pm and ending at 8pm.
Ninety minutes, how fitting.
This would be the fifth stadium tour that I have attended; the others were in 1997 with a bunch of fellow fans including Glenn and Alan, a solo tour in around 2005, a tour with a friend from the US in 2016 and a tour with a friend from Germany later the same year.
The highlight was the chance to meet up, albeit briefly, with club legends Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Carlo Cudicini. There was the chance for photos, but I couldn’t really say too much to Jimmy and Carlo due to the lack of time.
To Carlo : “The last time I spoke to you was in Beijing in 2017.”
To Jimmy : “You know what, even though you played for Leeds, you’re not a bad bloke.”
There was plenty of laughter, plenty of smiles and giggles, and I loved it that Jimmy’s perfect hat-trick against Tottenham was mentioned a few times. In some ways, the star of the show was the Stamford Bridge pitch itself, bathing under self-tanning ultra-violet lights on a cold Spring evening. Knowing my obsessional desire to photograph Stamford Bridge as often as possible, in as many different circumstances as possible, it is quite likely that I would have driven up from Somerset just to take photos of the pink pitch and the large structures hovering over it.
I include those photos here along with a few others from that night. It was lovely to see a few people that I knew on the three tours. A special mention to Annette and Mark, pictured, who often act as my un-paid spell-checkers on this blog.
Before we disappeared into the home dressing room, the tour stopped by the Chelsea bench. A few of us sat in what is now “the dug-out club” and we spoke about the ludicrous price that the club charges spectators to sit in these twenty or so seats. For the two games against Liverpool and Manchester United, still to come this season, each seat costs a mammoth £12,995.
That’s correct.
It’s not a miss-print.
£12,995.
There have been many words of disdain written about this over the past few months. And this is no surprise. The bizarre thing is that these seats offer really crap views of the pitch. The Perspex tunnel roof, for example, obliterates much of the pitch at The Shed End.
But I have fostered a different opinion of late.
These tickets are clearly aimed at VIPs and the super-wealthy (though, perhaps, the mentally unstable too) and it could be argued that a few years ago VIPs might well be gifted match tickets dependent upon their status. Now, there is an alternative. And if the club can sell such shite tickets – and it’s only twenty of them after all – for such a ridiculous amount of money, then fair play to them.
In an ideal world, the monies raised – £259,900 per game! – would be used to offset the price of match tickets for the rank and file, but I am not naïve enough to believe this will always be the case.
To be honest, this “dug-out club” malarkey is a sign that the suits at Chelsea don’t really understand the differences between sports in the US and the UK, or at least baseball and football. At a baseball game, 95% of the important stuff – the pitcher versus batter duel, the base-running, the infield action – takes place in front of the dug-out and in front of home plate. Over there, seats in these areas are justifiably the most expensive. In football, having seats so low down is not really seen as a positive.
That said, despite all of the talk of the club charging extortionate amounts for some tickets at Stamford Bridge, the cost of my ticket for the game against Copenhagen on the Thursday was just £34, a decent enough figure if I am honest.
For this game I was accompanied by just Parky, with PD unable to attend. I picked him up from his village at 2.15pm and I made really good time. I parked up at my usual spot, dipped into “Koka” on the North End Road for a pepperoni pizza and then headed down from West Brompton to Putney Bridge to meet up with Michelle, Parky, Jimmy, Nick, Steve, Andy and Kim once more.
The pre-match in “The Eight Bells” was, as always, a laugh.
I had some good news for them. At long last, I had witnessed a home league win for Frome Town this season. On the Tuesday, in a tight and scrappy game, an Archie Ferris goal on eighty-seven minutes gifted Frome a huge 1-0 win against Hanwell Town from West London. The crowd was 335. In goal for the visitors was Sam Beasant, son of Dave.
A spare spot was available in “The Sleepy Hollow” and so Michelle sat next to Alan and me. Alas, Clive was absent in addition to PD. Alan had met Michelle before; on that trip to Porto almost ten years ago.
I soon spotted that Copenhagen had not taken the full three thousand allocation. This was our third tie against this team. We had played them in 1998/99 and 2010/11 too. Out of interest, I had pulled up the blog report for the game in March 2011 – “Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer” – and I was amused to read this :
The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –
“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fucking thing.”
“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”
The MH responded with a classic of our own –
“Speak fucking Danish, why don’t you speak fucking Danish?”
As kick-off in 2025 approached, we checked our team.
Jorgensen
Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong
Caicedo – Fernandez
George – Dewsbury-Hall – Sancho
Neto
I was worried about this match. We were 2-1 up from the first leg but if we were to concede early, there was a good chance that both the team and the support would implode on a horrible nervy night.
At the kick-off, the two-and-a-half thousand away fans were bouncing wildly, and I suspected that they would prove to be the stars of the show.
Unlike Copenhagen’s vivid pink away shirts of 2011, this time they were wearing the opposite of our colours.
Chelsea : blue / blue / white.
Copenhagen : white / white / blue.
As the game got going, I became fascinated by the lack of spectators in the East Middle. Apart from a hundred lonely souls dotted around, the whole tier was empty. Never mind the dug-out club, Chelsea had royally messed-up with the pricing structure for that part of the ground, although the middle sections of the West Stand were not full either.
Bloody hell Chelsea.
No shirt sponsor.
A whole tier empty.
Sort it out.
Down on the pitch, my fears were real. There were two early Copenhagen attacks in the first five minutes and then on twelve minutes Josh Acheampong made a timely block on a shot from a Copenhagen attacker. The Chelsea youngster had begun well and would often drift inside during the first half.
Pedro Neto was put through, but their ‘keeper Diant Ramaj burst out to almost the halfway line to clear. This was one of our few attacks thus far, and we were really struggling to create anything.
After half-an-hour, I struggled to remember a single shot on goal, on target or off.
This was dire.
Football is meant to entertain us.
On thirty-six minutes, a nice piece of skill from Tyrique George brought the stadium to life – “fackinell, some skill” – but his touch to Sancho was just a little too hard.
On forty-two minutes, Alan realised that he had neglected to open his “lucky European” wine gums, and as Michelle and I tucked in, Moises Caicedo, as steady as anyone this season, won the ball and played in Neto. He tumbled over inside the box, but no penalty.
For a moment, I wondered if the “Maynards” were going to have an immediate effect.
From the away fans, shades of 2011.
“Is this a library?”
“You’re shit and you know you are.”
There was no witty riposte this time.
We were funnier fourteen years ago.
Well, this was as shocking a game as I had witnessed for years. We all agreed; not one effort on goal.
The boos at half-time seemed – as much as it hurts to say it – par for the course.
Enzo Maresca made two substitutions at the break.
Marc Cucurella for Acheampong, slightly harsh I felt.
Cole Palmer for Enzo, deserved.
On forty-seven minutes – REJOICE – an effort on goal, from Trevoh Chalobah after some typically fine play from Palmer. Then, a shot from Jadon Sancho.
Bloody hell.
“Smelling salts please nurse.”
On fifty minutes, a break down the other end and I yelled out “two spare at the far post” and a cross from their left hit one of them, but the effort was clawed away by Filip Jorgensen.
Ugh.
Just after, some tenacious play by Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall, played in initially by Palmer, enabled him to force his way past some defenders and he did well to persevere and flash the ball in at an angle.
We celebrated the unlikely scorer and the fact that we were now 3-1 up in the tie.
Time to relax?
I think so.
However, the goal that they conceded seemed to inspire the visiting Danes even more. Their show of support during the evening really was sensational.
There was a loud song for Cucurella, who was pleasing everyone with some tenacious play of his own.
We had little bits of the game, but nothing to set the pulses racing. There was a nice move and a shot from Palmer that was swept wide.
On sixty-five minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Sancho.
On seventy-six minutes, a Palmer free kick down below us but an easy save for Ramaj.
On seventy-nine minutes, Reece James for Caicedo (“for you, Michelle” as he had not appeared versus Leicester City).
Late on, another shot for Palmer, this one blocked too.
A very late sub, and a debut.
Genesis Antwi for Neto.
At the death of a poor match, there was a close-in effort for the visitors that was blasted high into the Shed Upper and then there was one last effort from Palmer that was saved by Ramaj.
These were my closing comments for the Tottenham Hotspur blog, as I typed away in a Heathrow hotel.
Eastwards, indeed.
I was up early on Monday 9 December, and soon wolfed down a breakfast. I made my way to nearby Stanwell, where my friend Ian – whose daughter Ella had taken my spares at Tottenham – had very kindly offered to provide a parking space for my car while I would be in Kazakhstan. Ian dropped me off at Hatton Cross, and I then double-backed on myself to Heathrow where I caught a 9.15am National Express coach to Stansted. It was worryingly cold while I waited at the bus stop at Heathrow, and I began to wonder how I would cope with the colder temperatures in Almaty. I didn’t catch much sleep during the night, so I was happy that I managed to drop off as we wound our way clockwise around the M25. It is a well-travelled journey for me; Stansted is often a departure point for European adventures.
I was soon checked-in at the gate for the first part of my mammoth journey. First up was a three-and-a-half-hour flight to Istanbul – Constantinople for you Jimmy – which was set to leave at 12.50pm. I spotted a few Chelsea faces, around ten, who were on the same flight.
Thinking of Marc Cucarella’s problems at Tottenham the night before, I told a few Chelsea lads “it’s going to be icy and snowy in Almaty – I hope you have picked the right shoes.”
I had been contented with my planning for this trip. I was out via Pegasus and back via Azerbaijain Airlines, all for £418. The apartment that I had booked in Almaty was just £95 for four nights.
The flight left a little late, at maybe 1.15pm.
I did not care; I was on my way.
There is always so much to check and double-check on these trips, but I could now relax and relax I did; I probably slept for 75% of the flight.
We were due to land at Istanbul’s Sabiha Gokcen airport – the one on the Asian side, how fitting – at 8pm local time. I was awake for the approach and was able to set my eyes on the glorious lights of Istanbul and the Bosphorus to my left. I could not make out the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia but I knew that “they were down there somewhere” and that was enough for me. I just made out the lights on the bridge that I walked across in 2014. The plane was buffeted in the wind as it approached the airport, and the landing was rather bumpy.
There was only an hour and a half to wait for the onward flight. I met a few more Chelsea who had flown in on an earlier Pegasus flight. There was probably fifteen or twenty Chelsea on the second flight which left at around 10pm.
Again, I slept for much of the five-hour flight. There was more legroom, more space, on this flight and I soon drifted off. I had the extra pleasure of a window seat so was able to use my chunky pullover as a pillow.
However, at the mid-way point, I woke and decided to flip up the window-blind. Down below me, to my right, seemingly within touching distance, was an incredible sight. A huge white city – everything was white – appeared and everything was so clear, so pristine, so bright. Was it all constructed from marble? A vision in the darkness of the night. Stunning. How I wish I had the nous to turn my phone on and take a few photos. The moment lasted only a few moments.
Was it a dream?
I slept on.
I was awake again as we approached Almaty and I spotted roads and houses sprinkled with snow as we descended. We landed ten minutes late at 5.25am.
“Hello Kazakhstan.”
There’s a phrase that I never ever expected to utter in my life.
As we made our way out into the airport, I braced myself for that first blast of cold air.
There had been a little confusion in the weeks approaching this trip regarding my baggage allowance. The messages that I received from both airlines were not clear. Rather than be stung with excess costs, I decided to go for the “least risk” approach and take a small ruck-sac. As a result, I was wearing my chunkiest pullover in addition to my warmest jacket. I looked like the Michelin Man as I walked into the relative warmth of the airport.
I exchanged some sterling for the local tenge, and while I gathered my thoughts, I supped a large cappuccino. This spruced me up and, with the morning still ridiculously early, I was not sure what to do next. While I charged my phone, I chatted to Roy and we soon agreed to split the cost of a 9,000 tenge cab down to his hotel near the stadium where I could at least grab another coffee and try to work out a plan for the day.
We were on our way.
In the build up to this trip, I had been emailing a local guy – Vijay – who I have been in contact with since 2003. Vijay owns an office furniture company in Almaty and we had been planning a meet up during my stay. He had even suggested that I could crash at his house until my apartment became ready at 2pm.
We arrived at Roy’s hotel, with the old school stadium floodlights peaking behind in the morning mist. There was a stand-off with the cab driver – who now wanted 33,000 tenge – but Roy stood firm. It was around 7am.
Cathy arrived in the hotel foyer. She was staying there too. Reports of her first hotel breakfast were not too appetising. We chatted about our plans for the up-coming FIFA World Club Cup in the US, and I have no doubt that I will bump into Cathy in Philadelphia in the summer.
I messaged Vijay to say that I had managed to grab tons of sleep on both flights and so would look around the stadium and then take a leisurely stroll towards the city centre.
At around 8.30am, I called in to a nearby McDonalds. They have been renamed and rebranded as “I’m” (as far as I could work out) after the US/Russia sanctions following the invasion in Ukraine. There was no breakfast menu, and I struggled with a burger at such an hour, but the coffee warmed me. I felt that I was a stereotypical tourist – I hate this feeling – but I definitely needed to optimise locations with Wi-Fi on this trip. An attempt to fire up “Uber” and “Yandex” did not work.
Incongruous Western Christmas songs aired on the in-house radio, how surreal. I quietly observed the facial features of the locals; a real mix, what an exciting trip this will be.
My phone charged further, I set out into the morning air. The sky was still grey.
Within ten minutes, I reached the Central Stadium, where Astana play their games while their indoor stadium is being renovated. Everyone was happy that we were not required in Astana where the temperature can drop as far as -25 at times. Here, in Almaty, the range during winter is -5 to -15.
I took a few photos of the façade of the stadium and then waltzed in. The pitch was covered with a thick tarpaulin, and a few workers were shovelling snow. I was befriended by a couple of them, and one offered me a little white sweet.
I nervously popped it into my mouth.
Fackinell.
It tasted of salt.
I would later learn that it was made from goat’s milk. While their back was turned, I spat it out onto the running track.
The stadium was a typically bleak former Eastern-bloc structure, and my eyes kept wandering over to the section to the right of the classic columns behind one goal – the Northern end – where we would all be gathered in two days’ time.
Not surprisingly, my camera – my “pub” camera for this trip, I could not risk my SLR getting turned away on Thursday – went into overdrive. I hope that you like the photos. I think I was the first away fan to visit the stadium, but a few more visited it over the next two days before the game itself.
I then began my momentous walk back to the city centre. I aimed for Ascension Cathedral as my apartment was nearby.
Soon into my walk, a few locals waved at me and seemed to strongly suggest that I put a hat on. But I wasn’t too cold, not yet anyway. I soon stumbled upon another stadium – Dinamo, in blue – and it appeared that this hosted both ice hockey and football. There was the slow hum of traffic on the city’s grid pattern streets, and I took it all in.
Almaty. What do you have for me?
More opulent than I had ever imagined, many fine buildings, happy locals – Moscow, are you reading this? – and I was mesmerized by the mix of facial types…some Slavic, some Turk, some from further East, Mongolian, Chinese, Nepalese? Even some with European features.
We are all one big mixing pot, right?
Some students outside a university building were enjoying a cigarette break, and it is some while since I have seen so much cigarette smoke in one place. Nobody was vaping.
I put the jacket hood up, but felt constrained, and didn’t fancy that feeling. I actually enjoyed the feeling of the cold air on my cheeks. It was all part of the experience. Even my scarf was loosely tied around my neck. My bobble hat was in my pocket and I hadn’t even brought a pair of gloves for this trip, the simple reason being that I didn’t own one.
I was feeling fearless, kinda.
At a second McCoffee stop – for the Wi-Fi honest…OK, and the toilets – I warmed up a little, but when I went back outside again, I wished that I had not come inside since it seemed twice as cold.
I walked on. The traffic was constant. I lost count of the times that I waited at lights to cross the busy roads.
Eventually, after a leisurely – and pleasurable – three-mile walk of two hours, I arrived at the glorious Ascension Cathedral. Out came my camera. It did not appear to be made of wood, but it is the tallest wooden Orthodox church on the entire planet. Inside – uh, oh…too warm – the richness of the religious decoration blew me away. A few locals lit candles. I said a prayer for all of us.
I had an hour to kill, so located the nearest bar – “Hoper’s” – which had just opened at 1pm. I am no fan of craft beer and wanted a simple lager. The barman Konstantin, a Russian from Almaty, suggested one from Blandford Forum in Dorset, which is – madly – the brewery where my grandfather worked before he moved to Frome.
Hall and Woodhouse, the home of Badger Beer – who would have thought that it would have got a mention on a trip to Kazakhstan? Once he heard my grandfather’s story, he grabbed my hand and shook it. There is a Hall and Woodhouse pub opposite where I work.
Anyway, alas – to Konstantin’s horror – he told me that the “Badger” lager was not available, so I made do with a disgusting Lebowsky lager from Russia. At least it only cost me £2.50.
I always say that the first few hours in a new foreign city simply cannot be beaten. I had revelled in my first taste of Almaty; a marvellous walk through alien streets, with alien faces at each and every turn, with the cold wind kissing my cheeks.
Konstantin played a Cocteau Twins song for me on the TV.
“Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops.”
I was in heaven.
At 2.30pm, I arrived at my lodgings – the smallest apartment ever, a room with a loo – just as the owner’s husband arrived to see if I was “in.”
I had arranged to meet Vijay at 7pm, so for a few hours I slept.
Every hour counts on these trips.
Vijay arrived in a cab at 7pm, but I was still struggling to get out of my one room apartment. I had to negotiate three locks, all with keypads, and I found it all rather discombobulating. I don’t know what the local word for “Fackinell” is but it is the only swear word, or version thereof, that I did not utter in a frantic ten minutes of number-punching and both clockwise and anti-clockwise twisting and turning.
Eventually, the prisoner was free.
I hugged Vijay and we disappeared a mile or so south. We ended up at “Bottle” on Furmanov Avenue where we spent a brilliantly entertaining couple of hours. Vijay told me all about his company – he formed it in 2000 – and we spoke about football and, er, furniture. He is a Manchester United supporter, ever since he read copies of “Shoot!” magazine, like we all did, in the early ‘seventies in his home city of Singapore. Unlike most Manchester United supporters that I meet, he has been to Old Trafford; not once but thrice.
We shared two bottles of red wine which complemented our horse steaks, which were accompanied by chips, spinach and asparagus.
It was simply beautiful.
He suggested that the beautiful white city that I saw from 35,000 feet was Ashgabat, the capital city of Turkemistan, and confirmed that is constructed completely of marble. I have checked the flight path from Istanbul to Almaty, though, and it doesn’t exactly correlate. It must have been Ashgabat, though. Surely there are no two cities like this.
Vijay fancied one more stop, so we visited “William Lawson’s” which was shut, but then ended up at “Mad Murphy’s” where I supped a pint of Staropramen. Vijay had to head home, but he dropped me at one last bar – “Guinness Pub” – where I spotted Punky Al and two of his mates, faces familiar, names unknown. I also spotted my friend James (who I first met in Baku, 2017) with Tom, a Manchester United fan from Frankfurt, and a Chelsea fan from Dublin, whose name escapes me.
“Barman!”
Two more pints of Krombacher lager were consumed amid frenzied talk of our football fascination. James and Tom had been in town since Friday and on Monday they took a minicab with others in a tour group to go horse riding in the mountains.
You don’t do that on an away trip to Leicester.
They kicked us out at about 2am. I walked home, down the hill, and got back into the apartment unscathed at 2.30am, but my head was spinning with what the night had given me.
I didn’t fall asleep until 4am.
I woke at around midday on that Wednesday but was tired. I honestly think that I had expelled so much nervous energy during the build up to this trip that my body was telling me to rest up.
Work, blogs to squeeze in, photos to edit and upload, booking confirmations to check and double-check, a new phone to set up, a new laptop to plumb in, boarding passes, an Azerbaijani visa, emails, coach tickets, hotel bookings, packing lists, cameras, adaptors, Tottenham away, Heathrow, Stansted, Istanbul, Almaty, Baku, ticket vouchers, passports, travel, travel, travel.
I decided to postpone some more sightseeing on Thursday and Friday and went back to sleep.
I was out at 5.45pm, freshly showered and ready, and soon popped into a shop to buy a pair of gloves for £10.
From there, I enjoyed a lovely meal of meat and bean soup, then lamb ribs with potatoes and onions. With a “Diet Coke” – it shocked me that I didn’t ask for a beer – it came to another £10.
Up the road on Dostyk Avenue – not far from the final watering hole earlier that same day – I met up with around thirty Chelsea.
It was a blast.
Callum, an Eight Bells regular, Martin, Neil, Garry, Russ, Rich, Pauline and Mick from Spain, Scott, Gerry and Paul, Ben and James, Skippy from Australia, Only A Pound, and a lovely visit from the South Gloucestershire lot, Brian and Kev, Julie and Tim, Pete, and Dave from Cheshire.
And a few more too.
The Shakespeare was Chelsea Central in Almaty. Vijay had informed me that it was owned by the same guy as the Shakespeare in Baku, our main pub in 2019. Here, it was a fiver a pint.
That Wednesday in that Almaty pub was a proper hoot. On the way home, I called in to see the South Gloucestershire lot at “Hoper’s” for one last drink before I made tracks; their hotel was nearby, it was their “local”…Dorset, Somerset, South Gloucestershire…it must be a Wessex thing.
I made it back to the apartment at just after 1am.
I slept well.
Match day arrived and I was out at 10.45am. I dropped into a café for some pastries and a coffee – and Wi-Fi – and then continued my walk up the hill – phew! – to the Kok Tobe cable car, which everyone seemed to be visiting. The view at the top was excellent although there was a dirty brown fog hovering over Almaty. As in parts of Baku, I was able to smell the oil and gas in the air. The mountains to the south were spectacular, the skies were blue, and the temperature was bearable. My gloves and hat were in my pockets, my scarf was back in the hotel. I didn’t fancy being too hot, as I would be in a few bars very shortly.
I got the call from Jonesy, who had arrived via Antalya at 7am, and I began to walk north to the ticket collection place, but first made my way to see the Memorial Of Glory, close to the cathedral, en route. It is stunning and impressive.
From there, a twenty-minute walk to the collection point.
I lost count of the times I had checked my pockets for “wallet, camera, passport” during the day.
I gave Jonesy a hug and soon collected my match ticket. The club gave us a special commemorative key-ring, to say thanks” for making the effort to travel the 3,500 miles to Almaty.
A nice touch indeed.
Jonesy and I go back decades. I know that he went to Jablonec in 1994, but I met him a few months later. I remember that I always saw his name featured in “The Chelsea Independent” and his letters always resonated with me as being honest and succinct. Memorably we went with Paul from Brighton to Barcelona in 2000 when we almost made it to our first Champions League Final.
At the time, that day seemed like our biggest day ever.
I laughed when he told me that he bought a kebab at 7am from a kiosk as soon as he got in as it was the only place open.
We walked to The Shakespeare, arriving at around 3.30pm.
Cathy and Tombsy were sat outside having a fag, a perfect “welcoming committee.”
Inside, even more Chelsea. A hug with Luke, another Eight Bells regular, and a photo with Steve who I had not seen for a while. A hello to the previously un-named Gary. A chat with Spencer from Swindon about the US. Pete and I reminisced about him buying me a beer when we were 4-1 up in Baku and he then bought me one in Almaty, cheers mate.
Some had travelled via Frankfurt and Astana, some via Bishkek, some via Dubai, many via Istanbul.
There were a few local Kazakh Chelsea, but not too many.
We sat at a table to chat with Joe – a friend of Neil – and two of his mates. A gaggle of Chelsea joined us; a lad called Des now living in Qatar, plus some lads I semi-recognised.
Jonesy and I were blissfully content.
“This is the life, Jonesy.”
“We’ve been lucky, Chris.”
“We have, mate.”
The call went out to get a cab to a bar closer to the stadium. We just knew, from many personal experiences, how easy it would be to leave it too late and to get enmeshed in horrific traffic.
We hopped into a cab – five of us – and headed for the “Paulaner Brauhaus” which was, on paper, a fifteen-minute journey. Soon into the trip, Jonesy – quite unannounced – disappeared outside for a gypsy’s kiss – “I’ll catch up with you” – but we never saw him again that night. The cab kept moving, Jonesy kept slashing, what a horror show.
After a whole bloody hour, during which time the cabbie even stopped for fuel, we made it to this other pub. The traffic was virtually grid-locked but we had made it.
Toilets!
The bar was half-empty. The beer was served by local girls in full Bavarian garb.
I ordered some beers. We were on good ground; I told the lads that we had frequented the Paulaner beer hall on 19 May 2012.
Who should be in the bar but Des & Co., who offered us some of their two meat platters.
Beautiful stuff.
God knows what it consisted of, though.
With the kick-off at 8.30pm, we were still in the bar at 7.50pm. We put a spurt on and did the mile and a half or so in around fifteen minutes. We didn’t feel the cold.
By 8.10pm, I was through security, I had taken my first photo of a local fan, and I was searching for Alan, Gary, Pete and Nick.
Relax everyone, I work in logistics.
I found the lads easily. I stood between Gary to my left and Alan to my right.
So, here I was, here we were.
Chelsea versus Astana at the Central Stadium in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The furthest that any English team had travelled for an official UEFA game? Yes. Only in Tokyo in 2012 had I travelled further for an official Chelsea game. I looked around. It wasn’t a full house. We had heard that Chelsea had sold 475 tickets. My guess is that around 200 were from the UK. There was no segregation though. There were bona fide Astana fans mixed in with us in the Chelsea bit.
It felt like I recognised a bigger proportion of the Chelsea fans from the UK than the Chelsea players dressed in all black on the pitch.
Our team? It included two full debuts. Welcome Josh and Sam. It was a first sighting of Carney since his injury at West Ham in August 2023.
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga
Dewsbury-Hall – Rak-Sakyi
Pedro Neto – Chukwuemeka – George
Guiu
My Boca Juniors hat was on. My newly-acquired gloves were not yet being called into action. My Aquascutum scarf was in my room. At last, though, some of the expensive and cold-weather resistant designer clobber that many of us have horded over the last few decades of the casual movement were at last being properly tested.
My chunky green CP Company pullover was covered by my super warm off-white Moncler jacket. I was nice and toasty. There were still cold kisses on my cheeks, but all was good. The terraces were still dusted in snow, and I would later learn that the stadium manager would be sacked because of this. But my toes were not too cold…yet.
The game began.
We attacked the other end.
The stand to my left reminded me a great deal of the “distinti” at the old Communale in Turin. In fact, this stadium reminded me of the former Juventus ground so much.
Chelsea began the far livelier and attacked at will. With the action down the other end, I found it difficult to watch the intricacies of the game. Sadly, I knew my photo quality would not be too great.
On fourteen minutes, a goal.
Pedro Neto played a ball forward on the right to Marc Guiu on the right. He kept his footing as he danced forward on an icy pitch before entering the penalty area, drawing the ‘keeper and slotting the ball nicely home from just inside the six-yard box.
Alan and I did our usual “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine amid frozen laughter.
Soon after, Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall passed to Neto who accelerated away from his marker before crossing low for Guiu to bundle in at the near post. This goal was later given as a Aleksandr Marochkin own goal.
At this stage, I dreamed of Jeunesse Hautcharage heights.
A few more Chelsea shots threatened the Astana goal.
On thirty-two minutes, I heard the first “Astana” chant.
Four minutes later, Charles Chinedu tested Jorgensen from outside the box.
A song from the Chelsea North Stand in Almaty :
“It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.
It’s fackin’ cold.
It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.”
I was coping OK. My gloves were still in my pockets.
Efforts from Acheampong and Chukwuemeka warmed us up (actually, no they didn’t, don’t be twat, Chris) and then from a corner on our right from Kiernan Stately Home, I caught the leap from Renato Veiga to put us 3-0 up.
“Free header.”
Just before half-time, Astana had a rare spell in our half, not so far from us. Their captain Marin Tomasov shimmied inside our box, and I caught his approach on film. His whipped shot hit the far post but rebounded in. The roar of the crowd was loud and hearty.
At half-time, I wandered off and took a few shots of some nearby fans. Nick and Gary had their own mission at the break. Word had got out that there were free cups of tea at half-time for Chelsea fans, but they glumly returned to our spot on the terrace to say that it had all gone by the time they had reached the front of the queue.
The second half was a dull affair as temperatures plummeted to -11.
Ouch.
I got the impression that a lot of the home fans at the other end left during the break, Maybe they had heard about the free tea at the our end.
Ato Ampah replaced the lively Neto.
Soon into the half, a dipping effort from Tomasov was well saved by Jorgensen.
The pace slowed as the pitch frosted further. Everyone did well to stay on their feet. There were no Cucarella fuck-ups in this game, thankfully.
On sixty-eight minutes, a few sections of the home crowd tried to start a wave.
“Fuck off.”
Tyrique George on the left had a lot of the ball, and Stately Home now bossed the midfield.
On sixty-seven minutes, Harvey Vale – I remembered his debut at Brentford – replaced Carney.
My feet were getting colder, and my hands were now stuffed inside my pockets. Still no gloves though.
On seventy-eight minutes, I noted Astana’s best move of the match, down their right but Jorgensen saved well.
Shim Mheuka Replaced Guiu.
On eighty-six minutes, Kiano Dyer replaced Rak-Sakyi.
In truth, I did not have a clue who some of these players were. Not to worry, they didn’t know me either.
It had been a professional show from these lads, and thankfully there were no significant injuries on the pitch. Off it, I am not so sure; the night was still young.
We applauded the team, some of whom were still a mystery to me. It’s a shame that they could not get closer, stranded on the pitch, like relatives waving at an airport terminal.
I gathered my things and gingerly edged towards the exit.
“See you Sunday, Al.”
Out into the night, with no taxi aps to my name, I was resigned to a long walk back to the centre, and The Shakespeare would probably be as good a place as any to aim for. However, about twenty minutes into my walk, two local Chelsea lads caught up with me – it wouldn’t have been hard, believe me – and told me that there was a meet up at “Bremen Bar”, a place that Cathy had mentioned on Tuesday.
I was up for this. My flight home wasn’t until 2.35am on Saturday morning. We set off and arrived at around 11.30pm, an hour after I eventually left the stadium. The bar was packed full of Chelsea fans from all over. Mainly locals, but some from Belarus, but some from Russia, and Mongolia, plus around ten or so from the UK. I soon made friends. More beers. Some songs.
In fact, lots of songs.
The two lads with the “Belarus” flag were pretty decent with the “Chelsea Ranger” and I loved that the “Thiago Silva” song was probably the loudest of the night. I dared sing about Peter Osgood scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far, and my voice almost held out until the end. A group of English lads got going with the “Florent Malouda, Louda, Louda” chant and my voice definitely could not reach the high notes.
I felt like a broken man.
I mentioned to a few lads that I have taken Ron Harris up to Chelsea in my car and I had a nice idea to Facetime him, via his son Mark.
At about 12.15am, Ron Harris appeared on my ‘phone in Almaty and I think it is safe to say that a couple of the local lads almost feinted.
Fantastic.
Oh – a guy called Tim wanted a mention…a pleasure.
The place gradually thinned out.
At about 2.30am, a few of us took a cab to another bar, “Gastreat”, but this was a twenty-minute drive right past the football stadium again and out into the southern suburbs.
By this stage, I wondered if I would ever see my apartment again.
We stayed here for another two hours, and I met a few more lovely Chelsea folk. I had met Alex from Oxford and Bryn, from London I think, at the previous bar, but we chatted some more. There was a guy who surreptitiously handed me a Moscow Blues sticker. They must be quite rare these days, eh? This chap knows Only A Pound and Cathy too, and I loved that. I loved that someone in Moscow knows two of Chelsea’s finest in London.
I turned to him and said :
“We might be a big club but we are a small family.”
It genuinely feels like that. The match-going fraternity know each other and look after each other. It’s a great small family.
One of the local lads, who looked like Enzo Fernandez, called his wife to take a few of us home. She soon arrived. Back through the streets of Almaty we travelled once again.
I reached my apartment at 6am.
What a night.
Because of my very late finish, my last full day in Almaty took on a new plan. Vijay had very kindly invited me to his company’s end of year party at 7pm, very close to where we had enjoyed a meal on Tuesday. I did nothing during the day except sleep, not surprisingly, and I eventually stirred at around 4pm.
It was with a great deal of sadness that I packed up and locked up, then made my way out and up the hill for the final time. I was the first party-goer to reach the restaurant, and as the others arrived, one by one, not a word of English between them, I moved further and further away from my comfort zone. I looked out of the window at the night traffic crawling along and at the ever-changing colours of lights being projected onto a public building opposite. At last, Vijay arrived and I could relax a little.
This was another great night. Vijay sat me next to a guy that once worked for him but had moved on to work for a pharmaceutical company but was still friends. And he was a Chelsea fan. Like many at the game, this was his first sight of Chelsea. He watched from the stand to my left. I can’t imagine the thrill of seeing your favourite team, from three and a half thousand miles away, playing in your home city.
We chatted – thankfully a few could speak and understand English – and enjoyed some fine food. I loved my braised beef cheeks (and the chocolate fondant was to simply die for, darling). One by one we were asked to make a toast. I was truly happy to be able to spend some time in the company of Vijay, who is quite a character, and to try momentarily to understand the dynamics of that part of the world. I said a few things.
One of the guests, Russ, was very quiet and hardly said a word all night. When it was his turn to stand and make a toast, I feared what he might do. He had been drinking Monkey Shoulder whisky, alongside another co-worker, but what he said was pure poetry.
He stood. Everything was quiet. Still. Silent.
He pointed at the tumbler of whisky.
“The ice is cold, still. The whisky is hot, fire. Together, it works.”
I knew what he meant.
“We are all different, but in good company, we produce magical moments.”
At around 11pm, Vijay said the horrible words :
“Your car is here, mate.”
That was tough. It was a touching moment, surprisingly so. Everyone had made me so welcome.
I said to Vijay “I’m quite emotional” and he smiled.
“We are emotional people.”
Gulp.
I went around the room and said my goodbyes. Vijay walked me out to the waiting cab and we hugged one last time.
Thanks, Vijay.
Thanks, Almaty.
It felt like I was the only English person at Almaty International Airport in the small hours of Saturday 14 December. Thankfully, there were no problems with passports, boarding passes, bags and everything else. I made my way through to the departure gate but the 2.35am flight to Baku was delayed, maybe for around an hour.
As I waited, I felt drowsy. I could not wait to get up onto the plane and get some shut-eye. We eventually boarded at 3.20am and the plane took off around 4am. The plane caught up a little. It was meant to land at 5.25am but did so at 6.40am.
For the third time in my life, I took a cab from Heydar Aliyev airport to the north-east of Baku, along Heydar Aliyev Avenue, past the Socar-Tower – it is full of office furniture that I helped supply in 2014 – and into the city.
It virtually never snows in Baku but it was snowing now.
Fackinell.
This somewhat curtailed my sightseeing opportunities a little. I based myself at the Hilton Hotel, where I had previously visited but not stayed, on both previous trips, and took advantage of their Wi-Fi.
I ventured out to the promenade and spotted the Flame Towers in the distance. It was like a dream to be honest. There was even time to visit a friend that I made in 2019 and to spend a few lovely moments with their three-year-old son, plus a brief stop-off at the wondrous Heydar Aliyev art gallery and conference centre, one of my favourite buildings.
I was back at the airport at around 4pm and was now ready for the last stage of my momentous trip. Back in England, it was midday, and Frome Town were preparing for a home game against Swindon Supermarine. My flight back to Blighty was set to leave at 6.25pm, and it left on time. I hoped that there would be some great news on my ‘phone about the Frome result as I landed later in the day at Heathrow.
Again, I slept well on the six-hour flight home. Just after touching down at Heathrow, I received the wonderful news :
Frome 3 Swindon Supermarine 0.
Our second league win on the bounce.
Lovely.
It was around 8.30pm and I needed to get myself to my car. The buses were sporadic, a cab would cost me a whopping £40.
“But it’s only a mile and a half away, mate.”
Not to worry, I unbuttoned my jacket, let the air in, and walked back to the car. It took me the best part of an hour, and I did feel a little like Alan Partridge striding down the dual carriageway to the Linton Travel Tavern, but after the week of travel that I had encountered, it was nothing.
I reached home just before midnight, the end of most certainly the longest day of my life.
Our third match in this season’s UEFA Europa Conference would be a home game against Armenian side Noah. Ever since the draw took place a couple of months ago, I had been flinching at all of the puny puns emanating from everyone concerning the team’s name, but I also knew that it would be remarkable should I not join in at some stage.
I stumbled across a reference that my good friend Alan might appreciate. The day before the game, late on, I messaged him about the imminent game.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark.”
He replied with an emoji of a wide grin.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark” is a Cocteau Twins song from their “Lullabies” EP from October 1982.
You all knew that, right?
On the day of the match, the Thursday, I worked an early shift, finishing at 2pm, and my thoughts centred on Noah being, quite possibly, the worst team that the full Chelsea side might ever play. The 21-0 aggregate score line against Jeunesse Hautcharage in the ECWC in 1971 drifted into my mind a few times too. The scores were 8-0 away and then 13-0 at home and I wondered about comparisons. One of that Luxembourg team wore glasses apparently although there is no truth in the urban myth that one of his team mates only had one arm.
Just as I left the office, I could not resist. I turned to my work colleague Stu and said that Noah’s formation later in the day would be 2-2-2-2-2 and I heard a hollow laugh inside me.
Fackinell.
I collected PD and Parky and we were away.
A couple of days before the game, however, there had been a double strike of sad news.
On the Tuesday, we all heard that Doreen Bruce had passed away. I first met Doreen, a proud wee Scot, out in Kiev in 2019, and our paths crossed on many occasions over the recent past. Doreen was big friends with Aroha and Luke, and they were always seen together. I remember spending some time with Doreen in that square in Porto ahead of the CL Final in 2021. She loved Chelsea and she loved Scotland just as much. I always enjoyed seeing her patriotic posts from Hampden Park and elsewhere. She was a real character, full of bubby energy, and will certainly be missed.
RIP Doreen.
On the Wednesday, we learned that John Dempsey passed away at the age of seventy-eight. He was an old stalwart from our early ‘seventies golden era, was one of Chopper’s “assassins” and was a respected defender. I saw John play in three of the first five Chelsea games that I ever attended, in 1974 and 1975. I remember him winding up some Arsenal fans at half-time in a game at Stamford Bridge a few years back. I also remember him playing alongside Peter Osgood at Philadelphia Fury in the late ‘seventies. I believe he worked for many years with underprivileged children.
RIP John.
The drive up to London was uneventful. While I waited for a pizza at “Koka” on the North End Road, I smiled when I heard “Kiss Of Life” by Sade being played. From Rio de Janeiro in July, to West Ham away in September, to the North End Road in November, this singer is haunting me this season.
I trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Luke, Alex from Houston – again – and also my mate Leggo from Bedford, but also from The Benches in 1984.
Ah, 1984.
Just a very quick mention of our next game in that 1984/85 season. On Tuesday 6 November 1984, Chelsea beat Walsall 3-0 in a League Cup Third Round Replay in front of a pretty reasonable 19,502. Keith Jones followed up his brace against Cov with one goal, while David Speedie and Kerry Dixon scored too.
We were joined by some friends from the US; Jesus, Austin, Tim, Hooman, Detroit Bob.
Everyone together. Everyone tacking the Mick. Tons of laughs.
Football, eh?
I loved to hear that Doreen had bequeathed her season ticket to Luke’s little three-year-old son Archie – as featured last season – and Luke had spent a large part of the Wednesday sorting that out. I also loved the fact that Archie has a ticket for the trip to Heidenheim in a few weeks.
We saw the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen. It looked remarkably attack-minded.
Jorgensen
Disasi – Tosin – Badiashile – Veiga
Enzo
George – Nkunku – Joao Felix – Mudryk
Guiu
Although I was inside with a fair few minutes to go before kick-off, it seemed that we had missed a minute of applause in memory of John Dempsey. The teams appeared as the pre-game rituals began in earnest. I could not help but think that the Europa Conference anthem sounded like something that Baltimora may have recorded in around 1985.
The teams stood in silence in memory of those who had perished in the floods in Valencia.
I was pretty impressed with the Armenians’ support; maybe a thousand or so. There were a few multi-coloured Armenian flags dotted around.
The over-eager PA announcer was shouting at his mic for us to “make some noise.”
Oh do shut up, you twat.
The game began with Chelsea attacking The Shed.
However, it was the unfancied visitors who dominated the very early moments of the game. A rapid counter-attack resulted in an effort on goal that Filip Jorgensen did well to save. They followed this up with a couple of corners.
Alongside me, Alan was getting confused.
“This lot only took about fifty to The New Saints.”
“Nah, that was Astana.”
This new-fangled format is succeeding in confusing all of us. I said to Alan that we seem to be remotely connected to teams that our opponents play, but we don’t. On the same night, Heidenheim were at Hearts, yet we won’t play Hearts, nor TNS for that matter.
It’s like some bizarre inter-related family tree, with off-shoots appearing in the unlikeliest of places.
“A Family Tree Of Bastards.”
The visitors threatened again. They definitely had the best of the early attacks.
But Chelsea soon responded, with Joao Felix getting a sniff from Tyrique George on the right.
As is a superstition at European home games, Alan shared out some wine gums.
“Want some Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops, mate?”
As the game developed, we grew stronger.
On twelve minutes, Enzo sent over a firm corner from Parkyville and Tosin was able to steer the ball in with a well-timed header. I was lucky enough to get that one on film.
While we were up and celebrating, the game restarted. I was looking at Alan, expecting him to soon launch our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.
I had to prompt him.
“What’s that, Al?”
But in no time at all, I looked up to see that Guiu had intercepted a terrible square pass from one Noah defender to another and he had calmly slotted the ball home to make it 2-0.
Fackinell.
Those goals had to be the quickest back-to-back goals in our history surely?
Five minutes later, Enzo again swung in a corner and it was Disasi who smashed it over the line in a virtual carbon copy of our first goal. This was getting silly.
Three minutes later, on just twenty-one minutes, Guiu robbed the ball off a visitor and the ball fell to Enzo, who picked out Joao Felix. He advanced and clipped the ball over the hapless ‘keeper Ognjen Chancharevich.
Blimey.
By now, Alan and I were relaxing and just enjoying the night, with plenty of humorous anecdotes keeping us happy. What a nice time.
Just after the half-hour mark, Mykhailo Mudryk took a pot-shot that was so high and wide of the target that it came down to Earth near the West Stand corner flag, and still stayed on the pitch.
His next effort was much more pleasing. He picked up the ball outside the penalty area, touched the ball forward to set himself, and then unleashed a perfect curler into the top right-hand corner of the goal. I took a photo just as it flew off his boot. What a cracker.
By now, a few folk around me were referencing the 13-0 win over Hautcharage in 1971.
Two minutes later, a counter-attack and the ball was fed to Joao Felix, who picked his way through and slotted home off the leg of a covering white-shirted defender.
I pointed at Lee a few seats away.
“It’s gonna happen. It’s gonna happen.”
We were 6-0 up at half-time, with the away team hopefully weakening in the second-half, when would the goals stop?
In both Hautcharage games in 1971, we were 6-0 up at half-time too.
At half-time, what was everyone thinking?
10-0?
13-0?
14-0?
I said to a few friends that it was a shame that we weren’t playing them over two legs. That 21-0 aggregate score would be in trouble. I am sure it is still the highest aggregate score in UEFA history.
As the second-half began, some substitutions.
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Guiu.
Cesare Casadei for Enzo.
What did that mean? I wasn’t sure.
The pace slackened in the second-half, but we still dominated the chances. Benoit Badiashile soon volleyed over a cross. The Noah ‘keeper Chancharevich twice foiled Felix, who – along with Mudryk – were the two players that took my eye.
Christopher Nkunku slammed a shot at goal but it clipped the top of the crossbar.
Carney Chukwuemeka for George.
On the sixty-ninth minute, fancy footwork from Felix released Nkunku. His first shot was blocked by the unlucky ‘keeper but the ball came back out for Nkunku to poke home at an angle between defender and post. The blue balloon stayed in his sock. It was no time to take the Mick.
On seventy-six minutes, a rather soft penalty was awarded after Dewsbury-Hall was fouled inside the six-yard box. Nkunku drilled it home.
Chelsea 8 Noah 0.
Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well.
I wondered if we were already promoted from this league.
A rare Noah corner elicited some high-pitched shrieks and much flag-waving from the Armenians in the far corner.
On seventy-nine minutes, debutant Samuel Rak-Sakyi replaced Nkunku.
A few late chances were spurned and so the elusive double figures were not reached. They stay as an elusive target. Were Noah the worst team that I had ever seen us play? Yes, I think so, and I have seen us play Tottenham a few times too, mind.
What a fun night though. I loved it.
It had, indeed, been an Ark Lark.
Dedicated to the memory of John Dempsey who scored against Real Madrid in Athens in 1971 and to the memory of Doreen Bruce who was with us against Manchester City in Porto in 2021, fifty years later.
For those of us that live miles away from Stamford Bridge, travelling to and from games can be tiresome affairs, especially those that take place during the week. But I always love the fact that no matter how late games finish on Thursday nights – shall we talk about extra-time and penalties that might extend the night even further, shall I mention the penalties against Eintracht Frankfurt in 2019? – there is the lovely knowledge that I only have to struggle with work on Friday, for one day only. Then, the glorious respite of the weekend, especially since there are no games on Saturdays after European games these days.
Contrast this with a Monday night league game, and the sure knowledge that my sleeping patterns won’t recover for a few days. On a personal level, Monday night games are just horrible.
On this particular Thursday night, Chelsea were to embark on a new European journey, but it wasn’t one that I was completely happy with. Not only were we to take part in the fourth edition of UEFA’s newest baby the “Conference League”, but this was to be the first season that all UEFA competitions were to take the form of a “league” format in the autumn period.
The common view among football fanciers was that this was all an attempt to see off the continued rumours about certain European heavyweights – “Super Clubs”, their words not mine – needing a Super League for them to guarantee huge revenue streams. However, I haven’t met a single football supporter who is in favour of this new format. I know we are often seen as misty-eyed sentimental traditionalists, but the old system seemed to be a decent way to approach pan-European competitions.
The three UEFA competitions are basically three divisions of thirty-two teams.
More. More. More.
Before I continue with the events of this particular Thursday night, a quick mention of a Saturday in 1984 in my retrospective from forty years ago.
On Saturday 28 September 1984, Chelsea were at home to Leicester City in the old First Division. I was newly-arrived in Stoke and had survived “Freshers’ Week”. Originally, my first visit to Stamford Bridge was going to be the Watford match on 13 October, but as I walked past Stoke train station late on the Friday night, I decided there and then to get up early on the Saturday and get myself down to Stamford Bridge. I had attended the “Freshers Ball” that night – the main band was H2O, hit song “I Dream To Sleep” – but a planned liaison with Gill, an Everton fan, never materialised and so I needed to cheer myself up.
A Saturday in London with Chelsea was a quick and easy remedy.
This trip was a new experience for me, but the journey would be repeated on many occasions over the next three seasons. I was happily surprised that the fare was just £8. This felt knew and exciting. The route took me through Tamworth, Rugby, Milton Keynes and Watford. I made my way across London from Euston – “spotted a load of casuals, probably Arsenal going to Coventry” – to Stamford Bridge and took my position alongside new mates Alan, Mark and Leggo. I didn’t take my camera to this game, but I remember a nasty green away kit being worn by Leicester City. Chelsea easily won 3-0 with two goals from Kerry Dixon and one from Pat Nevin. The gate was just 18,521. I caught the 6.10pm train back to Stoke from Euston and got back to Stoke at 8.30pm, this time via Birmingham and Wolverhampton.
A new pattern to my football life had emerged.
Fast forward to 2024 and just PD and travelled up from the west of England for this game. After I demolished a pizza on the North End Road I joined up with him at “Simmons” just after 6pm. We were joined by Rob from Hersham, Luke from Ruislip and Andy from Los Angeles, who was en route to Munich for the Oktoberfest.
There was time to reminisce about Munich in 2012 – I kipped in Andy’s hotel room for a few hours after that most momentous of Saturday nights – but we also chatted a little about this new UEFA competition. I must admit that it was derided when it first started in 2021 – “a ridiculous competition for also-rans” – and even more so after West Ham won it in 2023, and ludicrously declared themselves “Champions of Europe” for a while, without the merest hint of irony, but the view of us Chelsea fans back in May when United won the FA Cup, thus pushing into this competition, was to embrace it, to enjoy some foreign travel again and to bloody well win it.
Wroclaw here we come? Hopefully.
With Andy in town there was also talk of the FIFA World Club Cup competition which is set to take place in twelve stadia in the US in June and July next summer. I am keen to go, as is my mate Glenn; it would be my twentieth visit to the US and it would celebrate my sixtieth birthday – a nice present to myself, no?
The strong rumour was that all games would be held on the East Coast, to satisfy European TV audiences and to keep travel, both by players and supporters, to a minimum. Alas, last week, the full list of venues was announced and only eight venues could really be classed as East Coast. In addition to games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, DC, North Carolina, Georgia and Florida, there are also games in Tennessee, Ohio, Washington and California.
I just hope that FIFA does the right thing and keeps each of the first stage groups to as tight a geographical area as possible. As an example, I would be more than happy with three games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and DC, or Tennessee, North Carolina and Georgia. At a push, three games in Florida, but God help us all in those stratospheric temperatures.
But I am not confident. There is no doubt that FIFA will want to ensure that fans all over the US will get a chance to see as many teams as possible, so I fully expect a taxing and expensive three-game set that might even see us play in Seattle, then Orlando, then Los Angeles. In such circumstances, I might just go for two games rather than all three.
The two West Coast venues, it seems, have been included for the benefit of the US’ sole team, thus far, from Seattle, who have been promised three home games, which seems unfair. Why should they be given home advantage? Well, it’s not too hard to work out.
Thirty of the thirty-two teams have qualified through debatable selection criteria and are awaiting the final two competitors. I see that the 2024 Coppa Libertadores winner is one of the final two places up for grabs along with a second US team. The draw is in December. Glenn and I will be on tenterhooks awaiting news.
There are some cracking teams from South America lined-up to attend; Chelsea vs. Boca Juniors or Chelsea vs. Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, anyone?
Of course, many are mocking this expanded competition and I can understand why. Extra games for an already-exhausted set of players and the risk of injury, plus talk of a money grab by FIFA and all of its murky corporate partners.
More football. More games. More sponsors. More TV. More money. More everything.
More. More More.
Back in my youth, this competition was a plain and simple one; European Cup Winner vs. Coppa Libertadores winner, one match in Tokyo, and that was that. It was then expanded to eight teams when it was held in Brazil in 2000. It then didn’t take place again until 2005, and since then has been held in Japan, the Arabian Peninsula and Morocco. Bizarrely, and I cannot understand this, there is still going to be an annual FIFA Intercontinental Cup held annually too.
More. More. More.
When will it stop?
I had seen a few Gent fans, dressed in blue and white, pottering down the North End Road earlier, and we saw more on the walk to the ground. I was inside at about 7.30pm ahead of the 8pm kick-off. We had seen the team in the pub. It was a completely different team that had played so well against Brighton on Saturday.
Jorgensen.
Disasi – Badiashile – Tosin – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
A B Team? Yes, evidently so, and a pretty decent one, we hoped.
The lights soon dimmed and the players appeared. Whereas UEFA has chosen blue as the brand colour of the Champions League and red as the colour of the Europa league, it seems that green is the chosen colour of the Europa Conference. A green and black banner was waved on the centre-circle as the players lined up. The three-thousand fans held their scarves aloft.
The game began.
I spoke to Al about Eidur Dudjohnsen’s son, Andri, who was leading the Gent line.
I also spoke to Al about the possibility of Christopher Nkunku’s blue balloons making an appearance, and we wondered if I could shoehorn the phrase “balloons and Walloons” into this match report.
Soon into the game, it seemed that the entire Gent support was engaged in their version of “the bouncy” and it looked an impressive sight. Their support didn’t seem to have an “ultra” element, but just a noisy support with replica shirts and scarves, and a desire to sing.
Ten minutes in, it was all us. We had enjoyed a couple of early efforts as Al and I caught up with a few things; I had not seen him for a while.
On twelve minutes, Mykailo Mudryk was able to choose his moment in front of Parkyville and dolloped a long cross onto the head of the on-rushing Renato Veiga who finished with aplomb, heading down and past the Gent ‘keeper.
Chelsea 1 Gent 0.
Fifteen minutes in, it was all us.
“Have they even touched the ball in our half yet?”
There was a delightful flick from Joao Felix, in the Cole Palmer “creator” spot, but Nkunku stumbled as he tried to reach the ball.
A Pedro Neto run was captured on film – snap, snap, snap, snap – but the resultant shot from Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was snatched, and my photo was blurred, so it didn’t make the cut.
We dominated still, but it was all a bit laboured. On the half-hour, Gent enjoyed a rare attack and an effort from the Archie Brown, an English export flourishing in Europe. Gent then had a tidy little spell. During one attack, I was fuming that two attackers were let free on our right.
The boy Gudjohnsen shot at goal from an angle after a neat move but it flashed over.
Our play became laboured. I toyed with the notion of this modern type of football – passing to oblivion, waiting for a chink in the deep-lying defence’s armour – being dropped into our football-going experience of twenty-five years ago. I suspect that it would have been booed relentlessly.
But progress is progress, eh?
It became a time for reflection. This actually didn’t seem much like a European game at all. The days of two-legged knock-out ties in the autumn – God, how exciting was Zizkov at home in 1994? – are long gone, but even the closeness of a four-team group of recent times, with home-and-away games, little histories being made, little rivalries developing, back stories, duels, seemed a darned sight better than this. The 2024 version of a European tie lacked intensity and drama and the competition, at least this huge first phase, seemed fuzzy and bloated.
More. More. More.
We felt that this whole first phase lacked a focus, a goal, a point. We were, after all, playing six apparently random teams, and in the biggest division, thirty-two teams, of all time. Both Al and I were struggling with the concept if it all. We kept referring to “our group” but of course there was no group, no group at all. The only common thing linking our six opponents was that two of them have a shamrock on their badge. How soon would this damned league table make any sense at all? Was the common denominator now to simply win as many games as possible? In closed groups, teams could play the system and budget for away draws against teams on the premise of beating them at home. Yet in this competition, there seemed to be no similar strategy.
In a nutshell, there would be no return leg in Gent.
Oh boy.
The “randomness” of the fixtures ate away at me too. One team could get top-ranking teams in each of the six pots, whereas another team could get drawn against low-ranking teams in each of the pots.
That would be a large discrepancy, no?
It just seemed wrong.
The atmosphere around me seemed a little quiet after a noisy start to the game.
Ho hum.
At the end of the half-time break, I disappeared to turn my bike around. While otherwise occupied, I heard a roar.
“Bloody hell, there was only one team on the pitch when I left my seat.”
Neto had blasted one in from close range apparently.
Chelsea 2 Gent 0.
Sadly, on fifty minutes, after a Gent corner, Gudjohnsen’s cross was flung into our box. There were five Chelsea defenders protecting the near post. Sadly, the unmarked Tsuyoshi Watanabe, along with four other Gent players, were at the rear post. He headed into Filip Jorgensen’s net. There were groans. It was a very sloppy goal to concede.
Chelsea 2 Gent 1.
With that, the away fans turned the away section into a Barry Manilow concert by turning on their phone torches. Memories of Napoli in 2012.
“That is embarrassing. That is embarrassing” sang the Matthew Harding.
The game became much more of a spectacle in the second-half, and the Stamford Bridge crowd became noisier.
On sixty-three minutes, the ball was played in from down below us and after the ball was kept alive, it eventually rolled out to Nkunku who smacked it home.
Chelsea 3 Gent 1.
He raced towards me, and was joined by his team mates.
Smiles all around.
He reached into his sock, I think, for the blue balloon and if only Gent was in the southern part of Belgium and not in the Flemish-speaking part, I could have used a geographically precise pun.
Instead, the home areas of Stamford Bridge decided to have a laugh en masse. Out came the mobile phones, out came the torches.
A nice giggle.
This was followed by a booming “CAREFREE.”
That’s more like it.
On seventy minutes, the light-footed Felix played in Nkunku, but a sliding tackle robbed him of a shot. The ball rolled nicely to Dewsbury-Hall, who slammed it in.
Chelsea 4 Gent 1.
A slide into our corner and smiles-aplenty from Dewsbury-Hall.
Time for some substitutions on eighty minutes.
Tyrique George for Neto.
Marc Guiu for Nkunku.
Axel Disasi ended up in the net after both he and Benoit Badiashile could not quite connect from a cross from Neto.
In the last few moments of the game, Gent were given far too much space down our left and the ball was easily played in for Omri Gandelman to smack home.
Chelsea 4 Gent 2.
By this time, orange jacketed stewards had been crowded around the gap between the home and away fans in the Shed Lower. What exactly was going on down there?
There was one last chance for Gent, but the toe-poke from outside the box flew over.
I thought to myself “you’re no Ronaldinho, mate.”
It had been, I think, an odd game, for more than one reason.
I met PD back at the car and I made good time on the drive west. I made it home at 12.45am.
The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.
There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.
The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.
I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.
That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.
Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.
I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.
We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.
PD soon called.
“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”
I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.
This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.
My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.
It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.
I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?
Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”
I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.
Barrow, eh?
It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.
Crewe Alexandra.
Sheffield Wednesday.
Aston Villa.
Port Vale.
Halifax Town.
Workington.
Southport.
Stockport County.
Barrow.
Chester.
Chesterfield.
Rochdale.
Bury.
I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.
PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.
It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.
Us?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.
Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.
To their credit, the away team began the livelier.
With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.
Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.
The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.
There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.
Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.
“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”
PD laughed.
It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.
Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.
On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.
“We need Zola here.”
I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.
I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.
Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.
The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.
There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.
At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.
Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.
On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.
Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.
I am sure that more people stood for that one.
We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.
It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.
I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”
For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.
Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.
The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.
“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.
Just after the hour, a double substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Disasi.
Tyrique George for Neto.
This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.
With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.
Just after, more changes.
Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.
Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.
There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.
In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.
Come on Frome!
Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.
At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.
85 minutes : 0-0.
90 minutes : 0-0.
96 minutes : 0-0.
98 minutes : 0-0
With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.
I smiled.
“GET IN.”
It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.
I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?
CHELSEA/esque 