Tag Archives: Everton

Tales From A Crisp Winter Day

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 13 December 2025.

The three matches that had preceded our home game with Everton had been highly disappointing; a distressing 1-3 loss at Leeds United, an inconceivably dour 0-0 at Bournemouth and a depressing 1-2 defeat at Atalanta.

Disappointing, distressing, dour and depressing.

That’s some indictment, eh?

In such circumstances, I might be forgiven for feeling down before the Everton match.

Not one bit of it. In the latter stages of my day at work on Friday, I suddenly realised that the fatigue of the previous three weeks had evaporated and I suddenly felt energised.

I was, to use one of my favourite sayings, chomping at the bit for the chance to drive to London with a clear head and the opportunity to enjoy a typical Chelsea Saturday.

The three of us were away early. I collected PD at 7am and LP at 7.30am.

The first section of the two-and-a-half-hour drive to London involved Parky regaling us with tales from Turin, Milan and Bergamo. He had attended our match in Italy with Salisbury Steve and Jimmy The Greek and – the football apart – had really enjoyed himself. There were, however, long days involved. On the outbound trip, he stayed awake for thirty-six hours. On the return trip, delays at Turin airport meant he had to sleep at Gatwick on his return.

We also spoke briefly about the 2026 FIFA World Cup, and that is all it deserved. The price of match tickets is obscene, a clear indication of FIFA’s mission to make money from supporters with not a hint of a moral compass. Like the Qatar World Cup of 2022, I strongly suspect that I will not watch a single match. We also spoke about the ridiculous number of games. During that colossal first phase, there will be no edge and no jeopardy. I am getting bored just thinking about all those pointless matches.

As I have said before, FIFA’s mantra is “more is more”.

Well, I shan’t be part of it. If most of the stadia are half-empty, I shan’t be bothered.

I dropped PD and LP near the pub, and they slid off for a quick breakfast at “The River Café” while I backtracked across Fulham to eat at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road.

Two bacon, two sausage, two fried eggs, two hash browns, two black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea.

£11.

I’d include a photo, but you’d only be jealous.

I parked up and caught the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the lads were already getting into a decent sesh. On the short journey from West Brompton to Putney Bridge, with the sun shining gloriously, I had to admit that there is no greater place than London on a crisp Winter Day.

I strode into the boozer at about 11.15am and was happy to see the Normandy Division of Ollie and Jerome sitting alongside the usual suspects. On this day, our ranks would be joined by several from the US.

First up, Michelle from Nashville, who had also visited Italy and met up with the lads in Bergamo. Michelle entertained me with snippets of her post-match stay in Milan; a few days of opera and art, all very agreeable.

Next up was Tom from Laguna Beach in California, a friend of mine since meeting on the old Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2007, and at an away game at West Ham a couple of years later.

Lastly, my friend Natalie from Kansas City arrived with her long-time friend Amy – her first visit to London, and hence Stamford Bridge – and Amy’s two parents Ash and Julie. Natalie’s first-ever match at Stamford Bridge was alongside me to witness that unforgettable 6-0 thumping of Arsenal in 2014. I last saw Natalie at a home game against Southampton in January 2019. We enjoyed a great catch up, and I enjoyed talking to Amy and her parents before their first-ever Chelsea game. I had a few stories to keep them occupied. They absolutely adored the cosiness of “The Eight Bells.”

The five of us said our goodbyes and left for Stamford Bridge at 1.45pm. I took one last photo of Nat, Amy, Julie and Ash on the busy Fulham Road before going our separate ways. I would, however, be seeing Nat at Cardiff the following Tuesday.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 2.15pm.

Those in the Dugout Club had been given blue Father Christmas hats, and some of them were wearing them as they watched the players warming up.

I suppose for £5,000 a ticket, a Santa hat as part of the deal works out to be rather pricey.

Bless.

Right then, what of the team?

I couldn’t argue with Enzo Maresca’s choices on this occasion. It is, I think, what I would have chosen.

Robert Sanchez in goal, and possibly large parts of the penalty area too.

Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella as the full backs, with licence to roam.

Wesley Fofana and Trevoh Chalobah, the centre-back pairing for this game and perhaps others to come if this went well.

Enzo Fernandez and Reece James, the withdrawn midfielders, but able to burst into other areas.

Pedro Neto on the right, Alejandro Garnacho on the left, the Billy-Whizz twins.

Cole Palmer tucked in to the middle, but looking to ghost into areas unmapped by man nor beast.

Joao Pedro to lead the line, or at least to occupy defenders while others harried and carried.

During the day, I had reminded everyone that Everton last beat us in a league game at Stamford Bridge way back in 1994. I was scolded for mentioning it, but I was confident. I bumped into Hersham Bob – no laced-up boots, nor corduroys, alas – who suggested that the returning Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall would get the winner.

“That’s the spirit mate.”

The minutes clicked down.

It was a gorgeous day in Old London Town.

The game started.

“C’mon Chels.”

The first quarter of an hour was quite subdued, with tentative probing from us, and a few more direct bursts from the visitors. Their fans made a fair bit of noise at the start of the game.

On fifteen minutes, Dewsbury-Hall took a knock and had to be substituted. He was replaced by Carlos Alcaraz. I liked the way we clapped him off. He was honest player for us and has fitted in well with the Toffees.

I tried to catch Rob’s eye to let him see me wipe my brow.

“Phew.”

On eighteen minutes, Jack Grealish shimmied and advanced down below us and sent over a cross, but Trevoh Chalobah blocked. Grealish looked a handful in those early stages.

Two minutes later, a shot from Iliman Ndiaye that Robert Sanchez saved through a crowd of players.

A voice from the crowd behind me :

“They look more organised than us.”

At that exact moment – in fact, as I began tapping away those words from a worried spectator on my ‘phone – I looked up to see Wesley Fofana pass to Malo Gusto, who released the ball perfectly between defenders to meet the run of Cole Palmer. His finish was pure Palmer; a cool finish past Jordan Pickford.

The trademark celebration, the run to the corner, lovely.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Just after, Garnacho blasted over from a difficult angle, and then the same player latched onto a risky back-pass by Alcaraz but struck the ball just past the near post with an empty net begging.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency.

But then the visitors came again. It made a change for a team to attack us at home. James Tarkowski headed wide, then Ndiaye mishit a pull-back from Jake O’Brien. Then, a ball was rifled across the box by Gana Gueye but nobody was there to meet it. I was just grateful that KDH was off the pitch.

Next up, a skilful run from Grealish resulted in a shot that Sanchez somehow blocked with his shoulder.

We were riding our luck alright.

Just after, Pedro Neto did what Pedro Neto does, and I photographed him sprinting past his hapless marker Vitaliy Mykolenko. He reached the goal-line and played the ball into the path of Malo Gusto who touched it past Pickford.

GET IN.

By this time, Mykolenko was flat on his back, while Gusto slid towards the corner.

Phew.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

“That goal was beautiful.”

At half-time, I spoke to a few friends and acquaintances.

“Just doing enough.”

One replied –

“I think we’ve been diabolical.”

Throughout the first period, the atmosphere was quiet but that’s nothing new these days, eh? Everton were totally quiet.

“1994, lads.”

The second period began and a cross from the quiet Enzo teed up Garnacho at the far post, who was always stretching to connect. My photo of his lunge is almost as poor as his finish. The ball flew wide.

Throughout the first half and into the second half I had been impressed with the excellent play of first Chalobah and then Fofana. On fifty-two minutes, Wesley made a sensational block tackle on an Everton attacker who would have been through on goal.

I immediately thought “Bobby Moore on Jairzinho, 1970”; it was that good.

At last, a stadium-wide chant enveloped Stamford Bridge. It was initiated by the good people of The Shed, but the Matthew Harding soon joined in.

“CAREFREE.”

Garnacho shot over after a lightning break down our left. He was having one of those days.

On fifty-eight minutes, Cole Palmer was substituted, but Maresca went safe with Andrey Santos rather than with Estevao Willian. I approved of the way Palmer’s time on the pitch was managed.

I was impressed with Joao Pedro, who was something of a menace for the Everton defence, and he showed a few instances of great hold-up play.

On the hour, it was Chalobah’s time to shine defensively. He initially lost ground in a chase but recovered so well to make a last-ditch tackle just inside the box.

At The Shed, Sanchez tipped over.

At the Matthew Harding, Santos shot over the bar.

On seventy minutes, Reece James made a mistake in our final third, but that man Fofana recovered well. Just after, Grealish sliced well wide after arriving at the far stick at a free kick.

On sixty-five minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

On seventy-five minutes, Pickford tipped a Reece James free kick over the bar.

On eighty minutes, Estevao replaced Joao Pedro. Pedro Neto moved inside as a false-nine.

On eighty-six minutes, Ndiaye raced past Fofana and struck a slow shot towards goal. The effort bounced back off the far post. Clalobah then blocked a shot from Alcaraz.

In the first minute of injury-time, a Neto break but Gittens shot weakly over.

The whistle blew.

I had enjoyed this one. It had a little bit of everything. We weren’t at our absolute best, nor not near it, but we showed signs that it might be coming together. At least we stemmed that mini run of awfulness. Everton showed a willingness to attack, and, on another day, they might have returned North with a point or more.

I thought Fofana and Chalobah were excellent.

Here’s an idea, Maresca. Play these two together in all games. Cheers.

Oh, the run. Here it is.

Chelsea vs. Everton : Premier League.

19 August 1995 to 13 December 2025.

Played : 31

Won : 18

Drew : 13

Lost : 0

Oh, and to complete a perfect day, Frome Town won 4-0 at Tavistock in Devon to strengthen our position at the top of the table.

I will see some of you at Cardiff.

Tales From Another Chelsea Win

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 26 April 2025.

This is a game that I might not have attended.

Had Frome Town needed points against AFC Totton for survival in Step Three of the non-league pyramid, there was a chance that I would be missing this Chelsea match. However, my hometown team’s presence in the Southern League Premier South was extinguished on Easter Saturday after the briefest of one season stays and so I was not required to make that heart-wrenching decision.

Chelsea won again.

It was a phrase that I hoped to be reporting after the game.

What of this day, then?

We didn’t really appreciate the 12.30pm kick-off as it would mean that the pre-match would be ridiculously squeezed into a ninety-minute period before 11.30am. Everton, revitalised under the returning David Moyes, would prove a difficult nut to crack, but after a little run of four unbeaten games, there was hope that Chelsea would prevail. Suddenly, a top five or six or seven finish was looking likely, despite my recent protestation of us finishing eighth.

I was up at 5.45am. I always aim to get to PD’s house in Frome bang on 7am and I am annoyed if I am even a minute late. I left my house at 6.43am. I still had to fuel up, but I shot over to Nunney Catch to do so and pulled up at his house in Frome at 6.59am.

Result.

After the game, the instruction from PD was to get him back to Frome as soon as possible so he could then drive down to a night of merriment in Burnham-on-Sea where he owns a static caravan.

“Should be back by 6pm, mate.”

To get to London as soon as possible, we ate our McBreakfast on the hoof to save precious minutes. We noted heavier-than-usual traffic going into the city at 9am. This was a very busy weekend in the capital; not only were Chelsea at home, but both FA Cup semi-finals were scheduled, the Eubank vs. Benn fight was taking place at Tottenham on Saturday night and the London Marathon was on the Sunday. However, I dropped the lads off on the Fulham High Street at around 9.45am. So far, so good.

I drove up from Fulham into Hammersmith and parked on Charleville Road once again, and then quickly walked to West Kensington to catch a tube down to Putney Bridge. I walked into “The Eight Bells” at 10.25am, aware that I had probably lost my usual seat at the table with Salisbury Steve, Lord Parky, P-Diddy and Jimmy the Greek.

Not to worry. I walked over to chat to two lads who I had invited along to the packed pub for their first-ever Chelsea pre-match. I have known Philip, from Baltimore, as a Chelsea mate on Facebook for a few years, and he was perched at a high table with his good friend Douglas. We chatted for the best part of an hour about all things Chelsea first and foremost, all things Baltimore, all things Philadelphia – ahead of the two games in June – and all things sport. We have a few mutual friends and so that is always nice.

The two lads loved the cosy intimacy of the pub, and we were able to regale each other of our Chelsea stories.

Phil became a Chelsea supporter right after the 1997 FA Cup Final triumph, and this resonated with me since I became hooked while at my village school around the time of the 1970 FA Cup win. I told them of how my fanaticism at an early age was remarkably intense. I told the story of me, at the age of five or six, receiving a Liverpool duffel bag from my paternal grandfather and being mortified that he had not realised my Chelsea fascination. I remember the annoyance of both parents too. Phil had a ticket for the Shed Lower during the 2019/20 season but never attended because of COVID. This would be his second Chelsea game in London, however, after the Palace semi-final in 2023. This was a game that I, ironically, did not attend as I was not allowed in with my SLR camera.

Douglas was out in Ghana in around 2006 when he became fascinated with that area’s love of Chelsea, via Michael Essien, his favourite Chelsea player, and so he soon chose us as his club. This would be his first-ever Chelsea game in the UK, though he might have seen us play a game in the US.

It was horrible to hear that both had to resort to expensive tickets in West View instead of watching their first-ever Chelsea games at HQ in the more traditional strongholds of the MHL or The Shed.

It seemed that there were coincidences throughout our chit-chat. Phil and I found out that we follow the same NHL team, the Vancouver Canucks (me very loosely), and that Douglas and I share the same birthday.

However, despite the three of us getting along so well, I did warn them.

“If we lose today, you’re not fucking coming back.”

They set off early, and then the rest of us headed up to Stamford Bridge around twenty minutes later.

I stood at the CFCUK stall for a few moments with a few acquaintances, good loyal and friendly Chelsea supporters all, as Kerry Dixon walked by. He wasn’t feeling too bright so was off home after a little spell with the hospitality team. He spotted a few faces and approached us.

“Ah, this is the hierarchy, is it?”

“More like the lowerarchy, Kerry” I replied.

With that, I took a few photos of the bustling scene outside the ground, hid my SLR, and entered via my usual “lucky turnstile.”

I was in at just gone midday.

On this occasion, Alan was up in Barrow following his Bromley in their last away game of this successful first season in the Football League. He had sold his ticket on the exchange to a lad from Latvia, proudly wearing a Chelsea trackie-top, and his sister was momentarily in my seat. Her ticket was towards the top of the stand. We moved things around and Clive took the spare seat in front so they could sit together. I sat next to PD who was eventually in Alan’s seat.

PD was the spectator-equivalent of an inverted full-back.

Rob told me that he was off to see Walton & Hersham directly after our game, another “double-header” successfully navigated. His team are, of course, in the Southern League Premier South, just like Frome for this season.

It was another cracking day in London. I looked over at the three-thousand Everton fans and wondered if this visit would end up following a well-worn pattern.

Everton’s last league win at Stamford Bridge was on 26 November 1994.

Should we win, again, today, it would be the thirtieth consecutive year of being unbeaten against them.

“No pressure, Chelsea.”

The teams entered the pitch.

No flames but flags in The Shed.

Us?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fenandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I posted on Facebook : “I’m playing right-back next week.”

The game began and I wondered where on earth the inspiration for Everton’s horrible dark grey and yellow kit originated.

Right then, we attacked The Shed.

In possession, we became a back three of Cucurella, Colwill and Our Trev moving over to the right, with Moises Caicedo joining up with Enzo and Lavia in the middle, and God Help Everton.

Joking apart, we began well and apart from an Everton free kick in the first few minutes it was all Chelsea for the first twenty minutes. Apart from a noisy flurry at the start from Everton, their support soon quietened down and they hardly sung a note.

On nine minute, a great early ball from Levi Colwill found Cole Palmer in an advanced role but he could not direct a shot on goal. I love us mixing it up occasionally, to keep the opposing defence on their toes. Pedro Neto was staying wide, and I loved it. On thirteen minutes, a positive run from Noni Madueke into a good position but Jordan Pickford was able to save at full stretch, the ball tipped around the far post.

The noise from both sets of fans had quietened by now.

We dominated possession and tried to open up the Everton defence. Virtually all their grey-shirted players were behind the ball, and space was a premium. I wondered if we were in for another hour or so of tedious chess play.

On twenty-five minutes, a free kick from the right and Pickford flapped and the clearance was poor but Marc Cucurella’s bouncing effort went just wide.

On twenty-seven minutes, Everton tried to build a rare attack, but a through ball aimed at Beto was intercepted well by Our Trev who pushed the ball to Enzo. He spotted the unmarked Jackson, left up field after an attack, and in space. The striker received the ball, turned, and with nobody coming to close him down, drilled a low shot into the goal. The dive from Pickford was in vain. To my joy, I was right behind the shot. I saw it all.

It really was a stunningly simple goal, but very well executed by the often-abused Jackson.

He ran off to celebrate and the Stamford Bridge crowd purred their approval.

Alan, in Barrow : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, in The Sleepy Hollow : “COMLD.”

And all was well with the world.

The game returned to its normal pattern, but I commented to Paul that “we have played worse than this during the season.”

It was decent stuff. Noni and Neto were causing Everton some concerns out wide, Enzo was aggressive and involved, while the returning Romeo Lavia was at his understated best, a modern day Johnny B. Cucurella was as playing to his usual high standards and Caicedo was Caicedo, probably my player of the year. However, Palmer seemed to be struggling.

I said to Paul that if someone, new to our team and watching for the first time, was told that one of our players was being heralded as one of the best young players in the world before Christmas, not many would guess it was our number twenty.

In injury-time, a header that ended up going ridiculously wide seemed like Everton’s first attack in ages, maybe since 1994.

At the break, I remembered two fantastic moments.

Firstly, the Everton player Iliman Ndiaye bamboozled his markers with incredible fleet-footed skill. The ball was touched quickly between feet, down near the touchline in front of the West Stand, and it was an impressive a piece of skullduggery that I have seen for a while.

Secondly, not so far away from that part of the pitch, the ball was played quickly out of defence to Pedro Neto and he had the defender at his mercy. He was running at pace; the defender was back-peddling and was completely unsure which way Neto would push the ball. As a former right winger, I really appreciated that moment. Neto had the defender just where he wanted him with acres of space to run into. He tapped the ball a few times, just to prolong the agony. A quick shimmy one way, the ball went the other, and it was just like me against Gary Witcombe in a house football match in early 1978 all over again.

Bliss.

At half-time, my good friend Pete – from London, then San Francisco, now Seattle, I met him in Los Angeles in 2007 – came down for a few words and we made plans to see each other in Philly in June.

The game re-started.

What looked like a rotten corner from Neto on the far side, was rescued by Madueke at the near post and he almost turned and screwed a shot in, but Pickford saved with his feet.

On fifty-three minutes, a poorly executed back pass to Pickford saw Jackson one on one but Pickford was just able to clear in time. Just after, a fine Madueke cross into the danger area, but no Chelsea player was close enough to apply the coup de grace. Then just after this, Chalobah glanced a header just wide.

On fifty-three minutes, it was time for the much-maligned Robert Sanchez to shine. Beto was played in after an errant pass out of defence by Colewill. The Everton striker shot low from an angle but, thankfully, Sanchez dropped low to his right and kept it out at full stretch.

On sixty-seven minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia.

On sixty-six minutes, Reece to right back, Moises to the base of the midfield.

Once we had the ball, “budge up.”

A shot from Idrissa Gueye was straight at Sanchez. From his throw out, Caicedo ran strong and long at the defence, with defenders snapping at his heels, but his shot was wide. From the resulting corner, Cucurella forced a save from Pickford, the ‘keeper reaching up to gather.

On seventy-seven minutes, Madueke went down after a coming together of bodies, and we all thought he was play-acting. He was motionless for a while but then returned to the action. Then, within seconds, he was running at pace at the Everton defence and forced Pickford to make another fine, sprawling save.

Pickford had to save again moments later, this time keeping out Cucurella’s header from the resulting corner.

Everton’s support was roused by an upturn in their play, and we could hear them again. To be truthful, Stamford Bridge wasn’t noisy at all during this lunch-time game. During this second-half, we seemed to be a lot more sloppy, and made a few silly errors. We begged for a calming second goal.

Jackson thought he that had scored but it was chalked off for offside by VAR, no complaints.

On seventy-eight minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Madueke on the left.

On eighty-six minutes, another fantastic save as Everton went close with a volleyed, side-footed effort from Dwight McNeil.

Two late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Jackson.

There was another fine save from Sanchez from Youssef Chermiti in the closing moments.

One last free kick from Everton, a strong leap from Reece James, the ball was headed away, and that was that.

Chelsea won again.

“It’s a bloody good job they haven’t got a striker…”

There was heavy traffic as I headed up the North End Road and made my way home. All eyes were on the clock.

Returning home, I was to learn some fantastic news regarding two Chelsea mates.

Ian, who often drinks in The Eight Bells, was at Brackley Town for the day and saw his team beat Kidderminster Harriers 5-0 to gain promotion to the National League, the much-vaunted Step One. Like me, he had a tough decision – Brackley or Chelsea – but was rewarded.

Leggo, my mate from 1984/85, was at Bedford Town and saw his home team win 2-0 against Stourbridge and gain promotion from the Southern League Central to the National League South. It is worth noting that both Bedford and Frome were promoted from Step 4 last season and while Frome have sadly returned, Bedford have moved on. It’s an incredible story. Also, the club survived a belittling take-over bid from the moneyed, yet uncredible, Real Bedford in the past week or so.

Elsewhere, Rob’s Walton & Hersham beat Swindon Supermarine 4-1, and as for Frome Town, we lost 0-4.

To complete my review of the non-league scene, I have something a lot more local.

While Frome Town lost 1-0 to Weston-super-Mare in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, my village team Mells & Vobster United won the Somerset Junior Cup Final against fierce local rivals Coleford Athletic 3-1 during the week.

Oh, and I reached Frome at 5.58pm.

Chelsea vs. Everton :

1995/96            Drew 0-0

1996/97            Drew 2-2

1997/98            Won 2-0

1998/99            Won 3-1

1999/2000      Drew 1-1

2000/01            Won 2-1

2001/02            Won 3-0

2002/03            Won 4-1

2003/04            Drew 0-0

2004/05            Won 1-0

2005/06            Won 3-0

2006/07            Drew 1-1

2007/08            Drew 1-1

2008/09            Drew 0-0

2009/10            Drew 3-3

2010/11            Drew 1-1

2011/12            Won 3-1

2012/13            Won 2-1

2013/14            Won 1-0

2014/15            Won 1-0

2015/16            Drew 3-3

2016/17            Won 5-0

2017/18            Won 2-0

2018/19            Drew 0-0

2019/20            Won 4-0

2020/21            Won 2-0

2021/22            Drew 1-1

2022/23            Drew 2-2

2023/24            Won 6-0

2024/25            Won 1-0

Tales From The Grand Old Lady

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Everton vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2024.

Last season, the Everton away game was again just before Christmas, on Sunday 10 December, and at the time it was to be our last-ever visit to the Grand Old Lady on Goodison Road. I went into that game expecting it to be so and took tons of photos to commemorate my last-ever visit. Yet, between the time of the game and the day of posting my match report, five days later, it was announced by Everton Football Club that they would be staying one more year at the revered old stadium and would move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025.

Ironically, another recent visit had the feel of a potential “last-ever” game too, the match in May 2022, when Everton were deep in the relegation mire. On that day, Frank Lampard’s Everton squeaked home 1-0 and lived to fight again.

It seems like Everton, or rather Goodison, has been messing about with my brain for a few years now. God knows what actual Everton fans have been experiencing.

I was pretty happy with the 105 photos that I posted for last season’s match and I had a feeling that I might well match this high figure on this occasion.

Goodison Park and I go back a long way, to a match that was shown on ITV “live” on Sunday 16 March 1986, but many fans of my generation first experienced Goodison on Saturday 22 December 1984 – forty years ago to the day – and it is the one game that I wish that I had seen. The visit in 2024 would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea game at Goodison, but the game on that Saturday forty years ago was arguably our best performance there in the past four decades.

At the time, I was so annoyed that I was not able to attend the game at Goodison in 1984. I had returned home the previous weekend from my college town of Stoke, and would be listening-in on the portable radio as I did a shift in my father’s menswear shop in Frome’s town centre. I occasionally helped out at Xmas time when things got a little busier. But I was so annoyed that I was back in Somerset. It would have been easy to travel up by train from Stoke to Liverpool had I still been in The Potteries.

My diary from 1984 explains “the saga” at Goodison Park, and how I “went wild” every time we scored, especially when a score of Everton 3 Chelsea 1 was corrected to 2-2. We won the game 4-3, with Gordon Davies getting a hat-trick and Colin Pates getting one. Graeme Sharp scored two for the home team and Paul Bracewell scored the other. I had predicted a gate of 24,000 so was very happy with the attendance of 29,800. I went out in Frome later that night and had way too much to drink. It was our first away win in the league in 1984/85 though. These things have to be celebrated surely. Those that went to the match in 1984 often tell the story of all sorts of missiles being launched at the tightly packed Chelsea terrace and the seats high above the goal from the home enclosure in front of the main stand; pool balls, flares, golf balls with nails. Friendly bunch, Everton.

For the game in 2024 we set off early. I collected PD and his son Scott at 6am and Parky at 6.30pm. We breakfasted at a deadly quiet Strensham between 7.30am and 8am. I was parked up at the usual Stanley Park car park at 10.30am – a £13 fee – but as we made our way north to Goodison, the wind howled, and the rain fell. In Almaty there was no wind chill and there was no dampness in the air, and I coped OK. After a minute of being exposed to the bitter chill of Stanley Park, I was shivering like a fool. The rain seemed to seep into my bones. I was reminded of Turf Moor in 2017. We came off the vast expanse of the park and walked alongside more sheltered and tree-lined roads.

While the others went off to find shelter in “The Abbey” pub on Walton Lane, I met up briefly with a photographer pal of mine, David. We had bumped into each other at last season’s game and had kept in touch ever since. He often takes photos pitch side at the four grounds in Liverpool and Manchester. He was queuing up, hiding from the rain, underneath the towering main stand that rises dramatically from the pavement on Goodison Road like no other stand in England. Only Ibrox come close in the entire UK. He was after a good “speck” – Scouse slang for “spot” – behind the Park End goal. We had planned for him to take a few photos of my pals and I during the game.

As I made my way to the pub, I spotted a former Everton player from my early years, Mike Lyons.

“Hello Mike.”

No answer.

That’s because I quickly realised it was Martin Dobson.

Fackinell.

I dodged the rain and made my way inside the pub that was surprisingly quiet. We stayed inside from 11pm to 1pm, and the small, thin, cosy pub soon became rammed. We were made welcome, though. I chatted to some Evertonians from Aberdare in South Wales who were staying over. Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and Doncaster Pail had joined us, and Ian then arrived with two random Evertonians he had met on the train and who had subsequently shared a cab together from Lime Street.

They are a lot more friendlier in 2024 than in 1984.

If anything, the inter-city rivalry between Merseyside’s blues and reds has heightened and intensified and turned nasty since 1984. I joked with Jimmy and commented that Evertonians hark on about Liverpool’s fan base now residing in Norway, and Liverpool bite back by saying that Everton’s global reach now goes as far as North Wales.

David, the photographer arrived with a programme for me, but reported that his “speck” was in front of the Gwladys Street, so no candid photos of us on this day.

Tommie and Chris – the brothers Grim, Tommie Chelsea and Chris Everton – arrived in the rain and I passed over spares. Then, I got drenched on the short walk to the ground, where I was serenaded by a “Town Called Malice” – an odd choice so far north – by a band playing in the fan park behind the impressive Dixie Dean statue.

There was time for one final, sad, circumnavigation of The Grand Old Lady.

The Winslow Hotel, where I popped in with my mate Francis for a drink before a game at Anfield in 1994, and if my fictional piece from 2012 is to be believed, where my father visited on his one visit to Goodison Park in around 1942, mid RAF training on The Wirral.

To the left, Jock spotted the frosted glass windows of a local hostelry. Without any words being exchanged, Jock quickly headed inside, his two friends left outside in his wake.

“A quick pint, Half Pint?” asked Hank to Reg. “It appears our Scottish friend is in need of liquid refreshment.”

They spotted Jock dart in the bar to the right of the main entrance of The Winslow Hotel and they quickly followed suit.

“Jock’s at the bar, Half Pint – this is a rare sight indeed. Let’s hope he doesn’t forget us.”

The cavernous bar was incredibly noisy and the three pals struggled to hear themselves be heard above the din of orders being taken, jokes being shared, vulgar belly laughs, shouts and groans. A young lad strode through the bar, bedecked in Everton favours – the blue and white standing out against the dismal colours of wartime England – and attempted to sell match programmes. He was not faring well. The locals were more intent on drinking. An elderly gent, with glasses and a pencil thin moustache, spoke engagingly to Reg about Dixie Dean, the great Everton centre-forward, who once scored 60 goals in a 42 game season.

As his knowledge of football wasn’t great, Reg wasn’t sure if this was the same Dixie Dean who had been ridiculed in the schoolboy poem of his youth –

“Dixie Dean from Aberdeen.
He tried to score a goal.
He missed his chance.
And pee’d his paints.
And now he’s on the dole.”

Talk of the imminent football match was minimal, though. It seemed that just being in an alien environment, so different from each of their hometowns, was amusement enough. Hank looked at his watch and signalled to the others to finish their drinks. Outside, the rain had started to fall. The three friends quickly rushed across to the stand and did not notice that the narrow street, darkened under the shadow of the structure, was busy with an array of match day activity; grizzly old men selling programmes, young boys selling cheap paper rosettes, wise-cracking spivs selling roasted chestnuts and cigarettes and young girls selling newspapers.

The main stand, and the elevator that I took to watch a game from the top balcony with my mate Pete in 1992 when Robert Fleck scored. The church of St. Luke the Evangelist, with its café and memorabilia shop that I visited in 2022.

The huge images of Dean, Sharp, Latchford, Royle, Young and Hickson towering over rooftops.

The Holy Trinity statue.

The pavement alongside where some local scallies had eyed me up and down on my second visit in late 1986 and sneered “that jacket is so fookin’ red” and I thought I might be in for a hiding.

Gwladys Street, where I walked with Josh and Courtney in October and where Courtney took a photo of two lads, in red and blue, playing football outside two houses with red and blue doors, a perfect image.

A turn into Bullens Road and the away end. Memories of a beautiful visit with my then girlfriend Judy’s young football-mad son James, aged just ten, his first-ever game in 1998, and then a repeat in 2006 with him, the 3-2 cracker.

The rain was bucketing down and the stewards just wanted us inside, so there was no camera search.

For one last time, I was in.

The familiar steps, the crowded concourse, the wooden floorboards of the Archibald Leitch Stand, our seats in Row B, effectively the front row.

I love Goodison. It’s obvious, right? But some hate it. I thought of them when I realised that a roof support was right in front of my seat, blocking a good deal of the pitch.

Fackinell.

I was lined up with Alan, John and Gary to my left and with Eck and Steely from Glasgow to my right. After being given a word of warning about using my SLR by both the chief steward and an over-zealous ambulance woman (!), I played cat and mouse with them all game long, and Eck was able to step in front of me to avoid me being seen. I am pretty sure I relied on Eck for this superb defensive partnership against prying eyes last season too.

Like Nesta and Cannavaro in their prime.

Eck and I found ourselves lip-syncing to “If You Know Your History”, it’s easily done.

Then, the big big moment…the sirens and “Z Cars” for one last time at Goodison.

Chills.

There is nothing better.

I have no doubt that Everton will keep this tune as a key part of their match-day routine at Bramley Moore. I am sure when it is played at the first-ever game, it will seem like the torch has been handed on.

Incidentally, the new stadium :

I love the location.

I am a little worried about parking and traffic flow.

The outside looks fantastic.

The inside seating bowl looks rather bland.

But I like the steepness of the rake of the terraces.

I like that – at the moment – the blue seats are not spoiled with sponsors names or other silliness.

How I wish that a few Leitch cross struts could be repositioned at key places on the balcony wall at the new digs.

With the kick-off time approaching, I checked our team.

Sanchez

Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Everton were a mixture of footballers and former footballers, some familiar, some not and how on Earth is Ashley Young still playing?

Both teams wore white shorts. Brian Moore would be turning in his grave.

Everybody standing, the rain starting to get worse, the game began.

Whisper it, but a win at Goodison would send us top, if only for a few hours.

We began the livelier and attacked the deep-sitting Everton lines in front of the Gwladys Street. There was a shot, wide, from Cole Palmer, and a couple of attacking half-chances involving Nicolas Jackson and Pedro Neto.

The rain was heavier now and seemed to be aimed right at us in the Bullens Upper. I sheltered behind Eck. The wind was blustery and seemed to change direction at will. Playing conditions, although not treacherous, were difficult, and it made for periods of messy football. The Everton crowd, not exactly buoyed by the news of the latest take-over, soon quietened down.

Neto had began the game as our liveliest player on the right and, after good play by Moises Caicedo, he fed in Palmer, and there was a low cross towards Jackson, but Jordan Pickford saved well.

We played well in short spells, and from a corner, Jackson smacked the post from close range and Pickford closed angles before Malo Gusto could attack the rebound.

Everton had been very defensive and offered very little. It was so noticeable that the Everton support were cheering defensive clearances.

“God, I know everyone loves their clubs and their teams, but imagine turning up to watch this every two weeks?”

At last, an effort on our goal; someone called Orel Mangala forcing a very fine stop from Robert Sanchez. Just after, another Everton effort, and Sanchez thwarted Jack Harrison from close range.

It had been a poor first-half and was met with moans and grumbles by the Chelsea faithful at the break.

Neto had been my favourite, and we loved the audacious piece of skill when he controlled the ball by knocking it back over his shoulder to fox his marker. Caicedo was strong. Sancho had a lot of the ball but was finding it difficult to get the best of Old Man Young. Disasi touched the ball so many times it honestly felt like he was our main playmaker. We cried out for a little more urgency.

Just before the second half began, Eck, Steely and I were now lip-syncing to “True Faith” by New Order and we hoped our faith would be truly rewarded.

“That’s the price that we all pay.
And the value of destiny comes to nothing.
I can’t tell you where we’re going.
I guess there was just no way of knowing.”

The weather was still wild. There were hints of a blue sky and sun, but only fleeting. At times the sky over the huge main stand roof took on a lavender hue. This was Goodison Park in the depths of winter, in the depths of Liverpool, in its unique setting. The wind grew stronger and the rain came again.

Football. There is something about it, in these old weather-beaten stadia, that absolutely stirs the soul.

Bizarrely, to me at least, it was Everton who created more chances of note in an increasingly worrisome second-half. On fifty minutes, a huge jolt to our confidence as Everton really should have scored. At last the home crowd made some noise that the old ground deserved.

Although Sancho looked a little more lively down below us – in an area of the Goodison Park pitch that always invokes of Eden Hazard twisting and turning – as the second-half continued, our link-up play was poor. Palmer was having a very average game, and this seemed to affect our confidence.

Some substitutions on seventy-five minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Everton attacked down our left, and a shot from Martin Gore lookalike Jesper Lindstrom was expertly stopped by Sanchez, but the block on the follow-up effort from Tosin was exceptional.

It was at this stage that we all began thinking that we would be happy with a 0-0, a point, and consolidation of a second place finish.

There were minimal minutes added on at the end of the ninety. It was if the referee Chris Kavanagh was happy to save us any more pain.

It ended 0-0.

As the legions of home and away fans departed, I loitered with my camera and tried my best to capture a few haunting images of my final ten minutes in a stadium that I have so enjoyed visiting over the past thirty-eight years.

My final Everton vs. Chelsea record at Goodison Park :

Played : 24

Won : 8

Drew : 7

Lost : 9

For : 23

Against : 26

I took some inevitable shots of the trademark Leitch cross struts on the balcony wall, and I was reminded of when I pinned my “VINCI PER NOI” banner on this section for our last great game at Goodison, the 3-0 triumph late in 2016/17. My words illustrate the joy of that day.

At the final whistle, a triumphal roar, and then my eyes were focussed on Antonio Conte. He hugged all of the Chelsea players, and slowly walked over to join his men down below us, only a few yards away from the touchline. With just four games remaining, and our lead back to seven points, the joy among the team and supporters was palpable. Conte screamed and shouted, his eyes bulging. He jumped on the back of Thibaut Courtois. His smiles and enthusiasm were so endearing.

Altogether now – “phew.”

The songs continued as we slowly made our way out into the street. A message came through from my good friend Steve in Philadelphia –

“Chris, the image that just flashed on my screen was beautiful. A shot of a cheering Antonio Conte, cheering the away fans, with the Vinci banner in the background. Absolutely perfect shot.”

There was time for one last photo of me with the Gwladys Street in the background, and then one last shot of the exit gate in the Bullens Upper, a photo that I had taken just over twelve months earlier.

But now, it was final.

Thanks Goodison, for the memories, from Reg Axon in around 1942 and from me from 1986 to 2024.

Tales From The First Day Of Autumn

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Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 1 September 2024.

Since we last spoke…

…two Frome Town matches.

On Bank Holiday Monday, a healthy 738 assembled at Badgers Hill, but the home team unfortunately went down 0-2 to our cross-county rivals Taunton Town. Frome weren’t outclassed but just lacked a killer punch in front of goal. Of note in this game was the return of Jayden Nielsen, who Frome signed from Bristol Manor Farm in the summer – a top signing in my opinion – but who then returned to his former club after only a few friendlies as a Frome player. Lo and behold, the player then quickly signed-for Taunton Town after only a few games for Manor Farm. I can only hope that Jadon Sancho has a bigger impact at Chelsea than Jayden Nielsen at Frome Town.

On the Saturday before the Crystal Palace match, I drove through the shires of Southern England to attend the FA Cup game at Easington Sports, who sound like a Sunday pub team and play in Banbury. They had defeated Bristol Manor Farm, of all teams, in the previous round and so would not be taken lightly. Frome conceded early, but equalised via a nice lob from striker James Ollis. Despite several excellent goal-scoring chances in the second-half, the away team could not put the game to bed. A replay would take place on the Tuesday after the Crystal Palace game.

The new season has been tougher than we had hoped at Frome Town but I am undoubtedly enjoying the games. They bring me great pleasure.

With games in August and September over one weekend, it seemed like I would be taking a footballing journey from summer into autumn. Whereas the Saturday match involved a journey through new pastures, new roads – some of them bumpy – and a new ground, not to mention sightings of detectorists and steam engine enthusiasts, and a few other Bank Holiday oddballs, the Chelsea game at home to Crystal Palace on the Sunday seemed very normal. With a 1.30pm kick-off, there would be another early start for us, but we still love our Chelsea trips even after all these years.

I dropped PD and Parky off at the bottom end of Fulham and then parked up near Normand Park. I darted into the “Memory Lane Café” at the bottom of the North End Road for a quick bite to eat. I have decided to keep my forty-year retrospective look at 1984/85 going throughout this season, but will tend to concentrate on the twenty-two games that I saw in person during that memorable campaign.

By the time of the first day of September in 1984, I had seen Chelsea play three games that season. I have briefly detailed the friendly at Bristol City and I have far-from-briefly mentioned the league opener at Highbury in the last edition. The next game to talk about is our home opener against Sunderland, complete with former Chelsea winger Clive Walker, which took place on 27 August, another Bank Holiday game.

After the tumultuous events of the Saturday game at Arsenal, here was another long-awaited occasion; our first match in England’s top flight since a home game against Arsenal – another 1-1 draw – in May 1979. I travelled up with my parents for this one – my father drove – and I paid for the three West Stand tickets at £6 a pop. I had worked all summer long in my first-ever job – packing yogurt at a local dairy – and so must have been feeling flush. My diary informs me of a couple of things that I have long forgotten. My father evidently bought us a couple of small lagers in the old West Stand bar – that long room at the south-western corner – and our small instamatic camera, that I obviously wanted to use to capture the historic occasion, unfortunately chose not to work, though this was probably because my father had dropped it on at least two occasions during the day. If only I had a photo of my father and I from that moment, supping on lagers, making small talk, having a giggle. It would have been priceless.

Our seats were very close to the sprawling North terrace, half-way down. I popped down to say “hello” to the four lads that we had met on The Benches during the latter part of 1983/84, and it thrills me to say that I am in contact with all of them to this day.

Alan – he sits next to me at all our games, we go everywhere.

Paul – I see him at a couple of times each season.

Mark – I see him at loads of games each season, he goes everywhere.

Leggo – I saw him at Luton last season, and we talk a lot about Frome Town and Bedford Town.

A helicopter – how flash – arrived on the pitch before kick-off with the Second Division Championship trophy, and it was thrilling to see John Neal smiling as he held it. Alas, the gate was only 25,554, and I was expecting at least 30,000. Sunderland had around five-hundred in one pen. Apparently we gave the returning Walker a fine reception.

There is a photo of Stamford Bridge on this day, no doubt from the helicopter, that often appears on the internet and it’s a real beauty, showing the shape of the stadium at that time. We took the lead early in the game when Paul Canoville shook off two defenders and touched the ball past the on-rushing ‘keeper, the ball only just making it over the line. Kerry Dixon had a goal cancelled for offside and Canoville then hit the bar. Our play weakened in the second-half, but I reported that my man of the match was Colin Lee, resolutely defending at right-back. Forty years on there is still a feeling of disappointment that we couldn’t breach the 30,000 barrier for this match.

One thing is for certain; my diary was not full of the myriad of nerdisms that followers of football now earnestly use as they describe modern football. No overloads, no pockets of space, no low blocks, no high lines, no high presses, no patterns of play, no transitions, no turnovers, no re-cycling.

It was a simpler game in 1984, undoubtedly more naïve, but I bloomin’ loved it.

On the return journey, we stopped off for more small beers at “The Pelican” pub on the A4, and another “Axon Family Chelsea Day Out” was in the books. Looking back, with hindsight, there wouldn’t be too many more over the years; a handful, maybe Arsenal at home 1987, Wednesday at home 1987, Swindon away 1988, Charlton 1988, Everton 1991. But these are just lovely memories from forty-years ago. Just to be able to share a lager with my Dad once more…at Chelsea. Bliss.

To complete the 1984 story, on the following Friday, on the last day of summer, Chelsea played Everton in an evening game at Stamford Bridge. I did not attend, but my diary tells me that I travelled in to Frome to watch the game – it was live on TV, a treat – at a mate’s house. Again, I was disappointed by the attendance – just 17,734 – as Everton, playing in swish silver Le Coq Sportif shirts – won 1-0 with a goal from Kevin Richardson. Later that night, in the pubs of Frome, I bumped into Glenn who was wearing a Pierre Cardin roll-neck that he had purchased for £3 “off the back of a lorry.”

Fackinell.

Forty years on from these seminal moments in our lives, we had all assembled in the pubs, bars and cafes around Stamford Bridge once again. I had a little flit around the stadium before going down to the local. Dave – another of The Benches “crew” from 1984 – dropped in to see LP, PD, Salisbury Steve and little old me at “The Eight Bells” and we had a lovely pre-match for a couple of hours. We discussed the Europa Conference draw and especially the three away trips. All of our eyes are locked on an away day to Kazakhstan, with Greece a possibility and Germany unlikely. Dave saw the team and set me up for guessing it.

“It’s the team most of us would pick.”

I guessed it correctly, apart from me forgetting we had signed Pedro Neto and opting for Mykhailo Mudryk instead.

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

With industrial action taking place, we then had to wait a while to catch a delayed train from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. We got in just before the teams entered the pitch. Before I knew it, I was at my seat alongside PD – alas no Clive nor Alan on this occasion – and the players were soon doing their pre-match huddling.

The game began. Bright sunshine. Yet the floodlights behind both goals were on; answers on a postcard. Three-thousand away fans, one flag – “Whyteleafe Palace” – and not too many empty seats anywhere after the late arrivals finally settled.

The first fifteen minutes all belonged to us. We played some decent progressive stuff. Cole Palmer was the first player to go close, curling a sweet low shot just past the far post that I managed to catch on my pub camera. The appearance of my “reserve camera” was all due to the weather. I have no need for a jacket on hot days like these, so there was no way to smuggle my usual SLR in. Have I told you all how much I adore modern football?

Adam Wharton, who apparently plays for England, forced a save from Robert Sanchez on fifteen minutes.

“Ah, I see Will Hughes, the albino, is playing for them. I remember him at Derby years ago.”

On twenty-one minutes, Wesley Fofana’s long ball – good, let’s switch our ways to attack – found Noni Madueke and he advanced into the box, but with defenders chasing him, he was unable to replicate a successful prod like Paul Canoville’s from forty years ago. The ball skidded past the far post.

Just after, Neto to Enzo and a lovely lofted ball towards Madueke, whose clip on the volley was well-saved by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson. Brilliant football.

Then, twenty-five minutes in, a great move. Levi Colwill won possession deep in his own half and released Madueke on the right. He raced past his man, advanced, and steered the ball inside to Palmer. I shouted “Jackson’s free” and he must have heard me. A pass to our striker and a neat finish at the far post. The linesman kept his flag down. I instantly dismissed the threat of VAR.

I punched the air.

“GET IN.”  

Half-way through the half, a drinks break.

Two cold lagers with my Dad would have been lovely.

There was more decent play from us as the first period continued. I noted how Neto was hugging the left touchline, but was probably underused. A lot of our attacks came down the right.

On forty minutes, there was a fine through ball from a Palace player – Hughes I think – that was beautifully cut out by Madueke in his own box. The ball was collected and played inside to Colwill who was striding into the midfield. In a split second I thought of the phrase of “Total Football” and I had visions of Ruud Krol playing right-half while Johann Cruyff covered him. The ball was played from deep right to far left, and the move was a joy to watch. It all ended with a cross from the left and a header from Jackson which was saved by Henderson. Alas, no goal, but the move of the match.

PD was purring; “brilliant.”

It had been a good half of football, no doubt. It warranted more than the one goal.

There were none of the usual moans at half-time in The Sleepy.

These were saved for the opening moments of the second-half when Hughes, already booked, pulled down the advancing Palmer in a central position. No second yellow. The resulting free-kick, on film, drew another fine save from Henderson, arching his back to tip it over. From the corner, Colwill headed down and wide, clawed away by Henderson, also on film.

From that moment, our play fell apart and we looked a poor shadow of ourselves. The away team got going and we looked second best.

Rob, from Melksham, had joined us in the second period, and he commented “we’ll need to score two or three to win this.”

On fifty-three minutes, Wharton shimmied into the box, and the ball rebounded out to Cheick Doucoure. His shot was blocked by Fofana but the ball fell nicely to Eberechi Eze, who immaculately dispatched a curler into the goal, past the despairing dive of Sanchez, who quite possibly was reacting to a shot five minutes earlier. Anyway, he was late for this one too.

It was 1-1.

Bollocks.

The Stamford Bridge crowd – quiet, of course – at least responded with a defiant “CAREFREE” but then went back to our normal noise levels and our normal behavioural patterns.

I have grimly noticed, especially at home games where I am almost always sat, that my watching position at Chelsea games these days is often with my arms semi-crossed, with one arm up to my chin, looking like a prize knobhead, like a connoisseur at an art gallery or museum, or an adjudicator at an intensive interview session, or a chess player awaiting the next move from an opponent.

What a prick.

What have I become?

“Just old, mate.”

At least I wasn’t holding a pair of glasses in my hand and chewing on the tips like an ultimate art gallery wanker.

I wish I was more animated and involved but football these days can invariably be a dull sport and a dull spectator sport.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

Thank God for the odd moments of spontaneity, of intuition, of grace and beauty, those moments that get us agitated and off our seats.

The game grew scrappy. The rangy Palace attacker Jean-Phillipe Mateta was developing quite a battle with either or both of our centre-halves. I like a good old-fashioned battle.

On 58 minutes, a substitution.

Joao Felix for Neto, quieter now.

We were exposed on a couple of occasions as Palace ran at us.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the injured Malo Gusto.

This necessitated a shift in personnel that took me too many damn minutes to work out.

“Can you buggers stand still for a minute?”

On seventy-six minutes, another rapid Palace break and the ball was played inside to Daichi Kamara. His powerful shot was hit straight at Sanchez, but it appeared that his butter fingers had lost the ball. Thankfully, there had been enough of a block for the ball to deflect over. Phew.

Felix floated around but flattered to deceive. Palmer was crowded out and forced to come deep for the ball. He would later, in frustration, kick the ball against the hoardings and get booked. It was one of those days.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

The game continued on, and we all grew nervous. What had happened to the Chelsea from 1.30pm to 2.15pm? Enzo, who started well, had been a metaphor for our demise.

In the eight minutes of extra-time, the game came to life. Eze went close but Cucarella blocked. Then, Nkunku raced forward centrally and passed to Jackson who smashed the ball against the side netting.

Late on, a beautifully clipped ball from Enzo in his own half was played ahead of Jackson. He raced in on goal but his shot – on film, just – was parried by Henderson.

Bollocks.

So, a weekend of 1-1 draws.

Next up, Bournemouth away at 8pm on a Saturday night, but before that there will be four Frome Town games in 2024 and two Chelsea games in 1984.

See you there, or then.

Tales From A Cold Night

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 April 2024.

After the game at Bramall Lane on Sunday 7 April, I was again treated to a two-game football weekend. But this was no Saturday and Sunday double-header. No, nothing as easy as that. With modern football being modern football, this was one that featured matches on a Friday and a Monday.

The reward for working my first five-day week for a month – what a slog – was a Friday evening at Frome Town with a game against Bishops Cleeve, a team from near Cheltenham in Gloucestershire. After the dropped points at Exmouth Town the previous Saturday, this was a match that my local team just had to win. Thankfully, a Sam Meakes goal mid-way through the first half gave the home team a slender 1-0 win. However, it was a tough match, despite the visitors having a player sent off just before half-time. In the second half, the visitors enjoyed much of the possession, and everyone became more and more nervous with each passing minute. Thankfully, Frome’s defence were resolute and kept attacks at bay. The Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips, in fact, did not have too much to do. Frome, defending deeper than we thought necessary, took all three points, which kept the team at the top of the Southern League South. The attendance was a very pleasing 690, which took the home average up to 483 for the season. Frome have just three games left; if we win them all, we will be automatically promoted.

Saturday and Sunday came and went, but with some pretty hilarious football results along the way.

Newcastle United 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0.

Liverpool 0 Crystal Palace 1.

West Ham 0 Fulham 2.

Arsenal 0 Aston Villa 2.

I worked another early shift on the Monday. At 2pm, I set off from Melksham in Wiltshire with PD and LP. There was a little chat about the evening’s game with Everton, who last won a league game at Stamford Bridge almost thirty years ago. Did I expect us to win against the SW6-shy Toffees?

Yes. There I said it.

I dropped the lads off near “McGettigans” on Fulham Broadway at 4.30pm so they could enjoy a quiet drink with Salisbury Steve. My pre-match was spent at Stamford Bridge where I took a few photographs of the pre-match scene. Overhead, there was a clear blue sky, but despite the Spring sun, it was bitter. In fact, it was so cold, thanks to a raw wind, that I had to disappear inside the megastore for twenty minutes to keep warm. It’s a place that I hardly ever visit these days. I am still trying to get over the sight of a bloke, probably in his early thirties, with a small Chelsea crest painted on his face. Outside under old The Shed wall, I bumped into a few friends before I finally made my way inside the ground at 7.30pm.

As I walked up the steps to the MHU and made my way to my seat, I was serenaded – appropriately enough – by “Blue Monday” by New Order.

Perfect.

I wondered if there might be a Chelsea-themed sequence of songs, but no. However, the next three songs were decent enough.

“Going Underground” by The Jam.

“Echo Beach” by Martha And The Muffins.

“Call Me” by Blondie.

Ah, four favourites. Four classics. The person choosing the set list certainly knew his target audience; it always seems that the match-goers around me in The Sleepy Hollow are children of the ’eighties, in thoughts, words and deeds.

Then, “Money For Nothing” by Dire Straits.

Ugh. Oh well, four out of five ain’t bad.

It was still light as the kick-off approached. The lightshow and the flickering flames did not have quite the same impact in the evening dusk.

The teams appeared.

Us?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Them?

A smattering of familiar names, a few young ones, and two old ones; Seamus Coleman, aged thirty-five, and Ashley Young, aged thirty-eight. Young always looks like he has his legs on incorrectly.

Just before kick-off, Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – from Riverside in California and last spotted at Sheffield United – appeared twenty-yards away in seats to my left. It would be their first match at Stamford Bridge; I had managed to get them tickets via a mate. They looked ridiculously excited. Alan and Clive sat alongside PD and little old me, the first time that all four of us had been present at Chelsea for a while.

The game began at 8pm. I wasn’t keen that we were attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

Everton, dressed in an all pink ensemble that reminded me of Daytona Beach in the late ‘eighties, began quite brightly. In front of the three thousand away fans, a cross came in from the Everton right – that man Coleman – but Beto thankfully stabbed his shot over the bar.

On thirteen minutes, a magnificent Chelsea move was played out in front of us. Cole Palmer received the ball forty yards out, nut-megged one of the young Evertonians – Jarrad Branthwaite –  and adeptly back heeled a pass to Nicolas Jackson who quickly returned the ball to Palmer. I felt myself relax. Palmer’s body language reeked of self-belief and as he coolly and calmly slotted the ball towards the far post with a delicate flick of his left-foot wand, it seemed churlish for me to be worried about the outcome. The goal quickly came.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

It was almost too easy.

Alan : THTCAUN.

Chris : COMLD.

Just after, Noni Madueke, who had begun positively, drilled a ball in from the wing. From our position high above the corner flag it appeared that the forward movement of Palmer had hindered the path of the ball into the net. Palmer looked momentarily deflated.

On eighteen minutes, we attacked again. Moises Caicedo to Mykhailo Mudryk and a burst down below us, and a pass to Jackson. The young striker’s shot was parried by Jordan Pickford, who used to be a goalkeeper. The ball sat up nicely for Palmer to nod emphatically home from just inside the six-yard box.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan had noted that his two goals had been scored by his left peg and his head, and so was already thinking ahead about a perfect hat-trick.

It was an open game. Chances were shared. Mudryk raced back well to hack away a goal bound effort off the line at the Shed End. Jackson, not shy to come forward, fired a blooter just over the bar.

On twenty-nine minutes, a terrible pass out of defence by Pickford was pounced on by Palmer of all people. He instantaneously accessed the situation. His GPS was spot on, as he quickly lifted the ball high over Pickford’s gurning face, and the flight of the ball immediately impressed me.

…thinking : ”this looks in.”

Yep, the ball dropped into the empty net.

A roar from the Chelsea crowd.

Chelsea 3 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

I looked over towards the Two Tommies; oh boy, they were loving it.

Alan : “was that his right foot?”

Chris : “yep.”

Alan : “Perfect.”

Stamford Bridge had taken a while to make some worthwhile noise, but now the place was rocking to one or two “Carefrees.”

We thought that the visitors had pulled a goal back but I quickly spotted a raised flag for offside.

Phew.

To their credit, Everton kept attacking, but they looked awfully exposed when we got on the front foot. On forty-four minutes, Marc Cucarella – most definitely an improved player from last season – sent over a cross towards the near post. Jackson brought the ball down with a really exquisite move, and swivelled smoothly before slotting the ball home. This was another beautiful goal. What a performance.

Chelsea 4 Everton 0.

At half-time, all was well in the world. I joked with the lads that I had not taken too many photographs of the game thus far, but 90% of them had been of goal celebrations. The actual breakdown was as follows :

Total photos : 58

Goal celebrations : 28

So, the actual percentage was 48% but never let the truth ruin a good line. In truth, we hadn’t exactly peppered the Everton goal with shots, but we found ourselves four goals to the good. In a season – or more – when we have bemoaned our lack of quality in front of goal, it was lovely to see our goals to shots ratio increase, if only for one game.

Baby steps and all that.

The second-half began and I was dreaming of a cricket score. I am sure that I was not alone. The new Chelsea midfield of Caicedo and Gallagher was performing well, allowing others to move forward to exploit the tiring Everton defence. We kept to the same script and were rewarded in the sixty-fourth minute when Madueke tumbled after a crude challenge by James Tarkowski. The referee quickly pointed to the spot.

The madness that then ensued caused unnecessary tensions in the stadium, both on the pitch and off it. While Palmer, who had fallen just before the foul on Madueke, gathered himself, there seemed to be a feisty altercation on the penalty spot between Madueke, Jackson, Silva and Gallagher. In everyone’s mind, Palmer was the obvious – and only – choice for the penalty. Madueke and Jackson seemed to have other opinions. Silva and Gallagher wrested the ball away from Madueke, who flounced off in a pathetic strop.

Palmer placed the ball on the spot.

Palmer scored.

Chelsea 5 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan asked me to name the last occasion that we were 5-0 up at home in the league. I could only think of that magnificent game – better than this one – in November 2016 when we beat Everton 5-0.

(The correct answer was Norwich City in 2021 when we went in to win 7-0.)

Mauricio Pochettino made some changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Madueke.

Madueke had played well, but had blotted his copybook with his stupid tantrum on the penalty spot. I expected a few boos, but there were hardly any.

The Everton fans, wh had sreadfastly resisted the desire to return to Merseyside began to leave en masse.

More changes came.

Cesare Casadie for Palmer.

What a player this young lad is. Twenty goals for our number twenty this season, level with a certain Manchester City totem. The applause for Palmer was loud and sustained.

Ben Chilwell for Mudryk.

Not Mudryk’s best game, not his worst, he was applauded too.

Thiago Silva was serenaded on many occasions during the game, especially with him defending down below us in the second-half. I am sure that everyone wants to let him know how much he is loved in these last few weeks of his Chelsea career.

Two more late changes.

Alfie Gilchrist for Gusto.

Another decent outing for young Gusto, who was warmly applauded.

Deivid Washington for Jackson.

Jackson is getting there, there are improvements taking place, and he was applauded too.

In the ninetieth minute, a cross from the left by Chilwell eventually fell to Alfie Gilchrist. The youngster took aim and fired a strong shot past the hapless Pickford and a huge roar enveloped the stadium. It was, of course, his first goal in the first team. The scorer raced towards the corner flag and seemed to be accelerating as he ran on. I thought he was going to keep on running onto the West Stand forecourt and down the Fulham Road before eventually stopping at “Chubby’s Grill” or whatever it is called these days for a hot dog and onions.

Fackinell.

The joy in Alfie’s celebrations warmed us all up on a very fine night at a cold – Cole Palmer cold – Stamford Bridge.

Whisper it, but our team is slowly coming together. Those glimpses of quality are becoming more frequent. In our last two home games in the league we have scored ten goals. We have a difficult run of games to finish this season, but let’s see how high we can get.

Next up we meet Manchester City in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley, bloody Wembley.

See you there.

Tales From The Weekend That Wasn’t

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Everton vs. Chelsea : 10 December 2023.

Despite the feeling of desolation after that terrible performance at Old Trafford, my spirits were raised as the weekend approached. I sincerely hoped that it would be one of the nicest footballing weekends of recent memory.

First up, on the Saturday, my nineteenth Frome Town match of the season, and the biggest game that I will have seen the team play in over fifty-three years of attending games at Badgers Hill. My local team were to play former Football League outfit Torquay United in the Third Round of the FA Trophy. I had been looking forward to this since the draw was made and I was hoping that an attendance of over 1,500 would be reached.

Then, on the Sunday, my nineteenth Chelsea game of the season and a visit to my favourite away ground for the Everton game at Goodison Park. This looked likely to be my last ever visit, my twenty-third, as the home club were looking to move into their swish new riverside apartment next season. However, with both clubs in the last eight of the League Cup, there was a small chance that Chelsea could be back in the New Year for a semi-final, and an even smaller chance that we would draw Everton away in the FA Cup. However, I have been keeping tabs on the new build at Bramley Moore Dock over the past year and there have been rumours of the stadium not being ready for the start of the 2024/25 season. There has been some debate within the Evertonian ranks about moving in as soon as the stadium is ready, even if it is in the middle of the 2024/25, making use of the extra match-day income as soon as possible. The other view is to delay and move in at the start of the 2025/26 campaign, thus ensuring a grand, and planned, send off for the Grand Old Lady, as Goodison is affectionately known, rather than being unsure when the actual last game would be. I would imagine that would be a nightmare for most Evertonians; not knowing when “the last goodbye” would be.

On the Saturday, I met up with a few pals at “The Vine Tree” pub near the Frome Town ground. This pub used to be run by former Frome Town and Portsmouth player Willie “Farmer” Haines, though my father knew him as “Wyndy” Haines, in the ‘forties. He scored 119 goals in 164 games for Pompey. I mention this in passing as my school friend Richard, who met me and some other Frome mates at this pub, is currently one of two poets in residence at Fratton Park. We joked how he has come a long way from when the two of us used to contribute semi-satirical and semi-humorous pieces to a sixth-form journal forty years ago.

I was buzzing as I walked up the hill to the ground. I could see that the Devon club had brought around three-hundred fans, most of whom were nestled under the roof of the side terrace. Despite an even start, the visitors went 2-0 up in the first-half. Frome Town were then awarded a penalty but Jon Davies saw his low effort saved. In the first few moments of the second-half, Alex Monks hit the post, and we then watched in horror as Torquay scored two more in quick succession. Sam Meakes pulled one back to make it 1-4 and we had a goal disallowed too. It was not to be. The gate was a healthy 1,305 but fell short of my hoped-for target. At times, the atmosphere was a little subdued. In truth, I felt a little underwhelmed. It could have been so much better. Frome failed to score in key moments and paid the price against a far fitter team. But the club are well placed, and could go top of the league very soon.

On the Sunday, I collected PD at 7am and we headed up to Merseyside. Despite the slight chances of further games at Goodison Park, this felt like my last-ever visit, and I promised myself to spend some time circumnavigating the tight streets around the famous old ground – those who mock it shamefully call it Woodison – before taking my place in the Bullens Road Upper. As I drove north, I could not stop myself from humming the “Z Cars” tune to myself.

I also found myself humming the tune of a song that some Evertonian fans taught me in a cab in Manhattan a few years back, after having met them at a Yankees game.

“Oh we hate Bill Shankly and we hate St. John, but most of all we hate Big Ron.

And we’ll hang the Kopites one by one on the banks of the royal blue Mersey.

To hell with Liverpool and Rangers too, throw them all in the Mersey.

And we’ll fight fight fight with all our might for the boys in the royal blue jersey,”

We were parked up at Stanley Park, for the last time perhaps, at around 11.30am. Thankfully, the rain had held off. We walked to the ground with our friends Michelle and Dane who were parked close by. PD went straight in, but I absolutely wanted to linger a while. I began an hour long walk around the stadium, and took – ahem – a few photos. I soon bumped into a chap who would later take his position behind the Park End goal as an official game photographer, and he took a few shots of me outside the Bullens Road. I told him of how these visits resonate for me due to the fact that my father visited Goodison Park in around 1943 while taking part in his RAF training on The Wirral. I walked over and stood under the “Welcome To Goodison” sign and I said that it felt like I was waiting for Dad to walk past.

I was happy with the selection of images that I took. Again the rain held off for the most part. Walking down Goodison Road, the sun came out a lit up the sky. It fired some life into the dark brooding clouds to the north, past the Trinity Statue of Ball, Kendall and Harvey and the red brick of the church of St. Luke’s on the corner of Gwladys Street and Goodison Road.

Goodison is ridiculously photogenic. I think the fact that it is so different to the old sprawling – and huge – Stamford Bridge is a reason that attracts me to it. It absolutely nestles perfectly within the tight terraced houses of Walton. It bleeds history.

Ah, I will miss it.

The rain came and it was time to get inside. As I walked past a bus stop on Walton Lane, I felt an immediate tinge of sadness for the couple of people who were under its roof. I felt sad for them because it meant that they weren’t going to the game. This felt like something of a “eureka” moment for me. Despite my concerns about us getting anything, even a point, from this game, I still felt the absolute need to be here, to be at Goodison, at the game, cheering on the team.

I had a little moment to myself, a second of self-awareness.

“Mark of a true fan, that, Chris lad” I thought to myself.

I inwardly smiled.

My anticlockwise perambulation complete, I headed inside. The security check was easy, no issues with my SLR, and I was in. I asked the second person of the day – a tourist I am sure – to take a photo of me at the bottom of the old stairs leading to the cramped upper concourse. The vast majority of my games at Goodison have been watched from the upper tier. We used to have a decent record at this historic venue, but not of late. It has been a real bogey ground. The game in the latter stages of 2021/22, with Frank Lampard in charge of Everton, almost felt like it would turn out to be my last visit since the home team were in such dire straits. My camera had gone into overdrive on that day, as it had on this visit too.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

I joined PD, Gary and John in the front row of the upper tier. For once, a decent seat; usually we are shunted way to the left, way past the goal-line.

It dawned on me that I have watched us on three of the stadium’s four sides. In fact, I have watched us from five distinct areas.

Park End terrace.

Park End seats.

Main Stand top balcony.

Bullens Road paddock.

Bullens Road upper.

All those memories.

I waited for “Z Cars.”

The team were just finishing off their pre-match shuttles, wearing another ridiculous and busy set of training gear. At least I saw the light green shorts being worn. We have worn black too many times at away games; surely the hardest colour to pick out at pitch level.

The minutes ticked by.

I thought back to my first visit, the cramped subterranean view from the Park End terrace, us in all red, me getting chased around Lime Street by some scallies. I thought back to the last visit, that dire 1-0 win, with Tuchel in charge of us and Lampard in charge of them.

“I’d settle for a draw, Gal.”

The time was ready.

“Z Cars.”

Magnificent. Gets me every time.

The team? Definitely a 4-3-3.

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

It felt really odd to see us attacking our end in the first-half at Goodison. I am not so sure that I have ever seen this before. My first thoughts were centered on a potentially decent battle that might be played out between Armando Broja and the rather lanky and gangly Everton defender Jarrad Branthwaite, a kid with a surname out of the nineteenth century and a first name out of the twenty-first century. In truth, after a few early runs, our centre-forward had a quiet first-half. That battle-royale never really materialised.

It says so much of our recent form that, genuinely, it seemed that we were playing more cohesively than at Old Trafford on the previous Wednesday. We were keeping the ball, and Enzo seemed to be linking things together. He was having a more influential game. I was worryingly content. But then as I watched, I realised that our chances were hardly causing Jordan Pickford – the same name discrepancy as Jarrad Branthwaite – any issues. There were two identikit shots, curling up and away, from Cole Palmer, who was also booked for taking a dive inside the Everton box. Another shot from Palmer tested Pickford but the ‘keeper saved well.

Mudryk, down below us in the area where Eden Hazard once toyed with Everton full-backs, was an exasperating mix of speed and indecision.

The Everton fans were ridiculously quiet, especially in the Park End to our left. There had been multi-banner displays in the Gwladys Street before the game condemning the Premier League’s decision to dock the club ten points, and I expected a feverish hotbed of support, maybe like that game in May 2022, with the fans galvanised together in defiance. What I saw, and heard, was nothing of the sort.

The entire Park End was seated and silent.

Halfway through the half, an Everton volley whistled past the post and we heard them for the first time.

“We forgot that you were here…”

On the half-hour, a calamity for James, replaced by Levi Colwill. Marc Cucarella switched to the right flank. We quickly discussed Reece James and the views were not favourable. In short, he has been way off his form of even two years ago of late. Sigh.

On thirty-seven minutes, Mudryk was super-fast but Broja could not finish, his shot going over from a tight angle.

And that was it.

As the second-half began, I said to Gary that I couldn’t see either side scoring. With that, Sanchez got down remarkably well to turn an effort from Dwight McNeil around the post. The home fans were warmed by some more adventurous play from their team.

On fifty-four minutes, a quick break. McNeil to Dominic Calvert Lewin, well saved by Sanchez, but Abdoulaye Doucoure slotted home the rebound.

Noise now.

Fackinell.

“E – ver – ton, E – ver – ton.”

We replied with a loud “Carefree”.

Game on? Maybe.

We dominated possession, but yet again had no cutting edge. A free-kick from Palmer just outside the box did not trouble Pickford.

On sixty-six minutes, a double substitution.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Broja.

God knows what the formation was now, but Sterling was wide right. Our final ball was always poor, but our movement off the ball was far worse.

We were treated to the king of shoulder charges by Cucarella down below us. His quality might not always be there, but his commitment this season is much much better.

A new song from the Park End, presumably aimed at their noisy neighbours at the top of the hill, and a line about “sticking your trophies up your arse” was followed by a rendition of a rejuvenated song from the ‘sixties…

“We are the Goodison Gang.”

The Chelsea support was quieter now. The mood was grey.

On eighty-four minutes, more substitutions.

The injured Sanchez was replaced by Djordje Petrovic, a debut. Ian Maatsen for Cucarella.

In injury time, a corner from down below us was punched out by the debutant ‘keeper but as the ball broke to an Everton player, I uttered the words “here we go.”

I must have had a sixth sense.

Substitute Lewis Dobbin rifled the ball home.

Fackinell.

I felt desolate. I stood silent. Many Chelsea drifted away.

The whistle blew and I was left with a dull ache inside.

I let the crowds leave. A few more final photos.

So, Goodison, is that it then?

Well, it would seem not. Just before I began typing this up, it was announced that Everton will remain at Goodison next season and move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025. It looks like I have one more tale from the Grand Old Lady to compose next year after all.

It had been an ultimately unrewarding weekend.

Frome Town FA Trophy glory on Saturday? No.

A win at my last visit to Goodison Park on Sunday? No.

So much for those two game nineteens.

See you at Stamford Bridge against Sheffield United.

Saturday

Sunday

Tales From The Loyal Three Thousand

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Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2023.

Originally the plan was to stay up in the North-West for four nights, taking in the matches at Manchester United and Everton without the need to travel up and back twice. I had booked accommodation near Piccadilly for Wednesday night, and accommodation near Goodison Park for the other three nights. With it being our last-ever visit to the old lady, I thought it worthwhile to base ourselves in Liverpool, exploring some previously unvisited areas – North Wales maybe – while being close to the stadium for one last hurrah.

That was the plan.

And then Frome Town buggered it all up.

The Mighty Dodge drew ex-Football League outfit Torquay United in the Third Round of the FA Trophy. Well, I couldn’t miss that. I even thought about leaving PD and Parky in Liverpool and driving to Frome on the Saturday. But then Parky decided that he needed to make other arrangements and we chose to cancel both stays.

At 1pm I collected PD in Frome and we began our journey north. It honestly did not seem too long ago that I last visited Old Trafford; it came at the end of last season, the first of two games in Manchester in a mere five days.

It’s a well-worn path. This would be my twenty-eighth away game with Chelsea at Old Trafford. It used to be a decent hunting ground. However, those days seem a long time ago. It is now over ten years since our last win at United, a lone strike from Juan Mata giving us the points in May 2013. Alex Ferguson announced that he would retire as United manager the very next day. I would like to think that the two are linked.

We reached “The Windmill” at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 at 4.45pm and we had a bite to eat. At 6pm, I set off on the last stretch. Alas, we were hit with tiresome traffic congestion as we crawled along the A56 through Altrincham and Sale, and then eventually along Chester Road and into Stretford. Past the old Art Deco cinema. Past the new McDonalds where “The Drum” used to be, past the shopping centre. We were parked up at 7.15pm.

It was a clear night. A little cold. No rain.

I am sure I could walk this last section in my sleep. It is so familiar.

Across Gorse Hill Park. The floodlights of the cricket ground to my right. Back onto the Chester Road again. Past a lot of new buildings, much changed in the last fifteen years. But still that working men’s club on the right. A new car dealership. The hot dog stand. The steel of Old Trafford across the way. That large “Tesco” on the right. A new pop-up bar on the other pavement, a re-furbished 20’ sea container. Those tower blocks to the left. The trot over the road. “The Bishop Blaize” pub. The line of fast food places as you walk up to the cross-roads. Red-brick terraced houses beyond. Lou Macari’s chip shop. People queueing for food. The pungent smell of vinegar. The grafters selling match day scarves. Onto Sir Matt Busby Way. The bloke yelling out “United We Stand” and yet more stalls selling scarves and tat. The crowds getting deeper, a mix of accents. The line of police as the forecourt is reached. The neon signage on the East Stand. The Munich memorial. The Munich clock. The slope down to the away turnstiles. The hunt for familiar faces.

“Kim!”

I spotted Kim, from the US, now residing in Liverpool, and I handed over her match ticket. We bump into each other at a variety of locations – the last one a boat in Bristol harbour – and this was her first visit to Old Trafford for a few years.

It’s always the biggest away game for me, this one. It’s a classic battle. North vs. South. Red vs. Blue. Manchester vs. London. Old Trafford. The largest club ground in the UK. The scene of our 1970 FA Cup win. The scene of our 1915 FA Cup loss. Some huge battles over the decades.

My SLR is banned at both Manchester stadia and so I again wanted to take a few photos of the match-going support, close-up, rather than rely on too many grainy and fuzzy action shots using my smaller camera. There was a mandatory search and I was in. It was 7.50pm.

There was a new vantage point for me for this one. I am usually positioned in the curve above the corner flag. This time I was in Section 233, square behind the goal-line, a few yards inside the pitch. I was only a few seats away from the home fans. It allowed me a few new angles of Old Trafford for which I was grateful.

This was an 8.15pm kick-off. This relatively new kick-off time, at the behest of Amazon, seems particularly pernicious. An extra twist of the knife for match-going fans. There seemed to be no valid reason for it. Why not stage all of “their” midweek games at 7.30pm? With an 8.15pm start, it’s more tiredness, more pain, more stress, especially for those pour souls who were straight back in to work the next morning.

Alan, alongside me in row seven had travelled up by coach. There were no trains back to London after the game. He aimed to get back home to South London by around 6am, another couple of days of annual leave used up, just like me.

Kev, a few rows behind me, had travelled up with some friends from the Bristol area, and although his father Brian was taking a turn to drive, Kev would be back in work at 6am on the Thursday, the poor sod.

Despite the ridiculous kick-off time, our end was full. Three thousand strong. But of course. We may be going through a tough spell but the clamour for away tickets is as frenzied as ever. I saw no gaps in our section. Not one.

Top marks.

Before the kick-off, I met up with Pete from Texas. His wife, a United fan, was in The Stretford End.

The teams entered the pitch from the corner. I had not yet seen the team.

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

The home team had a mixture of names that I was and wasn’t overly familiar with. This isn’t the team of Rooney, Ronaldo, Ferdinand and Evra.

It isn’t even the team of Coppell, Buchan, Hill and Macari.

The current United team is not known in my household.

The game began.

I had heard a new song in the crowded concourse before the game and here it was again.

“Who’s that twat who comes from Portsmouth?”

Well, Mason Mount wasn’t even playing, nor was he even on the bench.

We were under the cosh from the start and in the fourth minute Robert Sanchez collapsed well to finger-tip an angled shot from Rasmus Hojland, whoever he is, past the far post. It was all United.

On nine minutes, after another United attack, the referee signalled a penalty after VAR was called into action. I did not know why the penalty was given. There is no TV screen at Old Trafford. There was just the briefest of mentions of the penalty on the scoreboard in the corner of the Stretford End. So, I was left in the dark as Bruno Fernandes tee’d up the penalty. I lifted up my camera to capture the kick. With everyone stood, I saw nothing. I just heard a roar and I immediately tried to ascertain, in a nanosecond, if the roar was from us or from them. It was from us.

GET IN.

I had no idea if the ‘keeper had touched it, but I did not care one jot.

It was still 0-0.

Not long after, Cole Palmer intercepted a pass from Sofyan Amrabat, whoever he is, and the ball fell to Nicolas Jackson. He passed to Mykhailo Mudryk who tamely shot against the near post.

Gary wasn’t sure who the United midfielder was and we both said that he looked like Juan Sebastian Veron.

“Don’t worry, we’ll sign him in the summer.”

United were carving us open, with their wide men enjoying tons of space. I didn’t like how Levi Colwill, the night’s captain, was not close to his man, while Raheem Sterling was reluctant to double-back and help Marc Cucarella, who often had to cope with two or even three men running at him. A shot from Alejandro Garnacho was saved by Sanchez and in the immediate break, Mudryk must have been overwhelmed as he raced forward with players in support to his left and right. In the end, his pass to the right to Sterling was awful, and was easily intercepted.

Shots were exchanged. Antony at Sanchez. Enzo at Onana.

Possession was given up easily. It was as if the ball was an unexploded bomb awaiting detonation. The ball was nobody’s friend. On twenty minutes, a move down our right carved us open, and when the ball came back to Scott McTominay, the midfielder purposefully volleyed it low and into the net. He celebrated down below us.

More mistakes followed. And chances. A poor touch by Jackson allowed Onana to block.

It frustrated the living hell out of all of us to see Chelsea continue to play the ball out from the back. This well-rehearsed ploy attempted to entice United on, allowing us to cut them open with a series of blistering passes played with cutthroat precision that would lead to devastating counter-attacks.

“Er…what?”

Our passing throughout the first-half was to prove to be our Achilles heel. Yet United were almost as bad. This was no remake of the 2008 Champions League Final.

On the half-hour, Jackson set up Mudryk. He drove on in the inside left channel but his effort was as tame as they come, the ball idly missing the near post by yards.

The mood in the away end was of frustration and then perhaps even anger.

I noted how Cole Palmer often came deep in an effort to knit things together but he found it oh-so difficult. Enzo was quiet. Caicedo non-existent.

Approaching the last five minutes of the first-half, I quickly tallied up that it could have been 5-3.

Crazy game.

With Harry Maguire finding himself in an advanced position on their right down below us, the tall centre-back adeptly back-heeled the ball to a team mate and the United fans in the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand collectively laughed.

On forty-five minutes, Mudryk played in Palmer. He drifted in along the edge of the penalty box, defenders close by, and magnificently stroked the ball in at the far post.

YES!

We went doo-fucking-lally.

He must have loved that, an ex-City player scoring at the Stretford End.

There was a song for Palmer.

“He moves it from the left to right. Cole Palmer is dynamite.”

This was followed by a loud “Carefree” that rung out from Sections 230 to 233. We had been pretty quiet as the half developed but here was a moment to enjoy.

The inevitable “just like London your city is blue.”

At half-time, I bumped into a few faces in the concourse.

“Not much quality but there’s a lot going on.”

I briefly met up with Johnny Twelve from California, celebrating his fiftieth Chelsea game. His wife was alongside him in the away section. I spotted that hundreds of central seats in the lower tier of the Stretford End were empty at the start of the second-half. This is obviously where United had decided to locate many of their corporate guests, many of whom were taking their time to return to their seats.

The lower tier of the Stretty.

Good God.

This end was the beating heart of Old Trafford when I was younger, when I first visited the stadium in 1986, and throughout the next few decades. I can’t imagine what the United faithful think about this.

Modern football, eh?

Mauricio Pochettino replaced the keen but exposed Cucarella with Reece James. The second-half began and we wondered what on Earth would happen next.

Chances were not so frequent as in the first-half.

Luke Shaw, at left-back, and defending near us, was the object of some abuse from Gary.

“The size of your shorts, Shaw.”

“Oi, Shaw. Billy Smart wants his tent back.”

A corner from down below us from Mudryk was flicked on by James and Jackson’s header at the far post really should have hit the target. A strong run from Mudryk then took him into the danger area but his shot was deflected for a corner. At the other end, Garnacho cut inside and his shot on goal reminded me so much of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s late equaliser against us in the autumn of 1997. Thankfully, this effort continued to rise over the bar.

Alas, from virtually the same place in the penalty box, Garnacho sent a teasing cross over to the far post and Teddy Sheringham, Eric Cantona, Andy Cole, Denis Law, Lou Macari, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Wayne Rooney, Gary Pallister, Billy Meredith and Bobby Charlton were among those lining up to head home. Scott McTominay got the touch.

2-1. Bollocks.

Two goals for McTominay. Bollocks.

There was a sniff of VAR cancelling the goal – again, I have no idea what for – but the goal stood. What with late kick-off times and VAR replays for those watching elsewhere, football is a TV game now. As if anyone was in any doubt.

There were twenty minutes’ left. The mood in the away end deteriorated. Rather than improve things with stability, James was having a ‘mare. In fact, the whole bloody team were awful.

Garnacho, with an instinctive angled shot, wide.

Fackinell.

In the first-half there had been rare breaks. In the second-half there had been virtually nothing. Armando Broja replaced Mudryk on seventy-seven minutes, and I wondered why Jackson will still playing. He had been, perhaps, the poorest of the bunch all night long.

Reece James blazed over from an angle.

Ridiculously, we were only losing 2-1 and we were one goal away from the most improbable point. In the last few minutes, a deep cross from James found the leap from Broja at the far post. He hit the frame of the goal.

Oh God.

The final straw for me took place in added time, with us showing no urgency at all at a throw-in, and no players looking like they were too bothered about anything.

No movement. No desire. No talking. No gesticulating. No fervour.

No hope.

The final whistle was blown and I headed for the exits. I couldn’t face clapping the players, but I heard the boos from among our fans. I just glowered.

We walked, as quickly as we could, back to the car. I overheard a few conversations from the home fans. They were pragmatic, but generally subdued, far from euphoric.

“Scott McTominay. He’s our top scorer now.”

“Says it all, doesn’t it?”

Yeah, Scott bloody McTominay.

We walked past the chippies. The smell of vinegar cut through the air again. Along the Chester Road, the familiar walk, the familiar feeling.

We were back on the M6 at 11pm and, after stopping at Keele Services and Strensham Services, I made good time heading south. PD ran through the league positions and – yes – all of the teams above us are undoubtedly better than us. We seem destined to finish in tenth place this season. I joked that the best that we can hope for in May is to finish top of the West London League, ahead of Brentford and Fulham.

Everton on Sunday will be a struggle and I can hear the words already.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

It is becoming our mantra this season.

I eventually made it home at 2.50am.

There is no punchline.

TEAMS

US

CORNER

STAND

YELLOW

STEPS

THEM

ALONE

OUTSIDE

> dedicated to the loyal three thousand

Tales From The First And The Last

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 28 May 2023.

A month or so ago I mentioned that Ron Hockings, one of our greatest ever supporters, celebrated his 1,400th first team Chelsea game with our away match at Craven Cottage in April 1983. At the time, as a seventeen-year-old from Somerset, I could only dream of such ridiculous numbers of attendance. While Ron was clocking up game number 1,400, I was yet to break thirty matches. In those days, I would go to around four games each season.

But years pass, right?

Lo and behold, our last game of the 2022/23 season would be my 1,400th Chelsea game too. As I reviewed the letter from Ron in the programme from forty years ago, I was reassured that he counted first-team friendlies in his total. As do I.

It gave my total a certain cachet of authenticity.

“Bloody hell, I am not travelling to Kuala Lumpur with Chelsea without including it in my total.”

I like it that Ron celebrated 1,400 in 1982/83, a season that I have been detailing during this campaign. And here I am celebrating 1,400 forty years later. I am not sure that I ever spoke to Ron. I may have “nodded” a hello on a few occasions, but you used to see Ron everywhere. Like Peter Kemp and Alan Bruce, they would appear wherever Chelsea were playing. I have dipped into his book “100 Years Of The Blues” to help me add to my own memories of that season and I owe him a huge pile of gratitude. From 1947 to 2006, Ron went to a grand total of 2,703 Chelsea games, a ludicrous amount. He passed away around fifteen years ago, but his books will live forever.

With a lovely touch of symmetry, game number 1,400 would be against Newcastle United, as was my very first game in 1974.

16 March 1974 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

29 May 2023 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

Perfect.

And while we are on the subject of numbers and milestones, my attendance at the game on 29 May would allow me to complete my third – and only my third – ever-present league campaign of Chelsea matches.

2008/09 : 38/38

2015/16 : 38/38

2022/23 : 38/38

As my friend Ian would point out, a pattern has emerged here. Is my need to attend all the league games a seven-year itch? Is my next ever-present season due in 2029/30 when I will be – gulp – sixty-four? No, it’s just a product of being able, or not, to get to as many as I can. There is no plan.

I can’t really explain all this. But ever since that first game almost fifty years ago, I just love going to Chelsea matches. At the start, it was all about the players. Seeing my heroes play. Then, over time, I fell in love with the routine of attending games, the camaraderie, the laughs. Now, that is more important than the football.

“Which is just as bloody well after this season” I hear you all joking.

Well, I’ve seen worse, as my chronicles of 1982/83 prove.

This season hasn’t been the worst in our history, but at times it has felt the most disjointed, disappointing, under-achieving and – crucially – the least enjoyable.

It’s a shame that this accolade is bestowed by myself on 2023/24, my fiftieth consecutive season of match-going support for the club.

We can’t really class that as an honour can we?

The pre-match routine for the final game of this tortuous season followed the usual lines. Once I had walked down to Stamford Bridge with Ron – he played in Game #1 of course – it was lovely that my friend Kathryn and I managed to sort out a photo that would include four players from the 1982/83 season; Colin Pates, Paul Canoville, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers, plus Rodders thrown in for good measure. Kathryn and I then decamped to “The Eight Bells” via a stop at “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and we spent a decent hour or so with the two Glenns, Salisbury Steve and the Kent Lot.

The pub was bouncing with laughs and giggles; an outsider would find it hard to believe that we had all been following such a poor team over the past ten long months.

Inside “The Eight Bells”, there was a poignant moment for a few of us too. The Chelsea match-going family had recently been saddened by the death of a friend, Ian Oliver, who we had last seen in “The Eight Bells” before a game at Chelsea around six weeks ago. Ian was one of those chaps that you always bumped into at Chelsea, usually in “The Goose” but other pubs too. His was a face that I recognised from decades ago. And Ian was one of those rare Chelsea fans that lived locally, in Fulham, along with just a handful of other fans in my circle. I am pretty sure that his sister worked at “Chubby’s Grill” on match days, a hot dog van that was part of the furniture for years. Ian had recently gone to the gym and I commented to him during that last time in the pub that he had lost some weight and was looking good, bless him.

Ian – “Elvis” – will undoubtedly be missed by all of his Chelsea friends.

Rest In Peace.

As we left the pub, two female away fans sauntered past and one of them noisily remarked :

“Oh, youse have had a shite season, eh?”

“No need for that, is there?” I replied.

Indeed, there was a noisy bunch of Newcastle United fans, who had been drinking in Putney and close to our pub in Fulham, alongside us on the tube journey up to Fulham Broadway. A few were in fancy dress. There had been a few boats containing away fans alighting at Putney and I got the feeling that this was the happiest that the Geordies had been at a game at Chelsea since the days of Kevin Keegan as their manager.

To be fair, Eddie Howe has had a fine season up on Tyneside and all of us look forward to visiting the area again next season, as always a favourite away destination.

Elsewhere, three teams were fighting off relegation; two of Everton, Leeds United and Leicester City would join Southampton in a final relegation place by the end of the afternoon. I know that many wanted Everton to go, but not me. From a purely selfish reason, I wanted to be able to plan, visit and appreciate one last away day at Goodison Park at some stage in 2023/24 before they decamp to their new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock in 2024. It has been my favourite away ground for ages. I hoped for a win for them at home to Bournemouth.

On the Saturday, we had learned that Luton Town would be joining Burnley and Sheffield United in the top flight, though I wanted Coventry City to prevail. With Luton Town, Sheffield United and Burnley in the top flight, 2023/24 was beginning to resemble 1974/75, and this sent a shiver down my spine.

I was inside Stamford Bridge with plenty of time to spare. There was a small eulogy, with a photo, of Ian Oliver in the match programme.

Before the game, trophies were handed out to Lewis Hall – Academy Player Of The Year – Conor Gallagher – Goal Of The Season, Crystal Palace away – and Thiago Silva – Player Of The Year.

Frank presented Silva with his award. Surely this was a unanimous decision. The man ought to have won it last season too.

There had been Chelsea chat on the way up to London in the car. A lot of it centered upon Frank Lampard. I remember how happy he was on his return to the club, smiling at Cobham, full of delight. Looking back, it is clear that the club that he was forced to leave in early 2021 is not the same beast that it is now. Everything seems to have changed for the worst. There is no continuity now, that “Chelsea DNA” seems to have evaporated, we are a club in disarray. With hindsight, Frank’s gamble hasn’t paid off. I wonder how difficult it will now be for him, should he really feel the need, to get back into football management after this second spell with his beloved Chelsea.

That said, it has really disappointed me that so many in the Chelsea fan base, and – alas – even in my band of match day acquaintances have almost gleefully mocked Frank Lampard in recent weeks using language that I really found hard to stomach.

No respect.

Before the game, we were reminded that the day would probably mark another “farewell” to a Chelsea great. Since signing in 2012, Cesar Azpilicueta has played over 450 games for Chelsea and I always say he is “Mister 7/10”. His legs have gone recently but nobody can doubt his spirit. Before the players appeared on the pitch, a banner with mosaics honoured Dave – I still call him Dave, you might have noticed – in The Shed.

Franks final starting eleven?

Kepa

Dave – Silva – Chalobah – Hall

Enzo – Loftus-Cheek – Gallagher

Madueke – Havertz – Sterling

Newcastle were in white shorts, and I remembered that they wore these in a 6-0 Chelsea win in 1980, but I doubted a repeat.

“Grabbing at straws, there, Chris.”

The Sleepy Hollow was ready; the Buchmann Brothers Alan and Gary – sons of lovely Joe – Glenn, Clive, Alan and little old me. Clive had treated us to hot chocolates once again before the game.

This has often felt like the longest ever season, what with the horrible World Cup break in November and December, though the COVID hit season three years ago went on even longer. It seemed like this one was never going to end, and there was a slightly surreal to the game with both teams having not a great deal to play for.

Here we go then, Chelsea…game one thousand, four hundred.

No pressure.

The travelling Toon Army were in good voice as their team edged the opening exchanges. A white flare was set off in front of their fans; that fog from the Tyne was drifting long distances. Kepa did well to save at his near post after Aleksander Isak found space in the penalty area.

In an open first few minutes, it was the away team who looked the likelier to score. Indeed, we looked stretched after ten minutes when Allan Saint-Maximin was released on their left, amid acres of space, with Dave sadly nowhere near the wide man. It was if Dave had forgotten that he was the wide defender in the back four. The ball was played outside to Elliot Anderson who drilled a low cross into that infamous “corridor of uncertainty” for Anthony Gordon, hopelessly unmarked, to pounce.

Back in 1974, Ian Hutchinson gave us a 1-0 lead on ten minutes. In 2023, the start was sadly reversed.

On fourteen minutes, a Thiago Silva effort seemed to be creeping in at the far post but Martin Dubravka clumsily pushed it out for a corner. We were clawing our way back into the game. We enjoyed some pressure with Noni Madueke looking lively at times. A deflected shot from his volley soared just over. The corners mounted up.

On twenty-seven minutes, a free-kick was awarded in a deep but central position. Everyone was expecting a cross towards the far stick, but Enzo was switched on and drilled a ball into the path of Raheem Sterling in the inside-right channel who cut in past his marker and unleashed a goal-bound shot that was deflected in by Kieran Trippier.

Phew.

Just after, Stamford Bridge was united with a stadium-wide chant for the first time.

I looked around and, despite our rotten – by our standards – season, there were not many empty seats in the stadium. This has to be a good sign. This augurs well for the future.

Madueke, a teasing threat down the right, then went close but a defender blocked his shot.

Just before the half-time whistle, the two ‘keepers made two fine saves. The first came from an awful, unchallenged break from Saint-Maximin who set up fan favourite Miguel Almiron, with Lewis Hall out of position, but Kepa stood up and palmed a weak effort away. Then, Dubravka clawed away an effort from Sterling, after a pin-point cross from Hall, and the follow-up was hacked away too.

As first-halves went it was “fair to middling.”

I mentioned to Ian, who sits a few rows in front, that supporting Chelsea this season has been like watching a tribute act, a poor one at that, to a once great band.

The intermission came to an end and one last forty-five minutes remained.

Wesley Fofana replaced Trevoh Chalobah.

The game continued and the first part of the second-half was neither dull nor entertaining. With Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, I was hoping for some action down below us. Elsewhere, it was advantage Leicester City, winning at home to West Ham United but I fully expected Everton to nab a winner. Leeds were losing at home to Tottenham and were dead and buried.

We were having the majority of the ball now, but were unable to do much with it. The game was in danger of fizzling out.

A Madueke effort, after a shimmy inside, curled high over the framework of the goal.

We heard that Everton had scored.

On the hour, some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Loftus-Cheek.

There was a slow walk to the touch-line from Ruben, and he applauded the fans who were applauding him. Undoubtedly, this was his final game in Chelsea blue. I first saw Ruben, aged just seventeen, at a friendly in New York against Manchester City in May 2013 and he has been on the periphery of our first team ever since. We have waited in vain for his early promise to blossom – his injury in a superfluous friendly in Boston in 2019 was cruel in the extreme – and it is hard to believe that he has played ten times for England. His play confused me and often irritated me. I longed for him to show more urgency in his play and in himself. He will move on, but I don’t think he will improve in the next five years; a shame.

Joao Felix for Kai Havertz.

Havertz’ play irritates me too, but that’s another story.

On sixty-four minutes, an over hit cross luckily found Hall, but he in turn over hit the shot.

Good work from Carney and Hall set up a chance, close in, for Sterling but he blasted wildly over.

I was convinced that we’d win this.

“COME ON CHELS.”

An old favourite was aired, which I adapted to my own styling.

“Fabregas is magic.

He wears a magic hat.

He could’ve signed for Arsenal.

But he said ‘no, fuck that’.

He passes with his left foot.

He passes with his right.

And when we win the league again.

I’ll be ninety-seven.”

On seventy minutes, Mateo Kovacic replaced Conor Gallagher.

We still dominated possession.

There were Shots from Felix and Enzo but these did not really threaten Dubravka.

One excellent move lit up the final part of the game. A high ball by Enzo out to Hall was delightfully flicked on to Madueke, who hunted down a defender and passed back to Carney, who in turn set up Sterling. His shot was destined to be going in, I thought, but was deflected wide. I stood up and scowled at everyone behind me.

There was a VAR review for a possible handball but nothing was given.

A cross from Maduele and a slide from Felix; just wide. A shimmying run from Madueke – he has had a good few games – but a weak shot signalled his last participation. He was replaced by the forgotten man Christian Pulisic, who struck poorly at Dubravka. Our chances were coming thick and fast now, as if the painful season-long constipation in front of goal had been suddenly relieved by a powerful laxative. A Felix free-kick flew wide.

A beautiful move then saw a perfect cross from Hall pick out the jump from Felix. His body contorted wonderfully to allow a fine header, but the effort flew just over.

It was a surprising end to our season; and yet, not.

Tons of chances; no goal scorer.

Right at the death, a loud and resounding chant of “Super Frank” enveloped the whole stadium. We couldn’t say goodbye to him properly in 2014 nor 2021 with a proper “Franksgiving” send-off, so this was better, though far from ideal in lieu of the unconvincing end to his second spell as manager.

The game ended 1-1.

Elsewhere, Everton stayed up.

I suspected that Frank would be happy about that.

We had spoken about the risk of a “lap of honour” on the way up in the car. Usually, at the end of far more successful seasons, players disappear and then come back on to the pitch. My view was that it would be better for the players to stay on the pitch at the final whistle, because if they went off for even five minutes, not many Chelsea fans would be left.

They played it right, just like I had hoped for.

The Newcastle team went over to thank their fans, then the Chelsea squad walked slowly in front of The Shed End and Parkyville specifically – where Kathryn was spotted ten seats away from Parky – before slowly marching towards us in the Matthew Harding.

“Azpilicueta. We’ll just call you Dave.”

Bizarrely, I only focused on Frank – in a navy tracksuit – quite late on. My eyes must have been on others, and his final farewell was relatively subdued. There were no smiles on Frank’s face, nor did I expect any. This had been a tough two months at the end of a tough season and a tough fifteen months for Chelsea Football Club.

N’Golo Kante and Mason Mount were reduced to throwing small footballs into the crowd; I wondered if we would see these two players next season. N’Golo has been wonderful for us since 2016, but we are all concerned about his recent injuries. But oh what a player, what a person, and what a smile. Mason has endured a frustrating time since Porto. I will not be surprised if he decides to move on. Let’s see what happens.

The season has ended, and it has been such a tough watch. Looking back, the highlights were undoubtedly the three Champions League trips to Milan, via Turin, to Salzburg, via Nurnburg, and to Dortmund, via Brussels. I really enjoyed them. Outside of those, there has been little, and not even a win against Tottenham. Yes, it has been that bad. The football itself, from day one at Goodison, has been dire and I have found it difficult to get emotionally close to any of our players.

I admire Thiago Silva though. I like Enzo. I am thankful for Dave’s service. I worry about Reece. Let’s get a striker and we’ll see what develops.

I took my time leaving the Matthew Harding. Outside, I took one final photo of other fans walking down the last flight of steps, now adorned with “CFC”, and I am using it now as a closing photo, and end point, for this season.

I will pair it up with the very first photo that I took this season, previously unshared anywhere, and I repeat here the story that I told way back in August

“I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.

Snap.

On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.

Splat.

The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.

The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.

One photo taken and carnage.”

I should have known, then, that this was going to be a tough old season.

From Goodison Park, and Bramley Moore Dock, to Stamford Bridge – from first to last.

One final word. I have enjoyed recapturing the feelings that I had for Chelsea in 1982/83 throughout this campaign. It has been a ten-month dip into my youth. I have re-read diaries, checked old programmes, researched on-line and devoured Ron Hockings’ books. To be honest, it’s almost as if I knew that this current season was going to be – er – “troublesome” and that I needed a historical counterbalance to the turmoil of 2022/23.

“Was 2022/23 bad? Oh yes. But you should have lived through 1982/83.”

One thing made me smart though. I noticed that in my diaries, I usually referred to Chelsea as “they” which really surprised me. I am always chastising Chelsea fans for referring to Chelsea as “they” and “them” rather than “we” and “us” for reasons that I hope are clear.

We are one of the same.

Yet, forty years ago, I too was referring to Chelsea as a separate entity. Fear not, I am sure that this was soon to change. After all, 1983/84 was just around the corner, and that was my team.

And we will be Chelsea forever.

See you in August.

Before Game 1,400

Game 1,400

After Game 1,400

1982/83 & 2022/23

The First And The Last

The First And The Last

The First

The Last

The 1,400 Games

1973/74 : 1

1974/75 : 2

1975/76 : 4

1976/77 : 3

1977/78 : 2

1978/79 : 2

1979/80 : 3

1980/81 : 2

1981/82 : 4

1982/83 : 4

1983/84 : 11

1984/85 : 22

1985/86 : 22

1986/87 : 20

1987/88 : 15

1988/89 : 15

1989/90 : 2

1990/91 : 10

1991/92 : 14

1992/93 : 10

1993/94 : 15

1994/95 : 29

1995/96 : 31

1996/97 : 33

1997/98 : 35

1998/99 : 30

1999/00 : 38

2000/01 : 27

2001/02 : 29

2002/03 : 31

2003/04 : 31

2004/05 : 44

2005/06 : 40

2006/07 : 51

2007/08 : 55

2008/09 : 54

2009/10 : 51

2010/11 : 44

2011/12 : 58

2012/13 : 57

2013/14 : 47

2014/15 : 42

2015/16 : 55

2016/17 : 47

2017/18 : 56

2018/19 : 56

2019/20 : 41

2020/21 : 2

2022/23 : 55

2023/24 : 47

Tales From Another Tough Watch

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Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 15 April 2023.

Just as I was driving away from my usual parking space at Chelsea after the game with Brighton, I summed things up to PD in the seat alongside me :

“Out-played, out-shot, out-fought, out-thought.”

In a season of sub-par performances, this perhaps had been the worst of the lot. No positives at all? It certainly bloody felt like it. I will come back to the game later but as there is a lot to get through in this ramble I had best begin.

Shall we do things chronologically again?

The next game to feature in my retrospective look at our worst-ever season, 1982/83, is our away match at Boundary Park, the home of perennial Second Division battlers Oldham Athletic. This encounter was played on Saturday 9 April 1983 and came on the back of a four-game winless streak for John Neal’s troops. My diary noted that the game kicked-off at 2pm. Perhaps this was a result of that afternoon’s televised Grand National which, from memory, used to start around 4pm. Clubs were so desperate for spectators in those days that I suspect that this was the reason. Regardless, the match was really poorly attended; just 4,923 showed up. I often hear talk of us taking thousands to away games in those days. I suspect that it wasn’t the case on this occasion.

At the time, Oldham Athletic were stacked full of former Manchester City players and were managed by the former City striker Joe Royle. Playing for the Latics on this occasion were Kenny Clements, Tony Henry and Roger Palmer. Not involved on this day were Paul Futcher and Ged Keegan. All of these players had previously turned out for Manchester City.

At half-time, the score was 1-1, at full-time it ended up 2-2. Mercurial midfielder Mike Fillery scored both, with one from the penalty spot. The Chelsea team included debutant Paul Williams, a young central defender, who only ever played this one game in our colours. After the match, we dropped two places to fifteenth in the twenty-two team division. We had six games left to play with four being at home, yet were just two points off a relegation place.

I, and many thousands of others, were worried. We were barely limping along as the end of the season approached.

My diary the day after the Oldham game mentions my thoughts :

“All of a sudden, things are looking really desperate. Only now does relegation seem a possibility. I hadn’t really considered it to any depth until today.”

Despite all of this, I was definitely excited to be attending our next fixture, a home match with Newcastle United, only my fourth “live” game of the season. I was still at school and I had only worked a couple of Saturdays in my father’s shop that season so every spare bit of pocket money, Christmas money and ad hoc gifts from relatives were saved up with such frugality that I rarely spent any extra money on anything else. An occasional illegal beer on a night out, quaffed slowly, was really my only other expenditure. These were definitely simpler times but Chelsea was everything to me. The game against the Geordies, on Saturday 16 April, could not come quick enough.

As a quick aside, on the preceding Thursday I had met up with a couple of Canadian relatives who were touring England at the time. My father’s cousin Mary was chaperoning her daughter Marina on a school band trip. I met Marina for the first time one evening in nearby Bath. I, sadly, already knew that Marina was a Manchester United supporter. She kindly presented me with a Chelsea scarf, but also a few of Vancouver Whitecap items. Marina and both her parents were Whitecaps season ticket holders. No doubt I tut-tutted when I saw Marina wearing an actual United shirt. Anyway, for reasons beast known to Marina, she had been wearing the Chelsea scarf on her travels around England but the coach driver had warned her to take it off as she would get beaten up. This, I thought, was a bit excessive, but no doubt fed into the narrative of Chelsea Football Club being famous, only, for hooliganism in 1983.

Fast-forwarding to 2023, I have three games to mention.

On Bank holiday Monday, I watched Frome Town defeat local rivals Melksham Town 2-1, winning the game with a last-minute goal from Jon Davies in front of 491.

On the Wednesday, I watched at home on my computer as Chelsea lost 0-2 against Real Madrid at the Bernabeu. Such is my level of expectancy at the moment that I was relatively happy that we didn’t get beaten more heavily.

Then, on Thursday evening I returned to see Frome Town defeat strugglers Cinderford Town 5-1. This game attracted 425, a gate helped by a fine sponsorship deal involving local businesses allowing fans to enter for free. The football against Melksham and Cinderford was the best all season and, as daft as it now seemed, Frome now have an outside chance of sneaking into the last two play-off positions, currently held by Wimborne Town and Tavistock.

On the morning of the Brighton game at Stamford Bridge, a sizeable part of me wished that I was staying in Somerset to see a third Frome game in six days, another derby against Paulton Rovers.

But Chelsea was calling.

As often is the case, the pre-match was far more enjoyable than the main event. I met up with Ollie from Normandy once again and also my Brighton mate Mac and two of his friends Barry and Guy. We enjoyed a fine time in “The Eight Bells.” I arrived at about midday. PD and Parky were already there. Salisbury Steve would join us too. We just about fitted around a table.

Ollie told me that he much prefers the older stadia in England as opposed to the new ones. He is yet to visit The Emirates and has no desire to do so. He much prefers the likes of Goodison Park, Fratton Park and Selhurst Park. We promised each other to meet up at Turf Moor next season.

Mac and I are soon celebrating ten years of friendship; we started chatting about football in a Manhattan bar in late May 2013 and have kept in touch ever since. Our two teams play, ironically, in the US in July. I, for one, won’t be there. Barry asked me for advice about travelling to Wembley as they are playing Manchester United in an FA Cup semi-final next weekend. This ties in nicely with my 1982/83 retrospective as in that season’s FA Cup Final, Brighton took eventual winners Manchester United to a replay.

It honestly didn’t seem six months ago that we were all drinking in Lewes before that shocking 1-4 defeat at the Amex. And who would have thought that both of our teams would now be hosting Argentinian World Cup winners?

Alexis Mac Allister – no relation –  I would realise, was playing for Boca Juniors at the time that I saw them play Atletico Tucamen in January 2020, although he did not take part in that particular game. On the previous night, however, I did see his brother Francis play for Argentinos Juniors against Lanus.

Like me, Mac gets no thrills from watching England play these days. And also like me, he hardly watches football on TV if it doesn’t involve his team. His wife can’t understand it.

“But you are a football fan. Why don’t you watch?”

“I’m a Brighton fan.”

I had a knowing chuckle.

And I summed up my reluctance to get emotionally involved with England these days.

“Why bother watching millionaires who play for teams I hate?”

My bluntness shocked me, God knows what the others thought.

We made our way to Putney Bridge tube, Ollie’s Army, an updated version of Oliver’s Army.

“The boys from Somerset, Wiltshire, Sussex and Normandy…”

The rain had held off; the sun was out. I was in at around 2.30pm, perfect.

Frank’s starting eleven?

Kepa

Chalobah – Fofana – Badiashile – Chilwell

Enzo – Zakaria – Gallagher

Pulisic – Sterling – Mudryk

A few question marks there. The forward line certainly didn’t thrill me. And a return to a flat-back four? Righty-oh.

The new pre-match of Blur, Harry J. All-Stars and – er – the Foo Fighters.

A sign was unfurled in The Shed.

“WELCOME HOME SUPER FRANK.”

But this was as low key as it gets.

Not many people that I spoke to expected a win. I have been saying all season long that our position does not lie and that Brentford, Fulham and Brighton are better than us. I still could not see where a goal was coming from. It was four games in a row now. I mentioned our horrific end to 1980/81 to a few souls; “nine games with not one single goal.”

Gulp.

There was no emotional backdrop of noise welcoming Frank Lampard back at Stamford Bridge. I’ll admit that it seemed odd, super-odd, to be seeing him in navy blue in front of the East Stand once more, our first sighting since the Everton game slightly more than three years ago. What a crazy time it has been since.

COVID, football behind closed doors, Lampard sacked, Tuchel in, European Cup glory, a war in Ukraine, sanctions, Roman Abramovich ousted, reduced-capacities, Lampard to Everton, Clearlake in, Billy Gimour to Brighton, Levi Colwell to Brighton, Marc Cucarella to Chelsea, Tuchel sacked, Potter to Chelsea, De Zerbi to Brighton, Chelsea walloped at Brighton 4-1, Lampard sacked at Everton, Potter sacked at Chelsea, Lampard returning to Chelsea, Tottenham still shite.

Football, eh? Fackinell.

The game began with Brighton looking the most-threatening in the opening spell. After just two minutes, I thought they had scored via Kaoru Mitoma but cross was touched wide at the near post by Mac Allister.

In a very open start to the game, a Mykhailo Mudryk run from deep promised much before he was felled unceremoniously by Joel Veltman. There then followed a cross from Mudryk that was deflected away for a corner by Lewis Dunk. The Ukranian then followed this up with a shot from thirty yards that went wide.

Next, breathless stuff this, a chance for Brighton with the goal gaping but wide. They then hit the bar a minute later, Evan Ferguson digging one out from outside the box. Trevoh Chalobah and Benoit Badiashile were looking nervous in their first starts for a while.

On ten minutes, the first “Super Frank” chant but it was hardly deafening.

On fourteen minutes, probably against the run of play, Mudryk broke in from the left, advanced, and played the ball back to Conor Gallagher. His strike was on target but hit Lewis Dunk – the own goal king a few years ago – and spun high and over Robert Sanchez in the Brighton goal.

Bloody hell, a goal, I hardly knew how to react.

Phew.

We had spoken about getting a little luck to break our recent drought and this was just right. Conor reeled away, a former Palace player, and celebrated in front of the Albion fans.

Sadly, we didn’t push on and Kepa soon had to be called into action to thwart the away team’s advances. Twice in a minute he saved us. First, he claimed a high ball into the six-yard box and then ran out to block.

On twenty-five minutes, the elusive Mitoma slalomed into the box but Kepa did ever so well to save low.

The atmosphere was quiet. I was yet to join in with anything.

On the half-hour, three more Brighton chances. A really fine break at pace carved through our lines but the end result flew wide. Another shot was blocked. Then Kepa saved well from point blank range, a Ferguson header palmed over.

This was turning into a very ropey Chelsea performance indeed. On thirty-seven minutes, a rare attack saw Wesley Fofana cross from the right, but it was slightly too high for Raheem Sterling to either head goal wards or properly steer the ball back to Mudryk.

Just before the break, Brighton moved the ball well and a hanging cross came in from the right. I was hoping that Chalobah would be able to head away, but the ball fell between him and Fofana, and new substitute Danny Welbeck pounced.

1-1.

My sadness temporarily evaporated when a friend messaged me to say that Frome had gone 2-0 up against Paulton. As I shouted over to PD with this information, no doubt with a smile, I was filled with absolute guilt.

The away support boomed loudly.

“ALBION! ALBION!”

Just before the whistle, a fine move from us but a save from Sanchez at the near stick.

At least there were no boos at half-time.

At the break, Gary Cahill, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink and Eidur Gudjohnsen appeared on the pitch, promoting the good work carried out by the Samaritans.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Eidur and Jimmy were a fine partnership up front for us. My God, how I wished one of them, or even both, could lose twenty years and parachute into the current squad.

I took a photo as they exited the pitch down below me.

The second-half began. There were no substitutions.

Early on, Kepa needed to be called into action again, saving well on two occasions. There was a fine diagonal out to Ben Chilwell down below us but although he advanced well, his shot was weak.

Chalobah raked the shin of a Brighton player and was booked. This elicited the humorous response from Brighton : “You dirty northern bastards.”

Our play just wasn’t joined up.

On fifty-seven minutes, a quadruple change.

Reece James for Fofana.

Hakim Ziyech for Pulisic.

Mateo Kovacic for Enzo.

Joao Felix for Sterling.

I was only disappointed with the Enzo substitution, but I suspected that the Argentinian was being saved for Tuesday against Real Madrid. Still four at the back.

This new injection of players seemed to wake the crowd up from our collective slumber.

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

At last I joined in.

My poor performance had mirrored that of virtually all of the players.

Just after, there was a mix-up between James and Chalobah on our right and we were pickpocketed. Julio Enciso’s shot slammed against a post but Welbeck could not touch home the rebound.

It was all Brighton. All the tackles. All the movement. All the passing. We were being given a horrible lesson in team work.

PD chirped : “I’ve got Samaritans on speed dial.”

With sixty-five minutes gone, at last we perked up a little. A shot from Kovacic was blocked by that man Dunk. At long last, the noise boomed around a sunny Stamford Bridge and it was a joy to hear.

However, all this was to be deadened. On sixty-nine minutes, a wonder strike from Enciso gave the visitors an absolutely deserved lead. We had given the ball away cheaply and the resultant rising shot was magnificent.

Brighton had never won at Stamford Bridge before. The scorer celebrated in front of their supporters. I strongly suspected that this would be their first victory.

A few minutes later, Mason Mount replaced Zakaria.

I turned to Clive : “you wouldn’t even know he was playing would you?”

On seventy-eight minutes, an enlivened Mudryk broke away and reached the bye-line but appeared to play the ball too far behind our attackers. The low ball found Mount but he leaned back and the ball flew high over the bar.

Neat interplay allowed Gallagher – out best outfield player – to wriggle in to the box but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Reece drilled in a beautiful cross into the six-yard box but sadly Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was nowhere to be seen.

In the last minute, Mudryk cut in and sent a riser just over. To be fair, he had shown very occasional glimpses throughout the game. I haven’t given up on him just yet.

The away fans were the only ones singing now.

“We are Brighton, super Brighton. We are Brighton from the south.”

At the final whistle, boos.

This was yet another tough watch and it seemed that virtually all of our games this season – Tuchel, Potter, Lampard – have been a tough watch.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about the club’s choice to play “Three Little Birds” as we trudged out. Better than the fucking Foo Fighters, I suppose.

So, were there any pluses from the day? Kepa had played well, saving us on many occasions. But this was a rare positive. If he was a 7, maybe Gallagher was a 6, maybe Mudryk a 5, with everyone else 4 or less. It was grim. And by the time I had reached home – early, at 8.30pm – the internet was full of supporters getting off on ripping into Lampard – some were actually enjoying it as far as I could see – while some were talking about boycotting the remaining games. I honestly didn’t know what to make of it.

In the midst of this gloom, I saw that Tottenham lost at home to Bournemouth, so that raised a smile..

Frome won 2-0 in front of another gate of 491. It had meant that the club had enticed 1,407 into three home games over just six days; a fine achievement. While Chelsea play Real Madrid on Tuesday, Frome will visit already promoted Totton.

Don’t worry, I will be at Stamford Bridge.

Bring a hard hat. See you there.

1982/83 & 2022/23

Tales From A Rough One

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 18 March 2023.

One of the markers that I use to gauge the progress of the year lies in the hedgerow opposite my house. A month or so ago, snowdrops appeared, blossomed and then slowly vanished. Recently, they shared the space with some newly-arrived daffodils which are now in full bloom. A few days ago, there were no more snowdrops left – only the stunning yellow blossoms remained – and in my eyes, winter had ended and spring was here.

Spring has been a winning season for us in fifteen of the past twenty-five years. It’s the business end of the football campaign. It’s when we, with amazing regularity, have gone to work.

But this one might be a little different. With domestic honours an impossibility in 2022/23, our only hope for silverware lies in Europe, but we were given a hideously difficult path to the final in Istanbul. First up, a tie with Real Madrid for the third season in a row. Unfortunately, I will only be able to attend the home leg as others in the office have already booked that Easter week as holiday. The same thing happened last year. It is grimly ironic that we chased a trip to the Bernabeu for years and have now drawn Real Madrid three times in a row, yet on all three occasions, I won’t be in attendance.

Bernabeu has become my new San Siro. One day I’ll get there.

Should we defeat Real Madrid, we then have to play Manchester City or Bayern Munich.

Yeah, I know.

With the kick-off for our home game with Everton at 5.30pm there was a relatively late start to the day. However, by 9.30am all of my fellow passengers had been collected and I then set off on our latest pilgrimage to London. At midday PD and Parky were settling down for an afternoon of lager and large laughs in “The Eight Bells” and I joined them at around 1.45pm. I had met up with my friend Bill from just outside Toronto at Stamford Bridge and by the time we arrived, our friends Diana and Ian, from Chicago, were already sat alongside PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve. Rene from Chicago, who I had not previously met, joined us too.

A table for eight at the Eight Bells.

We chatted about all sorts.

Bill told me that he felt that he already knew PD and Parky, through reading these rambles over the years, and was actually quite excited to be eventually meeting them for the first time. You can imagine my response.

I was amazed how easy it was for Diana – an Everton fan – to get a ticket for the away section. Her husband Ian and Bill would be sat together in the West Lower after I managed to secure tickets for them both via a reliable source.

Rene would be sat in the West Lower too.

The chat continued. I hadn’t been feeling great, though, for a few days. I had been suffering with a cold. As I chatted away to the friends from near and far I could feel my sore throat beginning again. I felt a bit groggy too. I hoped the players were in better nick than me.

I was able to personally thank Bill, at last, for helping me to obtain a ticket for the incredible Racing vs. Independiente derby that I witnessed over in Buenos Aires in February 2020. This feat of kindness came about when a friend of his, Victor – as featured a few weeks back – who he played football with in West Virginia a decade or so ago, was contacted and within an hour, I was sorted. I sent a photo of us to Victor, who lives just a few blocks from Enzo’s former home El Monumental, and eagerly await the opportunity to be able to return the flavour when Victor comes over to London in hopefully the near future.

Ironically, the bloke who I secured the two tickets from for Bill and Ian is currently in Buenos Aires himself on a football jolly.

It had been raining on the drive to London. Now, leaving the pub, the sun was out. However, walking up the steps to the platform at Putney Bridge, I suddenly felt knackered. At least the weather was mild. I was rough, but if it had been a freezing day, I would have felt even worse.

I reached my seat and still felt below par. I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be strongly participating in this one.

The team?

Kepa

Fofana – Kouilbaly – Badiashile

James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Felix – Havertz – Pulisic

The presence of Christian Pulisic surprised me. Surely Mykhailo Mudryk needed games more.

So, the McNally Derby.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Ian in the West Lower.

Everton in pink / grey / pink.

Diana in the Shed Upper.

The game began with us fizzing the ball around nicely. I must admit it did feel odd for us to be attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half. A half volley from Enzo was blocked. Not long after, a Ben Chilwell free-kick was worked to Mateo Kovacic who unleashed a volley that everyone in our section of the stand thought was goal bound. It whizzed just past the far post.

We dominated the first ten minutes almost completely.

But the atmosphere wasn’t particularly loud, nor even above average.

There was a “if you know your history” from the Evertonians every few minutes but that was about it.

Kalidou Koulibaly over hit a diagonal out to Pulisic to such an extent that I wondered if he had put his boots on the wrong feet. At least Pulisic looked full of running. Enzo looks a proper footballer doesn’t he?

There was a swift break that flew through the Everton defence but we were unable to finish. Kai Havertz was starting to come to life. On twenty minutes, undoubtedly the best move of the match took place down below me with great passing involving Reece James, Enzo, Havertz and Joao Felix but a lunging Pulisic was just unable to toe-poke a finish past Jordan Pickford.

Within quick succession, we purred at two pieces of sublime skill from Felix. Firstly, he showed complete calm and unerring presence of mind to contort his body to keep the ball from going out for an Everton throw-in down to my right. Next, a phenomenal spin into space after a remarkable first touch that left his marker consulting a “London A to Z” for his current whereabouts.

It was Zola-esque.

Magnificent stuff.

On the half-hour, I heard The Shed for the first real time.

Next up, a nice move but a weak effort from Felix right at the ‘keeper. On forty minutes, a terrible waste of a cross from Pulisic. His star had faded already.

Things were a bit edgier now, and although Everton had hardly mustered more than a couple of attacks on our goal in the entire length of the first-half, the support around me definitely became more nervous. There was desperate defending at times – much of the defending involving Koulibaly by definition looks desperate – and we were grateful, I think, that the first-half was nearing completion. In the last few minutes of the half, the only sound to be heard in the Matthew Harding Upper was that of plastic seats being flipped back.

One last free-kick, well-worked, a dummy, something from the training ground, but the eventual shot from Enzo did not bother Pickford one iota.

At the break, I grimly predicted a 0-0 draw at full-time. It’s not that we had played badly – far from it – but our lack of firepower in and around the box was haunting us yet again. I was still feeling rough and had not really joined in too many songs and chants in support of the boys.

I sat myself down alongside PD – Alan was unable to make it, Clive had shifted over to sit with Gary – and prepared myself for another half of attrition against a bleak but regimented Sean Dyche team.

Straight away we were on the attack. A couple of crosses were zipped over from our left with Chilwell having a fine game, and Havertz should have buried the second one with a virtually free header.

Eight minutes into the second-period, Enzo floated the ball perfectly out to our left wing-back. A first-time cross from Chilwell was not cleared and the ball reached Felix slightly to the left of the penalty spot. I looked on and hoped for the best as he dug a shot out. Miraculously, the ball was struck with such accuracy that it slowly crept just inside the far post.

The Toffees were becoming unstuck, as was my recent score prediction.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

The players cuddled underneath the TV screen and in front of the away fans in the far corner of The Shed.

At last some noise.

“He came from Portugal.”

And then a rousing “Carefree” – seemingly – from all four stands.

I joined in, coughed and spluttered, and soon stopped.

Arguably the best move of the game soon followed when a cute back-heeled pass from Felix set up Pulisic in a nice little pocket of space. He lifted a fine shot into the goal – similar to the Havertz disallowed goal against Dortmund – but the flag was raised for an offside. Ian and Bill must have got a good view of that decision.

“We need a second, Paul.”

“Yep.”

“A goal there would have killed them off.”

The prize for this win, with Fulham playing in the FA Cup this weekend, would be a step up to ninth position.

In the pub, Bill and I had laughed about the varying expectations of us Chelsea fans over the years.

“Back in 1983, we would have craved a safe ninth spot in the top division.”

Ah 1983.

Forty years ago, my mind was full of school discos and terrible “Mock A Level” results but it was also full of Chelsea’s nosedive down the Second Division table. The next game to be featured in my look back on the dreadful 1983/83 season, which took place on Saturday 12 March 1983, paired us against Carlisle United at Stamford Bridge. In the pre-amble in the match programme the game was described as a “six pointer as we skirt with the relegation zone.” I had predicted a bare 6,000 to show up at The Bridge. Both teams were mired in the bottom nine positions of the table with Chelsea just two points above the visitors. These were grave times.

The team’s two managers were both from the North-East; John Neal from Seaham in County Durham and Bob Stokoe from Hartlepool. Their two teams were now embroiled in a fight to avoid the drop. I mention these two fine fellows because, at the time, I was only seventeen and yet Stokoe and Neal, gentleman managers in every sense of the word, seemed decidedly ancient at fifty-two and fifty years of age.

And yet here I am, pushing fifty-eight.

There is no punchline here. And if there was, it wouldn’t be very funny.

At the time, Chelsea’s home record wasn’t too bad – 7 – 5 – 2, promotion form – but it was our away record – 2 – 3 – 11, relegation form – that was the root cause of our troubles.

A notable change saw our regular ‘keeper, the eighteen-year-old Steve Francis, being replaced by Bob Iles, a signing from non-league Weymouth a few years earlier. Despite going a goal down, Chelsea lead 2-1 at the break and we went on to win 4-2 The goal scorers were Paul Canoville with two, John Bumstead and Clive Walker. The gate was 6,667.

On the same day, Everton played at Old Trafford against Manchester United in front of a huge 58,198 gate in the FA Cup quarter finals with a Frank Stapleton goal giving the home team a narrow 1-0 win.

Back to 2023, and – I could hardly believe my ears – there was a strange sound emanating from the very upper echelons of the West Stand.

“Oh when the Blues…oh when the Blues…go steaming in…go steaming in.”

Fackinell.

Just after the hour, Conor Gallagher replaced Pulisic.

There was another scooped ball from Enzo. He is quickly becoming my favourite in this new assortment of players that we now find ourselves supporting.

Everton attacked. There was a free-kick from their right that caused nervousness. Then from a corner on the far side, a ball was floated in and James Tarlowski rose above Wesley Fofana, otherwise enjoying a fine game, and headed the ball down towards Kepa. Abdoulaye Doucore nipped in to flick the ball in. Havertz hooked the ball away but it was a clear goal. The buggers were level and they celebrated wildly down below me.

We got going again. There was a clean break down our right and Fofana found James. His ball inside enabled Felix to continue the move. The ball was played back to James, entering the danger zone for Everton, and as he galloped on, he came crashing down after a coming together of bodies.

Penalty.

I felt so rough that I just sat in my seat.

PD was up celebrating and he looked down on me with a look of disbelief.

More hesitancy on the run up from Havertz.

…oh bloody hell man.

Thankfully the soft shoe shuffle sent Pickford to the left and the ball was struck high to the right.

Chelsea 2 Everton 1.

Safe?

You would hope so, eh?

There was a loud and passionate chant for Gianluca Vialli and despite my sore throat, I had to show some respect and join in.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

With around ten minutes to go, our manager could not resist some typical pottering.

Kovacic, forging a decent partnership with Enzo of late, was hoiked off in favour of Ruben Loftus-Cheek and I felt a little murmur of concern.

Everton came at us again. A mistake from Koulibaly thankfully went unpunished.

With five minutes to go, two more substitutions and my head struggled to fathom it all out.

Trevoh Chalobah for Forfana.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Felix.

PD, his hip hurting, and needing a long time to walk back to the car, set off.

“See you soon mate. Here are the car keys.”

The game was very almost over.

Then, an Everton break down our right and Doucoure played in Ellis Simms, who still had a lot to do. Sadly, he breezed past a sadly immobile Koulibaly and slotted home with far too much ease.

Oh Kepa.

It was a terrible sucker punch.

The buggers celebrated in our faces again.

When Havertz had scored what we thought was our deserved winner, flags of many colours were waved enthusiastically in front of the West Lower and “equality” was observed on a few of them. Maybe our players had taken the word far too literally.

Five minutes of extra time were announced.

I shouted out : “Come on Chels, keep going.”

Almost immediately after, a bloke behind me repeated the exact same words.

“Come on Chels, keep going.”

It wasn’t to be. This was an evening when we flattered to deceive yet again. We will have to make it our new slogan.

Next up, a kick-off at the same time and in the same place, but not for a while.

In a fortnight we play Aston Villa at home.

See you there.