Tales From The Usual Suspects And Danny Bloody Wellbeck

Posted on September 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 27 September 2025.

After four consecutive away games, the boys were back in town.

And after driving a total of 768 miles on Saturday and Tuesday, I was bloody happy about it. As PD mentioned, “this will seem like a five-minute flit up the M4.”

Indeed.

We were all pleased that we were back to our first “Saturday 3, o’clock” fixture of the season too.

It was an easy trip east. The 120 miles took me a few minutes shy of three hours and, at the suggestion of Tim from North Bristolshire, I parked at a new location, on Moylan Road, which seems to be as close as I can get to Stamford Bridge to enable me to still park for free on Saturdays.

After a breakfast on the North End Road, there was a rendezvous with the usual suspects at “The Eight Bells” for a couple of hours. Allongside me were Jimmy the Greek, Nick, Salisbury Steve, Ian, Bobby, PD and Parky. My two Brighton mates Mac and Barry called in to see us all and of course I enjoyed seeing them both again. Minnesota Josh called in for a couple of scoops, too. However, the guests of honour were Lorna and Rich, from Edinburgh, on a Chelsea and Oasis weekend. I decided to head off to Stamford Bridge relatively early. I left with Josh at around 1.45pm.

There was a stand-off at the security – “is that a camera? – but I was in at 2.15pm. My SLR, therefore, would thankfully be used at a game for the first time this season. I was determined to take some decent shots, having made do with the inferior Sony “pub camera” in the previous six games.

Elsewhere in the football world, it was the day of the third qualifying round of the FA Cup. Frome Town were to play at AFC Totton, now two levels above my home town team, at the same time that Chelsea were to start in SW6. That would be a very tough match and I never really expected too much.

However, our local neighbours Westbury United, for who my old Chelsea mate Mark is the club chairman, were kicking off at 12.30pm at home to Farnborough, who are from the same division as Totton. There was a great deal of “buzz” locally about this match, as Westbury had been picked by the BBC to show via the red button, and a massive crowd was expected.

I had texted Mark a “good luck” message in the morning.

That game began at 12.30pm, and a workmate was keeping me updated. Farnborough had a player sent off on the hour, and Westbury were holding on. Sadly, at 2.40pm, just as I was getting ready for our game at Stamford Bridge, I saw that Westbury conceded a late goal on ninety-eight minutes.

Ah, bugger.

As I was waiting for a few people to arrive in The Sleepy Hollow, I was able to glance at a friend’s match programme. In the obituary section, I spotted the face of Albert, who used to sit in front of me in the years since 1997, but who sadly passed away last May.

I include it below.

Bless you Albert. You are missed.

The troops rolled in. First was Ollie, a lad from Brighton, who is the son of my long-time mate Andy. We go back to the promotion season of 1988/89 when we used to drink in “The Black Bull” aka “The Pensioner” and now “The Chelsea Gate.” Clive arrived, fresh from a drink with Gary, and then PD.

None of us really knew what to expect from this match. We had walloped Brighton 4-2 at home back in October but had lost 1-2 and 0-3 in a horrible week of away games in February.

“Without Cole Palmer, we’re not much of a team, are we really?”

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Hato – Cucurella

Santos – Caicedo

Estevao– Enzo – Neto

Joao Pedro

This eleven featured no fewer than four Brighton players, with Buonanotte the most recent addition not involved on this day.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

At three o’clock, the game began, as did the one in Totton just outside Southampton.

We began brightly. This is a familiar phrase that I use. To be truthful, I am sick to death of it, especially since it implies that our play often fails to live up to a good start, and the sad fact is that this is true; that our play often then struggles to maintain its momentum.

There was a crisp free-kick from Enzo Fernandez, playing in the hole – or “the ten” in modern parlance – that drew a smart save from Bart Verbruggen, who sounds like the destination of a cross-channel ferry.

“Good save, son.”

Marc Cucurella then flashed a shot wide.

Next up, it was Reece’s turn from a free kick, from a greater angle, but his effort was parried by Verbruggen.

Brighton threatened a little, but nothing too sinister.

There was an impudent nutmeg performed with aplomb by Estevao on Lewis Dunk very close to the half-way line and the pacy wingman raced away down the right-hand side of the pitch. It seemed almost inhuman that the wiry and lithe Brazilian should attempt such a clever dink against Dunk, who has the turning circle of the QE2. Estevao, urged on by us all, neared the goal but was still at an angle and his low shot was blocked.

Soon after, in a very similar position, he tried again but it the outcome was almost the same, an easy parry.

I noted to myself that the stadium, despite some decent football being played before us all, was like a morgue. There had been virtually no singing, not stimulation from the crowd; it was all very dispiriting.

I hate modern football.

The two wingers, like at Lincoln on Tuesday, then swapped flanks.

Halfway through the first-half, I realised that nobody had updated me with score updates from Totton, so I did so myself. It wasn’t good news. Frome were losing 0-2.

Ugh.

A mere two or three seconds after, a brilliant ball from Moises Caicedo was played into the path of Reece James. He took a couple of paces and floated a great ball towards the goal. The cross took a slight deflection off the leg of a Brighton defender, but the ball sat up sweetly for Enzo to rise unhindered at the far post to knock in with the easiest header of his career.

We were 2-0 down one minute and we were 1-0 up the next.

An odd sensation.

And an even odder sentence.

Football, eh?

With us coasting, and on top, playing well, Clive changed direction.

“How old is Boris Becker?”

“How old is Lance Armstrong?”

“What’s this nonsense, Clive? Shall I have a go? What’s Franz Klammer’s shoe size?”

Clive responded with “how old was Larry Grayson when he died?”

It must be noted, here, that Clive visits nursing homes, and provides games, music and quizzes for the residents, hence his odd trio of questions.

Answers :

57
54
Not a clue.
71.

The game continued, and we enjoyed most of the ball. Brighton’s attacks were rare. Their fans were subdued and quiet too. On the balcony between their two tiers of supporters, I spotted a joint Hearts and Brighton flag – “Brothers In Arms” – and I wondered if Rich had spotted it. Hearts are his team in Edinburgh.

We were pretty content at the break at Stamford Bridge. Down in Totton, it was still 0-2.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, and the atmosphere was still deadly dull and quiet. I was tempted to think it was the worst-ever.

The.

Worst.

Ever.

Think about it.

Not long into the second half, there was a heavy touch from Andrey Santos, and this put us under pressure. Trevoh Chalobah raced back alongside Diego Gomez, and there was a coming together of players just outside the box.

It was a shame, because Santos had impressed me in the first-half, alert and well-balanced, doing the simple things effectively.

VAR was called into action. After an age, the referee spoke into his mic.

Off went Chalobah.

Maresca chose to replace Santos with Josh Acheampong.

From the resulting free-kick, Gomez blasted over.

What now?

With around half-an-hour to go, who could possibly say?

At least this sudden adversity stirred the Chelsea supporters into life and a loud “CAREFREE” boomed, momentarily at least, around Stamford Bridge.

On the hour, there was a spritely run from Kaoru Mituma and his shot ricocheted across the box. The ball could have gone anywhere. We were starting to lose control.

On sixty-three minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Estevao.

Shortly after, there was a change from the Brighton bench too, and one of the substitutes was Danny Bloody Welbeck, and thousands of Chelsea fans around the world uttered the immortal lines “he always scores against us.”

On seventy-two minutes, Welbeck screwed a shot just wide.

There was a roller from Enzo that did not threaten. This was a rare threat from us.

Sadly, on seventy-seven minutes, Yankuba Minteh raced past Gusto and pinged a swift cross into the six-yard and that man Welbeck headed home emphatically.

Well, bollocks.

On eighty minutes, Maresca had clearly decided that all of the meaningful action would be taking pace in our half and changed things again.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Hato.

Romeo Lavia replaced Neto.

Thinking to myself : “you know we’re in trouble when Badiashile” comes on as a substitute.”

Sometimes I wished that Todd Boehley’s Lamborghini had broken down near Lyon or somewhere.

Malo Gusto, urged on by everyone, was sent free and as I reached down to pull up my SLR to record a goal, he decided to pass.

The frustrated crowd groaned.

This whole match was drifting away from us.

I thought, as did many, that a very high challenge on Gusto on Minteh would lead to a penalty, but after another VAR delay – how boring – we were let off, somehow.

There was an argy-bargy down at The Shed End but I was too far away to see who was pushing who.

The referee signalled eleven extra minutes and Stamford Bridge collectively sighed.

After two minutes of injury time, Acheampong booted out a ball cheaply for a corner, and from a short corner, a deep cross was hooked in from their left and I was aghast to see two, or even three, Brighton players unmarked at the far post. Mats Weifer was on hand to head the ball back across the box…we all experienced a fear of impending doom…and Maxim De Cuyper was one of two players free who headed home.

The scorer raced over to celebrate in front of Barry, Mac and co, and I felt ill.

In the tenth minute of stoppage time, with us trying to navigate the ball out of the box with Brighton players swarming, the ball was stolen and – guess who? – Wellbeck was sent through and calmly slotted home past Sanchez.

Well, bollocks.

By now, a good three-quarters of the Stamford Bridge crowd had left, some spewing words of anger at the manager and players alike.

Ollie, and Big John, but not many others, remained to the very last whistle.

Down in Totton, Frome had lost 2-4.

It had not been a good day at all.

I felt like saying “would the real Chelsea step forward and make themselves known please?”

You know what, it might take us all season long to discover who the real Chelsea are, and there isn’t a punchline.

Next up, two more home games, Jose Mourinho’s Benfica and champions Liverpool.

Excited?

No, neither am I.

Albert RIP

Tales From Two Derbies

Posted on September 1, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 30 August 2025.

Our third match of this new season was to see us play Fulham at home. Our nearest neighbours – I can hardly give them the honour of labelling them as rivals – had beaten us 2-1 on Boxing Day at Stamford Bridge last season and so we all hoped for no repeat. That defeat started a run of poor form from us, but ironically the win by the same score at Craven Cottage in April initiated a fine revival.

With the kick-off for this game taking place at 12.30pm, there was no time to lose. I collected PD at 7am and Parky at 7.30am. We called in at the “McDonalds” at Melksham and we breakfasted “on the hoof” to waste as little time as possible. There were grey skies on the way up to London, but the clouds cleared over the last part of the familiar journey. After driving down onto the Fulham Palace Road, I dropped the lads off at 9.45am at the very southern edge of the King’s Road, and I was parked up on Charleville Road to the north ten minutes later.

For twenty minutes I had driven right through the heart of Fulham, and I mused that the neatly-appointed terraced houses that have undergone a metamorphosis from pre-WW2 working class homes to the dwellings of the “well-to-do” formed an ironic backdrop to the lunchtime game, in a sport that has undergone its own gentrification over the past three decades.

Of course, Fulham is part of the larger borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, and within its boundaries there is another professional football club; Queens Park Rangers. We last played them in the league over ten years ago. What happened to them? Actually, who cares? I never liked them, and I dislike them much more than jolly old Fulham.

On the drive up to London, I was able to update the two lads about the fine form of my local team Frome Town.

On Bank Holiday Monday, I assembled with a few good friends, and the might of Frome’s travelling away army, as we travelled the eight miles over the county boundary into Wiltshire for the away game at Westbury United. In a scenario that strangely mirrors the situation in West London, there is a rather placid rivalry between Frome Town and Westbury United, whereas Frome’s most heated local rivalry is with Melksham Town, further away to the north.

Frome and Westbury have not met too often in recent league seasons, whereas Frome and Melksham have enjoyed many tussles over the years. The Melksham fixture has become a real “grudge match” of late, whereas with Westbury it seems a lot friendlier. To illustrate this point, when Westbury United were met with huge financial problems last season, it was Frome who allowed them to play a few home games at Badgers Hill.

A crowd of 842 assembled at Meadow Lane – now Platinum Hyundai Park – for the game on the Monday. It’s a pleasant little ground at Westbury, the green paintwork of the stands mirrors the all-green of their kit, and the pitch is surrounded on three sides by trees, leaving enough space for the white horse carved into the steep slope of Salisbury Plain to be seen in one corner. Like many non-league grounds, there is a perfect ambience.

Before the game, my Chelsea mate Mark who lives near the ground was able to pose for a photo in the main stand – two rows of seats – alongside Glenn and Ron, who were at their third Frome Town matches of the season. Mark and I go back a long way. He was with Glenn, PD and I on the drive to Stamford Bridge for the monumental game with Leeds United in April 1984.

On a bumpy pitch, and with a troublesome wind blowing, the first half began poorly. However, on thirty minutes a fine cross into the box was met with a leap from Archie Ferris who nodded down for new striker David Duru to slam home. It became an increasingly feisty affair, and the quality only improved slightly, but the away team held on to an important 1-0 win.

Thus far, Frome Town have won all their games this season; three in the league, one in the FA Cup, one in the FA Trophy.

After the Chelsea vs. Fulham game, whatever the score, my attention would be centered on a tough away game at Plymouth Parkway in the next round of the FA Cup that would be kicking off at 3pm.

I caught the train at West Ken, changed at Earl’s Court – bumping into three mates who were headed the opposite direction, “The Clarence” on the North End Road – and reached Putney Bridge at 10.30am. Our cosy corner of the pub just had enough space for one more. I squeezed in alongside the usual crew.

A big shout out here to my mate Ian, who I have only really got to know these past two years, but who was celebrating the fiftieth anniversary, to the actual day, if not the actual time, of his first-ever Chelsea match. His “first time” was an away fixture at Kenilworth Road in the old Second Division on Saturday 30 August 1975. The match unfortunately ended up 3-0 to Luton Town. The team that day was a real mixture of old and new, with 1970 stalwarts John Dempsey, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke alongside Ray Wilkins, Ian Britton, Teddy Maybank, John Sparrow and Brian Bason. The gate was a decent 18,565.

Ian’s non-league team Brackley Town, who were in the same division as Frome Town in 2011/12, would be featured on TV later in the day with their National League home game against Scunthorpe United being shown live.

It was super to meet up with Deano once again. Since we last spoke, he had visited Chile and Argentina with his dear wife Linda, and he regaled me with some lovely stories, although the time that a puma jumped up on top of his camper van during a night in Patagonia scared me to death.

I spotted an old photo of “The Eight Bells” and I include it for interest.

Our favourite Fulham pub dates from 1629. From 1886 to 1888, Fulham Football Club used it as their changing rooms when they played at nearby Raneleigh Gardens. Unlike Chelsea, Fulham have had many previous grounds, just like QPR, and flitted around this area, on both sides of the Thames for many years before finding a permanent home at Craven Cottage. It would have been all so different if Gus Mears had successfully tempted Fulham Football Club to play at Stamford Bridge at the turn of the twentieth century, eh?

Still wary of malfunctioning digital season tickets, I left the pub before the others at 11.30am. There was a gaggle of Fulham lads on the northbound platform and no doubt a lot of their match-going fans would have been drinking in the pubs in the immediate area of “The Eight Bells.”

There was no queue at the turnstiles, and no issues with my ‘phone, and I was in.

It was 11.50am.

On Thursday we had heard about the teams that we would be playing in the Champions League first phase, that long and laborious process that will stretch out from 17 September to 28 January. I have a few things to say about all this.

Firstly, I don’t like the fact that UEFA have tagged two extra games into this phase. An away game in Europe is no laughing matter for the many supporters that try to attend as many games as possible. Isn’t that the point of being a supporter? As a result of this, I am absolutely toying with the option of missing one of the four home games as a single game protest that won’t mean a jot to anyone else but will mean a lot to me.

Secondly, I am fearful of how much the home games will cost. Will the prime Barcelona game be priced at a different level to the other three, most noticeably Pafos? Or will all of these come in at the same mark? If so, how much? I am guessing £60 for my seat. Ouch. That’s £240 for those four games. Double ouch.

Thirdly, due to my attendance at four games in the US in June and July, I only have six days leave left until the end of March. Ouch again. With of this this in mind, I will try to get to one European away match, but surely no more. Domestically, I have a fruity little trip to Lincoln City – can’t wait – to plan out, plus there is the problem of the away game at Elland Road on a Wednesday in December, which will surely need paying attention to.

Munich is out. It’s too early. Plus, there is a part of me that wants to keep that 2012 memory pure, and unaltered. I might never visit Munich again for this reason. Atalanta is an option as it is the only stadium, and city – Bergamo – that I have not visited. Napoli is an exhilarating place, its team now managed by Antonio Conte, and during any other year, I would be tempted even though I visited it in 2012. And then there is dear old Baku. I have visited it three times already; in 2017 and 2019 with Chelsea, and last December on my return hop from Almaty. I would dearly love to return, but there is the huge problem of the time it takes to get to and from Azerbaijan.

All I can say is that is a lovely problem to have and watch this space.

Incidentally, isn’t it odd that we have been paired with four teams from the 2011/12 campaign?

Napoli, Benfica, Barcelona, Bayern.

Inside Stamford Bridge, all was quiet. Not much was happening. Everything was quiet. My focus, again, because of the proximity, was on the ridiculous line of “Dugout Club” spectators who were watching the players go through their pre-match shuttles pitch side.

At 12.20pm, a trio of pre-match songs that are meant to get us in the mood.

“Our House.”

“Parklife.”

“Liquidator.”

Enzo Maresca had chosen the same eleven that started at Stratford.

Our Robert, Our Malo, Our Trev, Our Tosin, Our Marc, Our Enzo, Our Moises, Our Estevao, Our Joao, Our Pedro, Our Liam.

Willian and Pedro on the wings? Well, it worked in 2016/17.

“Blue Is The Colour” boomed out and now we joined in.

Beautiful.

As the teams appeared, fireworks were set off from the top of The Shed roof once again, and I wasn’t sure if I really, deep-down, liked this or not. It seems to have taken over from flames in front of the East Stand anyway.

Modern football.

Flash, bang, wallop.

Fulham have gone for an all-white kit this season and I wonder what their traditionalists think about it. On this occasion, they wore black socks.

With Clive and PD alongside me, the game began.

We were treated to an early flurry of chances; a Joao Pedro roller, a Liam Delap shot that was blocked, a well-worked Fulham move that ended with a shot just wide.

Fulham : “is this a library?”

Chelsea : “there’s only one team in Fulham.”

Alas, Delap went down with what looked like a strain as he chased a long ball, and after some treatment was substituted by the youngster Tyrique George, he of the equaliser at Craven Cottage in April. Without the physical presence of the robust Delap, we looked a lot weaker up front. I have never been convinced with George leading the line.

There were two shots on goal from Fulham, who were looking the livelier now.

On twenty minutes, a spin away from trouble by Rodrigo Muniz, and the ball was played forward to Joshua King. I immediately presumed that King was offside, as did one or two others. However, play continued. King turned Tosin easily and fired the visitors from down the road ahead.

Ah, bollocks.

I hoped and prayed that VAR would chalk out the goal for offside. Firstly, there was nothing, but after a considerable wait, VAR was called into action, but for a foul and not for offside. Colour me confused.

Then another wait. Eventually, the referee Rob Jones walked over to the pitch side monitor and gazed at it for yet more minutes. The decision was no goal because of a foul.

What foul? We never saw a foul.

Anyway, I didn’t cheer the decision and on with the game.

This “get out of jail” moment resulted in the loudest moment thus far as a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.

However, PD was unimpressed.

“We are awful.”

We toiled away but didn’t create much at all. There was a lovely, cushioned flick from Estevao that set up the overlapping Malo Gusto but his cross was easily claimed by Bernd Leno.

Fulham then retaliated, and Robert Sanchez blocked, but offside anyway.

“Neto is quiet, eh?”

On thirty-seven minutes, a passage of play summed it all up. Enzo Fernandez tried his best to plod away from his marker, but took an extra touch and lost possession, and then Moises Caicedo invited a booking with a silly and lazy challenge.

Oh dear.

When Tosin ventured forward for set pieces, the Fulham fans sang a very derogatory song about him.

“He’s a wanker you know, Tosin Adarabioyo.”

I was at least impressed that they knew how to pronounce his surname; a feat that is still too difficult for us Chelsea fans.

On forty-two minutes, at last a jinking run from Neto out on the left that forced a corner. From that, a header over.

Just after, I moaned about Estevao coming inside when he had so much space behind the last defender. With that – he must have heard me – he set off on a jinking run down the right and into all that beautiful space, but it came to nothing.

This was all so disjointed.

With the VAR delay, there were eight minutes of extra time signalled.

Deep into this stoppage time, there was a run of corners. Shots were blocked, pinball in the six-yard area. Then, one final corner from the boot of Enzo in front of the baying Cottagers. A perfect delivery, and a perfect leap from Joao Pedro. His header was clean, and unchallenged.

We were up 1-0.

Phew.

At the break, we reflected on a poor game of football thus far.

Thankfully, there was a tad more energy and vigour in the way we began the second period. On fifty-four minutes, with me trying to get a worthwhile shot using my pub camera, I spotted a Trevoh Chalobah shot / cross hitting the arm of a Fulham defender, and I immediately thought “handball”, before snapping the resulting shot from Caicedo on film. There was an appeal from Enzo, nearest to the referee, but I saw the man in black gesture that the ball had hit his shoulder. I wasn’t so bloody sure.

After what seemed an age, VAR was called into action, and then more staring at the pitch-side monitor from Rob Jones. After – what? – three minutes maybe, the mic’d up referee began babbling to the crowd but it wasn’t too clear. I then I heard him utter the phrase “unnatural position” and I knew our luck was in.

Penalty.

I whispered to Clive.

“Unnatural position? Is that the same as Parky going to the bar?”

Enzo made up for his wavering display by striking the ball right down the middle, right down Broadway, right down Fulham Broadway, right down Walham Green.

We were now 2-0 up.

Another phew.

There were glimpses from Estevao of potential greatness. There was a fantastic wiggle, but his effort went just wide.

“Champions of the World” sang the Chelsea faithful, and I toyed with notion of us being top, but I soon decided against a “Catch Us If You Can” update on “Facebook.”

I looked over at the Fulham fans.

They derided us with a “WWYWYWS” chant, and Clive and I just laughed.

“Villa Park.”

“Exactly.”

No more needs to be said. They couldn’t even send 20,000 to Birmingham in their biggest game for decades and decades.

I looked above The Shed, saw the “World Champions” banner and mused that they aren’t even champions of their own postcode.

On the hour, Joao Pedro came close with three efforts. He was sent through, one on one with Leno, but missed out. Then came a shot that was blocked. Then a fantastic cross from Neto down below us that picked him out, but the ball as just out of reach, which I just about caught on film.

On sixty-eight minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao.

“I’ve seen enough. He’s going to be good.”

Gittens looked neat in his cameo down below me.

On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Andrey Santos for George, who had been quiet.

Reece James for Pedro Neto, who had improved in the second half.

With that, PD and Clive substituted themselves and left too.

On eighty-five minutes, a Joao Pedro volley but a fine Leno save. Our striker was everywhere inside the box in that second period; my man of the match, I think.

I am sad to report that the atmosphere was so mild, though.

Sigh.

There was a great cross from the Fulham substitute Adama Triore from the right that went unpunished, a free header missing the target.

A shot from distance from Reece James.

Another eight minutes of injury time was met with groans.

“Groans from even the Fulham fans I think.”

I just wanted to get on my way home.

There was a little late drama. Another cross from Traore was just a touch too deep, and then the resultant corner allowed a header that was hacked off the line by none other than Joao Pedro.

Definitely man of the match.

At the end of the game, at around 2.30pm, yet more bloody fireworks flew into the air from the top of The Shed.

Good grief.

The chap in front commented “that’s a bit much, innit?”

“Yeah, it’s only Fulham.”

Postscript :

On the drive home, I was elated to hear that Frome Town had beaten Plymouth Parkway 4-0 in the First Qualifying Round of the FA Cup. This was a fine away win against a team one step above in the football pyramid.

BA13 vs. BA11

SW6 vs. SW6

Tales From The Dripping Pan And The Amex

Posted on February 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 8 February 2025.

So, two games at Brighton in seven days.

On Saturday 8 February in the Cup.

On Friday 14 February in the League.

Both games at 8pm.

They are a funny side, Brighton, almost as funny as us. We had beaten them 4-2 earlier in the season, and they had lost 0-7 at Nottingham Forest in their last league outing. But on their day, they are capable of much greater things. The two games would be a test of our resolve, and maybe a test of our support too.

For the FA Cup encounter, our support passed with flying colours. I believe that we were originally given 4,000 tickets, but this eventually went up to around 6,000 when it transpired that the home team was having trouble in shifting tickets.

If nothing else, having such a solid away support would be a good experience, a right royal show of strength, and a nod to previous eras when our away support was rock solid.

The travel plans were sorted out, but with a late change. It suddenly dawned on me that I could get an extra game in, at Lewes, while PD and Parky would be getting some beers in at a local pub. For this reason, I set off a little earlier than planned. I called for PD at 11am and I called in for Parky at 11.30am. The plan was to be parked up at Lewes train station at 2.30pm to enable me to attend the Lewes vs. Potters Bar Town game in the Isthmian Premier at 3pm. This is the same level of football that my local team, Frome Town, compete.

At Step Three – level seven – there are four divisions and I include here the average gates too :

Northern Premier / 726

Southern League Premier – Central / 560

Southern League Premier – South / 593

Isthmian Premier / 714

While I would be watching at Lewes, Frome Town would be playing a home game against Sholing. I am far from a ground-hopper, but my interest in watching a game at Lewes was piqued when I purchased the “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” book a few years ago. Of all the stadia within these isles, The Dripping Pan at Lewes was voted top of the pile. It certainly looked a quaint and quirky stadium with plenty of idiosyncratic features, but was it really the very best of the lot? I was about to find out.

The drive down to Sussex was rather boring, with murky weather overhead, and greyness all around me. There was fog early on, but at least the rain was minimal. The route itself did not help; rather than the more picturesque road south to Salisbury and then passing by Southampton and Portsmouth, past Chichester, my Sat Nav took me north to the M4, then around the M25, then down the M23. For once, I didn’t enjoy the drive too much.

I was held up in a little traffic on the M25 and eventually deposited PD and Parky in the centre of Lewes at 2.40pm. I made my way to the train station, but it took more time than I had hoped to get my newly acquired parking app to register my car. While I was cursing modern technology, a ‘phone call from PD.

“What’s the pub called, again?”

They were already lost.

Due to my delay at the car park, and despite The Dripping Pan being only a five-minute walk away, I entered the stadium four minutes late with the home team already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I positioned myself on the large – for non-league standards – covered home terrace and got my bearings. It was indeed a quirky stadium, but the overcast weather did not help me to fully appreciate its charms. However, it certainly was different. There were beach huts as sponsor lounges, a viewing area atop a lovely grass bank, a substantial terraced away section, and a plush stand with seats along the side. There was a bar right behind the home end – it resembled a pub – and in the corner I spotted what can only be termed a rockery, with plants and palms. I hope the photos do it all justice.

But I had to think to myself; “the very best in Britain?”

I wasn’t so sure.

I watched from a few viewpoints to get the maximum effect. I spoke to a chap from Stoke, now living nearby, about how much I like the non-league scene these days. On the pitch, the home team equalised just before half-time but then conceded again before the break. However, my mind wasn’t really on this game. My mind was back in Somerset, and alas Frome Town were losing 0-1. The game at Lewes was a slow burner and only really came to life in the last fifteen minutes; the home team equalised with a fine goal, only to concede again in the fourth minute of injury time. Potters Bar Town, cheered on by around fifteen fans and one flag, won 3-2. The gate was 705.

In deepest Somerset, Frome’s fine revival came to a spluttering end, with a demoralising 0-3 home defeat. The gate there was a disappointing 452.

In truth, although my body was at The Dripping Pan, my head was at Badgers Hill throughout the entire afternoon, and it absolutely reminded me that I only tend to really enjoy football these days if I have a vested interest in one of the teams playing.

I met up with PD and LP after the game at “The John Harvey” and the two of them were squeezed in at a table with Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire. I made a point of saying that “the last time I was here, we lost 4-1”, that hideous game two seasons ago when Graham Potter visited his former club and was sent packing. We were well and truly stuffed that day.

“The John Harvey” is a cracking little pub in Lewes town centre, which itself is a cracking little town. We were soon joined by my Brighton mate Mac and his friend Nick. They are both occasional visitors to The Dripping Pan themselves.

I mentioned its place in “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” to the lads, and explained how Stamford Bridge is not featured at all. That’s right, dear reader, our beloved stadium is not even in the top one hundred. However, had the original pre-1993 edition still be in existence, I am sure that it would be in the top ten, such is the love these days of old-school stadia, original sweeping terraces, old stands, crush barriers, and the like.

Nick commented that Stamford Bridge could be a dangerous place to attend a few decades ago. However, the overall listings within the book were not really concerned with past spectator safety but were attributed to architectural significance, history, ambiance and atmosphere.

Mac remembered a game that he had attended at Stamford Bridge with Nick, as neutrals, back in 1985 against Sheffield Wednesday and I was rather pleased to tell them that I was going to be featuring that very game in my retrospective section of my report for the day’s match.

How’s that for synchronicity?

Let’s head back to February 1985.

Two days after the away game at Leicester City, Chelsea were at home to Millwall in the fourth round of the FA Cup on Monday 4 February. I listened to the match updates on Radio Two and was saddened to hear that we were 0-1 down. Later, the score went to 2-2 with our goals coming from Paul Canoville and Nigel Spackman, but then Millwall went ahead via Steve Lovell. In the eighty-seventh minute, our quite ridiculous penalty woes continued as David Speedie – despite netting from the spot at Filbert Street – blasted way over. We lost 2-3 and were out of the FA Cup. I had hoped for a gate of 24,000 so was probably pleased that 25,148 were at Stamford Bridge that night. The Millwall manager at the time was George Graham. I wonder what happened to him.

The second replay of our Milk Cup quarter final against Sheffield Wednesday at Stamford Bridge took place on Thursday 6 February. On that day, I travelled back to Somerset by train from Stoke after a couple of morning lectures and so I listened in to the game on the radio at home. For those keeping count, Chelsea played six games in just twelve days, as miraculous as that sounds today. The whole radio programme was devoted to our game, a rare occurrence in those days.

The second replay against Sheffield Wednesday was a classic. They went ahead via Gary Shelton on twelve minutes, but we were level when an incredible bit of skill from Pat Nevin allowed him to set up a David Speedie header on thirty minutes. His “scoop” over the wall to himself was magical. Then, in the final minute, a Paul Canoville corner was headed home by the mercurial Mickey Thomas.

At home, in Somerset, I went wild and was close to tears.

For the first time that I could remember, we had reached a semi-final.

After the 25,148 gate on the Monday, Stamford Bridge hosted a crowd of 36,395 on that Wednesday. And that number included Mac and Nick, who went with some Sheffield Wednesday friends, and watched among the Wednesday throng from the north terrace. Mac admitted to me how scared he was that evening. The away end at Stamford Bridge was no easy place to slope away from, especially since there were often Chelsea supporters in other pens in the same end, sharing the same limited exit routes. On many occasions, Chelsea would secretly infiltrate the away pens too.

I never once watched a game from that north terrace; I think it is safe to say that I had my reasons.

There is some TV footage of the baying Stamford Bridge crowd that night, several minutes after the end of the game, showing an ecstatic home crowd staying in the stadium, lording it over the away fans, in their pomp. There are extended shots of fans climbing all over the security fences, pointing and gesticulating at the Wednesday fans –

“WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY, WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY – YOU AIN’T, YOU AIN’T”

Unfortunately, I can only access it via a private Facebook group and so can’t share it here but the venom and vitriol – AND NOISE – generated by those Chelsea fans…I can’t lie, virtually all lads…that night got me all dewy-eyed when I first witnessed it a few years ago. Those noisy days of my youth were spellbinding. I miss them dearly.

In Lewes, in 2025, we had made our way outside and stood with our drinks. It was about 6pm, so Julie and Tim left to catch an early train to the stadium. The closing moments of the England vs. France rugby match was taking place inside the pub and I did my best to show no interest whatsoever.

At around 6.30pm, we said our goodbyes to Mac and Nick – “See you Friday, mate” – and walked back to the station to catch the train to Falmer.

It left at 6.58pm.

I was inside the away end at 7.30pm.

Perfect timing.

The three of us were split up in various areas of the Chelsea support which in this case featured all of one end and wrapped itself around into a couple of sections of the stand along the side. As luck would have it, I was right in front of my usual match-day mate John. As kick-off approached, the away crowd grew and grew, and I was able to spot so many familiar faces. I have never really noticed before, but the seats at the Amex are padded. Nobody sits at away games. I had no real reason to notice before.

As kick-off approached, “Sussex by the Sea” was lustily sung by the home support, which looked to be at around two-thirds capacity. Our tickets were just £25. I have no doubt that the price was the same in the home areas. That’s poor from the Brighton support. On the premise that our extra thousand tickets sold out in just eight minutes, I wondered how many we could have sold in total, despite the problems of a late kick-off on a Saturday evening. Maybe eight thousand? Who knows.

A predictable show of flames and fumes in front of the stand to our right, and then the teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this line up.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Caicedo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Nkunku

I suppose we had no choice but to wear the black kit, but it couldn’t have been easy picking out teammates in the evening murk.

I spotted that the match balls were a peach colour.

“Yeah, I know.”

The game – “Peachball” anyone? – began.

We attacked the far end and began well. Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall hit the side netting with the game’s first offering. Next, a nice move down the right. The ball was played out to Pedro Neto, who spun behind his marker and accelerated away. He passed to Jadon Sancho, who played the ball to Cole Palmer. Palmer tested Bart Verbruggen with a dipping shot that needed to be palmed over.

“C’mon Chels.”

From the corner that followed, which Palmer took, the ball was played back and square – to be honest I was distracted by something – and by the time I looked up, the ball had been played back into the box by Palmer and somehow ended up in the goal. I roared and fist-pumped, though I wasn’t exactly sure how or why Verbruggen had not dealt with the ball in.

We purred as we witnessed a lovely sliding tackle from Trevoh Chalobah as a Brighton attack found its way inside the box. However, not long after, Brighton attacked our other flank, our right, and Tariq Lamptey was able to cross. This time, Chalobah did not perform so well. His header went to a Brighton player, who set up to Joel Veltman. He curled a short cross into the danger area. Georginio Rutter rose unchallenged – between two defenders – and his well-aimed header dropped into the goal. I was right in line with the header and mumbled “goal” to myself before it had crossed the line.

Yeah, I bloody saw that one clearly enough.

Bollocks.

Twelve minutes had passed, and it was tied 1-1.

Within a few seconds, the stand to my left – I know where Mac sits, I spotted him – boomed “Albion, Albion.”

We noticed Christopher Nkunku coming back to receive a ball from a central defender, way deep, and this was not a one-off. He was playing in the midfield area and we were aghast. As the first half continued, and as we continued to struggle to put anything together, we noted how reluctant Nkunku was to occupy the space usually manned by Nicolas Jackson. I presumed that this was under the instruction of Maresca. With Palmer coming deep as well, we simply did not have much of an attacking threat. Neto, who had begun well, withered away, and Sancho was reluctant to advance. In truth, there was no movement upfront for the wingers to hit quite simply because there was nobody upfront.

It was all very lacklustre and poor. From both sides in fact, but of course we were more concerned about our lack of energy, creativity, drive and football intelligence.

The Chelsea choir, that had begun the game in relatively good form, began to fade.

An odd selection of songs honouring past players was aired.

“That’s why we love Solomon Kalou.”

Jimmy the Greek, who was a few yards ahead of me, turned to me and we both took turns to yell –

“It’s Salomon!”

This was a poor football match. Palmer, our creative force, was quiet and the rest seemed disinterested.

One passage of play summed it all up. A quick ball was played through to Sancho who was probably level with the Brighton penalty box. However, instead of him going on to the front foot and asking questions of his marker, within five seconds the ball was back with Chalobah in our own half.

Fucksake.

Our only notable chance came when Moises Caicedo spotted a rare run from Nkunku. His lofted ball dropped perfectly for a strike on goal, but instead the timid Nkunku hooked the ball over to Palmer whose headed effort lacked, well, everything and dropped lamely over the bar and onto the roof of the net.

Crap.

This was a grey and passionless performance.

Half-time arrived and the away end was numbed by our limp showing thus far. I said to a few mates “can we flip a coin and get it over and done with now?” The night was getting colder, and the football was not warming us up one iota. Sadly, the second period was bloody worse.

Soon into the half, a spirited chant from the away end tried its best to rally the troops.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”

How ‘eighties.

We dominated possession but had no idea how to break the home defence down. Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Brighton broke quickly via a searching ball from Rutter who found the dangerous Kaoru Mitoma. He played the ball in to Lamptey. His shot was blocked, and I saw players fall as the ball ricocheted around. The ball then ended up being aimed at Mitoma. From my angle, the ball appeared to hit his raised hand, but we all watched in agony as he took the ball down and placed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

Bollocks.

With that, Enzo Fernandez replaced the utterly forgettable Dewsbury-Hall.

Just after, chants for Roman Abramovich, but no chances.

A trio of songs from the Chelsea end.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

“Cam On Chowlsea.”

“Carefree.”

We struggled to create anything. I can only recollect a few shots on goal. An effort from Enzo whizzed past the post. Marc Cucarella – booed by the home crowd from the start – set up Palmer but he was always stretching, and the effort went hopelessly high and wide.

I said to John “we’ve got worse this half.”

On seventy-five minutes, the wingers were changed.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Tyrique George for Sancho.

The away end was like a morgue in the final portion of the game.

George tried his best, and on ninety-three minutes he turned inside and shot at goal, but the shot sailed over.

As the game drifted to its inevitable conclusion, there was the irony of a firm strike from Enzo being – wait for it – on target but it was saved by Verbruggen, only for the ball to have gone out for a corner in the build-up to the shot in any case. It was a shot on goal that wasn’t.

Oh boy.

The game ended and we were out.

Out of both domestic cups in early February.

There had been no reaction at half-time, and there had been no reaction to Brighton’s second goal.

Shocking.

It was, hand on heart, one of the worst Chelsea performances that I can ever remember seeing. One shot on target during the entire game? Good grief, Enzo Maresca.

As I exited past the padded seats, I wondered if I might need a padded cell in the coming weeks and months. I was aware that a few players were walking towards the away end, but I turned my back to them and left.

We hurriedly made our way back to Lewes, and I drove home. I reached my house just after 2am.

Fackinell.

And on Friday, we go back to the scene of the crime again.

See you there.

The Dripping Pan

The Amex

1985

Tales From Somerset And Dorset

Posted on September 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 14 September 2024.

Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.

My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.

Games on!

And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.

I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.

Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.

I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”

Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.

Thanks mate.

I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.

Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.

Or maybe not, eh?

Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.

First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.

“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”

Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.

On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.

In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.

During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.

I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.

Fackinell.

Back to 2024.

Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.

We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.

Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.

We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.

I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.

There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.

Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.

…little did we know.

The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.

“Is that a professional camera?”

“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”

“OK.”

I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.

I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.

Kick-off soon approached.

Flames, flags, smoke.

“Make some noise for the boys.”

Pah.

Us?

Sanchez

Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Veiga

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

First thoughts?

“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”

Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.

The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.

The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.

We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.

It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.

Sigh.

Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.

“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.

Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.

The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.

A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.

On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.

Penalty.

One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.

“Yeah, right.”

Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.

It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.

Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.

We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.

On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.

Tosin for Disasi.

Joao Felix for Madueke.

The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.

Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.

Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.

Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.

The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.

On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”

The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.

“Thank God there is no Game Three.”

Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.

Goal.

We exploded.

Talk about a “fox in the box.”

What a finish.

Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.

“Need to get a photo of this.”

I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.

I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.

Snap.

Phew.

I took the money shot.

There was still time for another Sanchez save.

The Sanchez and Sancho Show.

At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.

But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.

“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”

Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.

I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.

Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.

The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.

Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.

“Chim-chimeny, chim-chimeny, chim, chim, cher-oo.”

See you then, see you there.

Tales From Badgers Hill And Stamford Bridge

Posted on March 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 17 March 2024.

This was another weekend where I was able to attend two games of football.

I spent the fiftieth anniversary – to the hour – of my ever first Chelsea game at Badgers Hill, the quaintly-named ground of Frome Town, for the league game with Yate Town. I met up with Francis and Tom in a local hostelry and we enjoyed a power-hour of conversation about not only the Robins but top-level football too. It was a real “State Of The Nation” chit-chat. With a promotion charge taking place for my local team, I admitted how annoyed I am when I discover that I can’t attend a Frome game as I am otherwise engaged with Chelsea.

In the ground, I met up with a few other pals; the ever-present Steve, plus Glenn from Chelsea, who was with Neil from Chelsea too. I liked the look of the crowd as soon as I walked in. Frome have averaged around 440 this season; this seemed a lot more. We watched from the Cow Shed along the side of the pitch as the home team dominated possession but were limited to a few chances in a frustrating first-half.

We decamped to the club end for the second-half and the visitors came into it a little. Manager Danny Greaves made some fine tweaks and it paid off as two good strikes from James Ollis and Kane Simpson gave Frome the points. The gate was a hefty 571. It was a solid performance; gritty, physical, but with quality where it counted. The only negative was hearing that leaders Wimborne Town had nicked a late 2-1 win at Malvern Town. However, if we win all of our remaining eight games – three at home, five away – we will be automatically promoted. The away game at Wimborne on Saturday 20 April could be pivotal. On that day, Chelsea are due to play at Brighton in the league or at Wembley in an FA Cup Semi-Final. Let’s see how that pans out.

I enjoyed the Saturday evening, basting a little in the glory of another fine Frome win, but my thoughts soon turned to the Sunday game; our FA Cup Quarter Final at home to Leicester City.

But my mind also wandered to those first fifty-years of match-going Chelsea support. It took my fancy during the week, thinking of the number fifty, to attempt to compile a list of my favourite fifty games from that period. That Saturday night I finished it all off. Of the 1,438 games I had seen, at first I narrowed it down to an initial list of sixty. Then came the final cull, swiping left on ten games. I include the list, the final fifty, at the end of this piece. It’s impossible to rate them in order of preference, so they are in chronological order instead.

Favourite games are not necessarily the greatest games, and not every single piece of silverware is listed, but these fifty games are the ones that leave a lingering feeling of warmth and appreciation.

The Sunday game was to kick-off early at 12.45pm. I was up at 5.45am, and left Frome at 7am. We were parked up in Hammersmith by 9.20am. After a breakfast at “The Full Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road, we met up with others at “The Old Oak” on the North End Road. The reason for this was two-fold. Firstly, we were hoping that Alan would be making a reappearance at this game after an enforced absence of over two months due to ill-health. If so, he would surely be in this boozer.

Secondly, the pub is to close very soon, and the property will make way for flats. I think it has a week left. This would only be my fourth visit over the years. It seemed right to make a final visit.

I dropped the lads off outside and spun back to park up. When I walked in a few minutes later, I was so pleased to see Alan sitting at a table opposite Gary. He slowly got up and we hugged. We have all missed him so much.

Oh, there was a third reason; the pub opened at 10am.

A few other folks arrived; firstly, Salisbury Steve, then Andy and Sophie, Neil and Nigel, all from Nuneaton. There was a brief chat with Huddersfield Mick.

As we left the pub at about midday, Andy was muttering disparaging things about the folk from Leicester, just up the road from him in the East Midlands.

“Let’s go and see the knicker makers.”

There were around six thousand visitors from Leicestershire in town for this cup tie. Sophie mentioned that as they spun around the Hammersmith roundabout, she had spotted that a few police vans were parked outside “The William Morris” pub, no doubt keeping a close watch on a section of the away fans as they neared Stamford Bridge.

There was a loud group of them exiting from the guts of the Fulham Broadway tube complex at about 12.15pm too. I noted a large police presence outside the West Stand on the Fulham Road. I soon made my way in. I stopped to take a “welcome home” photo of Alan with PD and Parky in The Sleepy Hollow and then made my way to my single seat, almost behind the goal in the MHU.

The team was announced.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Palmer – Sterling

Jackson

Before the game began, I had realised that I had left my glasses in the car. Added to the fact that Leicester City had chosen to wear an all-black away kit, it was a little difficult to tell the two sets of players apart. I struggled for the first few minutes before my eyes got to grips with it all.

There were a few early barbs from the away supporters aimed at the Chelsea sections.

“Football in a library.”

“Ben Chilwell – he sits on the bench.”

I felt like muttering “apart from when he wins European Cups” but I wasn’t in the mood.

The visitors began the brighter and an effort went ridiculously close to the right-hand upright of the goal right down below me.

“Ooooooooh.”

At The Shed End, there was a flicked-effort by Cole Palmer from a corner that was kept out by Jakub Stolarczyk at the Shed End.

On thirteen minutes, a really strong run by Nicholas Jackson on our right went deep into the Foxes’ penalty area. He had the beating of the last man, Jannik Vestergaard, and also the awareness to spot the unmarked Marc Cucarella at the far post. The low cross was perfect, the finish from the left-back was clinical.

Chelsea 1 Leicester City 0.

It was a perfect start.

We needed to be wary of the away team on the counter-attack and they threatened on a couple of occasions. The ever-alert Cucarella was able to head away a couple of over-hit crosses at the far post.

I spotted Jackson signal to Axel Disasi to play him through – great awareness, great movement – but I growled with displeasure as his request was ignored. The ball went square yet again…

On twenty-five minutes, just as Raheem Sterling was about to take aim at goal from a central position in the box, his legs were unceremoniously taken from under him by Abdul Fatawu. It was a clear penalty.

We waited for Palmer to take control of the situation, but to our surprise it was Sterling who placed the ball on the spot. My thoughts were along the lines of Sterling needing a goal, so the penalty was gifted to him.

It was a terrible penalty, the central shot kicked away with ease by Stolarcyck.

Bollocks.

Well, that did nothing for Sterling’s confidence.

We kept going. A strong shot from Mykhailo Mudryk was parried. On forty-five minutes, Sterling was through, one on one, with only the ‘keeper to beat. Alas, his shot did not hit the target, instead it missed the right-hand post by yards rather than feet and inches. The crowd howled at the enormity of the miss.

There was redemption immediately after. Sterling created space on the left and his perfect cross was nimbly pushed home by Palmer.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 0.

Coasting.

Conor Gallagher let fly just before the break but his curling effort went just wide of the far post. I had been impressed with Mudryk in the first-half, not always potent going forward, but showing a much greater desire to put opponents under pressure, to close space, to tackle. There was a lot more energy from him.

He began the second-half with a fine bursting run.

On fifty-minutes, with Leicester City attacking their fans in The Shed, Disasi made a brilliantly-timed sliding tackle on a forward. Sadly, just seconds later the same defender, under pressure from Patson Daka, completely over hit a back-pass to Robert Sanchez. The ball always looked like dropping into the open net.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 1.

Fackinell.

Jackson broke away but hit the side netting to my left. Moises Caicedo’s strike was saved. But the gifted goal had given Leicester a lifeline and it felt like they had the bit between their teeth.

On sixty-two minutes, Stephy Mavididi danced away as he cut inside the Chelsea penalty box.

“Put a tackle in.”

The Leicester player shimmied and drove a fine effort into the Chelsea goal.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 2.

Fackinell.

Shots, both over, from Palmer and Mudryk.

On seventy-minutes, a strong run from Jackson ended with a challenge on the edge of the box by Callum Doyle. At first the referee seemed to signal a penalty. Then VAR stepped in. No penalty, but a free-kick on the edge of the box instead. But Doyle was off. Advantage Chelsea? Maybe.

But first we had the free-kick. There was the usual delay as the away team sorted out a wall, then made a substitution. We then we focussed on Palmer and Sterling, both seeming to want the ball.

We waited.

Palmer did not move.

Sterling strode forward.

His effort sailed ridiculously high and ridiculously wide.

I cupped the back of my head in my hands and turned to look away from the pitch in disbelief. Everyone behind me was equally as flabbergasted.

Good grief.

There were immediate boos.

On seventy-six minutes, Carney Chukwuemeka replaced Mudryk, and there were more boos. However, Mudryk was then clapped off by the home fans, especially those in the East Lower when he walked past them. He was warmly hugged by the manager.

On eighty minutes, ten minutes from the end of the game, I can honestly say that I heard the first real bone-crunching, lung-bursting, ear-piercing song from the Chelsea faithful.

“Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea, Chowlsea, Chowlsea.”

Eighty fucking minutes.

Sterling was booed when he had the ball.

My heart slumped.

Pathetic.

Everyone knows my thoughts about supporters…er…supporting.

The substitute Chukwuemeka went close with a curling shot that strayed past the post.

We penned Leicester in to the final third, even the final quarter of the pitch, but space was at a premium. Malo Gusto had been neat all of the way through the game and his confidence grows with each appearance. Some of his flicks under pressure were lovely.

We kept going. On eighty-three minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Sterling. There were boos; not for the substitution, but for Sterling.

I spotted many, though, in the MHU who were stood and clapped him off.

This warmed me a little.

Bad day at the office? Oh yes. But he didn’t deserve the level of nastiness aimed towards him – “Get him off, get him off, get him off!” – in that second-half.

A few late chances came and went. Jackson flashed over from close-in.

Where was Erland Johnsen when we needed him?

On ninety minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced Cucarella.

The Bloke Next To Me : “Please score, Chilwell.”

Our dominance continued as eight minutes of injury time were announced. It was quite a sight to see Carney and Ben doubling-up on one attack down the left.

On ninety-two minutes, Carney found a little space and cut in. The ball was played to Palmer. I expected him to set up Gallagher, but he took us all by surprise. Palmer back-heeled the ball perfectly into the path of Chukwuemeka who pushed the ball home.

GET IN.

Chelsea 3 Leicester City 2.

The place was alive at last.

On ninety-eight minutes, it was the turn of the second substitute, Madueke, to set the place alight. A fine dribble into the central area, a couple of step overs, and then a lofted curler into the top corner, right in line with yours truly.

Chelsea 4 Leicester City 2.

I managed to catch bits of the manic celebrations from the two late goals on film.

We made it, we’re off to Wembley yet again.

I walked back to the car and caught up with PD and Parky. The traffic was light and I was back home by 6pm, a very early finish to the day.

The weekend had been a success; a pleasing league win from my twenty-seventh Frome Town game of the season and a last-gasp win in the cup from my thirty-ninth Chelsea game of the season.

We now have a break – no Chelsea game for a fortnight, no Frome Town game for even longer – as winter turns to spring.

See you on the other side.

Fifty Favourite Games :

4 March 1978 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1 – First Division.

25 October 1980 : Chelsea 6 Newcastle United 0 – Second Division.

13 February 1982 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0 – FA Cup.

27 August 1983 : Chelsea 5 Derby County 0 – Second Division.

22 November 1983 : Chelsea 4 Newcastle United 0 – Second Division.

10 March 1984 : Newcastle United 1 Chelsea 1 – Second Division.

31 March 1984 : Cardiff City 3 Chelsea 3 – Second Division.

28 April 1984 : Chelsea 5 Leeds United 0 – Second Division.

25 August 1984 : Arsenal 1 Chelsea 1 – First Division.

1 December 1984 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1 – First Division.

9 April 1986 : Manchester United 1 Chelsea 2 – First Division.

13 September 1986 : Tottenham Hotspur 1 Chelsea 3 – First Division.

18 March 1989 : Manchester City 2 Chelsea 3 – Second Division.

1 February 1992 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 2 – First Division.

3 November 1994 : Austria Memphis 1 Chelsea 1 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

14 March 1995 : Chelsea 2 Club Brugge 0 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

26 January 1997 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 2 – FA Cup.

17 May 1997 : Chelsea 2 Middlesbrough 0 – FA Cup.

16 April 1998 : Chelsea 3 Vicenza 1 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

13 May 1998 : Chelsea 1 Stuttgart 0 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

3 October 1999 : Chelsea 5 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

5 April 2000 : Chelsea 3 Barcelona 1 – Champions League.

13 March 2002 : Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0 – Premier League.

11 May 2003 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1 – Premier League.

8 March 2005 : Chelsea 4 Barcelona 2 – Champions League.

30 April 2005 : Bolton Wanderers 0 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

11 March 2006 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 1 – Premier League.

29 April 2006 : Chelsea 3 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

3 April 2008 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2 : Champions League.

10 March 2009 : Juventus 2 Chelsea 2 – Champions League.

8 April 2009 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 3 – Champions League.

14 April 2009 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4 – Champions League.

3 April 2010 : Manchester United 1 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

2 May 2010 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2 : Premier League.

9 May 2010 : Chelsea 8 Wigan Athletic 0 – Premier League.

14 March 2012 : Chelsea 4 Napoli 1 – Champions League.

15 April 2012 : Chelsea 5 Tottenham Hotspur 1 – FA Cup.

18 April 2012 : Chelsea 1 Barcelona 0 – Champions League.

24 April 2012 : Barcelona 2 Chelsea 2 – Champions League.

19 May 2012 : Chelsea 1 Bayern Munich 1 (won 4-3 pens) – Champions League.

27 April 2014 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

1 March 2015 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 0 – League Cup.

2 May 2016 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 2 – Premier League.

23 October 2016 : Chelsea 4 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

5 November 2016 : Chelsea 5 Everton 0 – Premier League.

3 December 2016 : Manchester City 1 Chelsea 3 – Premier League.

22 April 2017 : Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 2 – FA Cup.

12 May 2017 : West Bromwich Albion 0 Chelsea 1 – Premier League.

29 May 2019 : Chelsea 4 Arsenal 1 – Europa League.

29 May 2021 : Chelsea 1 Manchester City 0 – Champions League.

Tales From A Crazy Game

Posted on February 11, 2024 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2024.

We weren’t expecting much from this FA Cup replay at Villa Park. Why would we be? In our previous two games we had conceded eight goals. There was, in fact, a real worry that we would become unstuck on a mighty scale.

I had worked an early shift, collected Paul and PD at 2.20pm, and then headed north. We stopped off at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at about 4.30pm. Our modus operandi was that if we were travelling over one hundred miles to watch a football game that we would probably lose, we had best find our fun elsewhere. The three curries, as always, went down a treat.

At around 6.45pm, I dropped the lads off as close to Villa Park that I could get and then double-backed on myself to park up. The plan was to walk all of the way around the stadium to take a selection of wide-angled photographs of the stands and to try to capture the essence of a midweek cup tie.

Villa Park, eh?

This is a ground that became synonymous with FA Cup semi-finals before the FA took the unfortunate step to host all semis at the new Wembley Stadium. We have played a few semis at Villa Park over the years dating back to our first one, a win, against Everton in 1915. There was then a long gap of fifty years followed by three games in quick succession. We then lost to Liverpool in 1965 and Sheffield Wednesday in 1966 before defeating Leeds United in 1967.

However, my first viewing of an FA Cup tie at Villa Park took place in early 1987. I travelled down to Birmingham with two mates from college in Stoke; Bob, Leeds United, and Steve, Derby County. I remember we posed for a photo outside the famous steps of the Trinity Road but the weather was too overcast and my camera was too cheap for the photo to be worth sharing. I had visited Villa Park for a tedious 0-0 draw in November 1986, but this cup tie was a great match. We had about 5,000 fans in a 21,997 crowd on the low terrace behind the goal and in the seats of the old Witton Lane Stand. We watched from the seats. We went 1-0 up in the first-half via John Bumstead but Villa equalised with twenty minutes to go via Neale Cooper. David Speedie then put us ahead on eighty-six minutes only for Steve Hunt to equalise again. We would win the replay at Stamford Bridge.

That game in 1987 was our last FA Cup tie against Villa on their home patch. However, we would play two semi-finals at Villa Park within six years during the Glenn Hoddle to Claudio Ranieri era.

In 1996, we assembled at Villa Park for the game against Manchester United. We were allocated the old Trinity Road Stand and three-quarters of the Holte End. Luckily, we had seats in the very front row of the upper tier of the Holte End, and I decided to take advantage of this position by creating a flag in honour of Ruud Gullit that I could drape over the balcony. Although the great man himself headed us into the lead in the first-half, United came back to win 2-1 with two goals in quick succession a quarter of an hour into the second-half via Andy Cole and David Beckham.

In 2002, our semi-final against Fulham was to be played at Highbury but our opponents took umbrage that the split of the 38,000 tickets at Arsenal’s stadium slightly favoured ourselves. They demanded that the game should be played at a stadium that allowed more equal allocations. Lo and behold, the two clubs from West London were forced to decamp to Birmingham on a Sunday evening with the game kicking-off at a ridiculous 7pm. I travelled up with a car load from Frome and we enjoyed a lengthy pre-match in the “Crown And Cushion” pub at Perry Barr. This pre-match is notable for the first-ever photo of Parky and myself together. We watched in the noisy upper tier of the North Stand as a John Terry goal just before half-time sent us to Wembley. The irony is that the attendance was only 36,147 and Fulham – of course – did not sell all of their tickets.

“Thanks, then.”

I took a few photographs on the walk through to the away end. Three police vans were parked on the roundabout near the Witton train station. Emiliano Buendia drove past in his car and some Villa fans close by went all weak at the knees. Amidst the throng of match-goers, a chap stood in the middle of Witton Lane with a “God Is Love” placard. I took outside shots of three of the stands but I did not fancy the trot down to the Holte End on this occasion. Time was moving on and I wanted to get inside to join up with the lads. I could sense an air of buoyancy amidst the home fans.

“The Giant Is Awake” is the current tagline at Villa Park and I suppose they have a point. They are playing their best stuff in years.

I was inside at about 7.30pm. As I spoke to a few fellow travellers in the concourse and in the seating area of the away section, nobody was confident.

I took my seat alongside the lads. We were towards the back of the lower tier and it was a decent view. Chelsea were given 6,298 tickets for this game as opposed to the standard 3,000 for league matches. It seemed that a fair few were going spare if the announcements on social media were a clue. I just hoped that there weren’t large swathes of gaps in our section. I soon realised that the split was around 3,000 in the usual areas of the Witton Lane / Doug Ellis but with around 3,300 in the top tier of the North Stand to our right.

There were occasional empty seats but this was a magnificent effort from our supporters. While the dynamics have changed – for the worse, for the worse – at home games, thank God that the football calendar can occasionally throw up an occasion like this where the bedrock of the club can get a chance to follow the team en masse.

The minutes ticked by.

There were a few rock anthems as the 8pm kick-off approached. Surprisingly, “Hi Ho Silver Lining” was aired – as it was at Wolves – but then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne took over as the teams were spotted in the off-centre tunnel.

Villa then overdid it a bit. Not only were there plumes of smoke by the tunnel, but flames all along the pitch by the Doug Ellis Stand and – fackinell – fireworks in the sky above the stadium.

Not to worry, the six thousand Chelsea fans had a response.

“CAREFREE!”

On a serious note, all of this manufactured noise before kick-off might well look good on TV and it might excite children, but the problem is that it doesn’t allow for atmospheres to sizzle along nicely resulting in a crackling crescendo of noise – self-generated – at kick-off. Maybe those days are gone forever.

Sigh.

Our team? No Thiago Silva. No Raheem Sterling.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Chilwell

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Jackson

There were a few mumbles and grumbles about the starting positions of Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson, but – noticeably – nobody was bemoaning the absence of Raheem Sterling.

OK. Everyone stood. Not many gaps in the immediate area. A few late-comers. Many familiar faces. I still wasn’t confident, but here we go. I tried to juggle photographs with shouts and applause for the team.

“CAM ON YOU BLUE BOYS.”

The Chelsea players formed a pre-match huddle, and while they waited for captain Ben Chilwell to join them, I spotted Cole Palmer looking over at the Chelsea support in the Doug Ellis Stand. He seemed to be in awe :

“Bloody hell, they have turned up tonight alright. There’s thousands behind the goal too.”

However, not all parts of Villa Park were full. I soon spotted hundreds of central seats in the executive areas opposite not being used. That was just odd.

Soon into the game, with Villa attacking our end, a long cross found Alex Moreno unmarked at the far post, but rather than attempt an effort himself he decided to head the ball back across the six-yard box. A defensive head cleared.

It was a lively start to the game with Chelsea breaking with speed and intensity. Malo Gusto linked with Noni Madueke and worked the ball in to Palmer inside the Villa box at the Holte End. His shot was an easy take for Emiliano Martinez.

There was a header, shortly after, from Enzo but his compatriot Martinez easily fielded this effort too.

On eleven minutes, we won the ball out on our left. I stood on tip-toes to watch the move develop. Inside to Conor Gallagher who spread the ball into the path of Jackson. He ran and ran, and played a low ball towards Madueke. Although surrounded by Villa defenders, he wisely took a touch before knocking it back into the path of Gallagher. The shot rose steeply but we erupted when the net rippled.

Pandemonium.

Bodies and limbs everywhere. I had no hope of taking a shot of the players celebrating away in the corner.

We were winning. Fackinell.

I was so aware that Conor’s lack of goals is often cited by many as a major-downside. So I was doubly happy that the goal came from him. Lovely.

Villa came into the game but Djordje Petrovic thwarted their couple of attempts on goal including an angled volley from Ollie Watkins.

We continued to purr. On twenty-one minutes, Disasi found Madueke in tons of space. He turned and pushed the ball wide into the over-lapping Malo Gusto. His cross into the box – a relatively low trajectory – was met by the leap of Jackson. His angled effort crashed into the goal.

We were 2-0 up, oh my bloody goodness.

I saw the players celebrating through the forest of arms but I managed to cajole a photo or two out of my camera.

The away support boomed as we continued to dominate. I was really shocked by the lack of noise coming from the home areas though.

Nothing. I heard nothing at all.

We, not surprisingly full of it. However, songs about Willian, John Terry, Frank Lampard and Cesc Fabregas? Really? Save those for the last five minutes of games when we are winning 4-0 plus please. The Willian one was a real shocker.

I took great pleasure in seeing Enzo get more and more involved. Just two examples of his play; the first a cushioned control of the ball with his instep that screamed quality, the second, a first-time transfer of the play from left wing to right wing that told me that he was full of confidence.

Alongside him, Moises Caicedo was enjoying his best game for us, adeptly swatting Villa breaks, tacking hard, turning and passing. And then Gallagher, a one-man search-and-destroy unit, full of energy and running. It was a very fluid and powerful midfield indeed.

The natives were restless and I was loving it.

Chilwell, finding himself on the right, moved inside and unleashed a shot that whizzed just past the near post.

On thirty-three minutes, Madueke hugged the far touchline as he accelerated away after picking up a loose ball level with our penalty box. He skipped past a challenge and continued his run. He passed to Palmer whose shot was at a relatively easy height for Martinez to save.

On a rare break, Watkins set up John McGinn, but Petrovic tipped it over.

At the half-time break, there were nothing but happy faces among the travelling army. It had been, no doubt, the best half of the season by far. Against a decent team, too, let’s not forget.

Ozzy serenaded us with “Crazy Train” once again as the teams took to the pitch for the second-half.

The home team began brightly and I can honestly say that after a quick attack in the first minute I heard the Holte End for the first discernible time.

“Yippee-aye-eh, yippe-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

We applauded them.

On fifty-four minutes, a foul on Enzo. The free-kick was a long way out. I wanted Palmer to take it, but Enzo stood with Chilwell. Chilwell peeled away and Enzo took aim. As did I.

Snap.

I looked up to see the ball fly over the wall and dip majestically into the top corner with Martinez beaten.

What a goal.

The away sections again boomed.

Zola-esque.

I snapped his euphoric run down to our corner. I sensed the meaning of his actions immediately.

“Look at me. I’m Enzo. I’m staying.”

Ah, bloody lovely stuff.

I instantly forgave him for the yellow card that followed him taking his shirt off. Sometimes emotion gets in the way of accountability and rational thought.

The Chelsea supporters on the side stand piped up.

“North Stand. Give Us A Song. North Stand North Stand Give Us A Song.”

Lovely stuff.

We were through. And we just could not resist a nod to our next opponents.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

Amongst all this, a word for the much-maligned duo of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Their best games for ages too. There was even a song, only a few days after many for rubbishing his recent performances.

“Brought us back a centre back. Benoit Badiashile.”

We’re a fickle bunch aren’t we?

On sixty-five minutes, a song for a former player that I could fully get behind.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Some late substitutions :

72 : Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

75 : Raheem Sterling for Madueke.

Moreno rose at the far post but his looping header landed on top of the net rather than inside it.

More substitutions.

81 : Thiago Silva for Palmer.

87 : Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

Villa had a late flourish and in injury-time, Moussa Diaby coolly slotted in at the Holte End.

Aston Villa 1 Chelsea 3.

A roar at the final whistle. What a night. Roared on by over six thousand our team rose to the occasion and played some gorgeous attacking football. Why can’t all away games be like this?

Leeds – you are next.

2023/24 FA Cup Round Five

Blackburn Rovers vs. Newcastle United

Bournemouth vs. Leicester City

Chelsea vs. Leeds United

Coventry City vs. Maidstone United

Liverpool vs. Southampton

Luton Town vs. Manchester City

Nottingham Forest vs. Manchester United

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Brighton & Hove Albion

Walking out of the stadium after the game brought back memories of other away triumphs over the years. Everyone was singing – “sign him up for eight more years, Chelsea boys are on the beers” – and I sensed a swagger in our step, that good old Chelsea swagger of old. There’s nothing like it. We walked back to the car and we followed the old rule of being able to walk wherever you want after an away win.

Up to the roundabout, out into the road, the cars can stop for us.

The swagger was back.

1996

2002

2024

1996 – Part 2.

It came to light after the game at Villa Park that a sports photographer – working for “Action Images” – had taken a photo of my “Ruud Boys” flag from behind the goal.

I spotted that a cropped version of it soon appeared in a copy of “Total Football” later that year.

I didn’t ask for royalties.

1996 – Part 3.

The former Wimbledon striker Dean Holdsworth once had an affair with glamour model Linsey Dawn McKenzie. At a game at Selhurst Park in the 1996-1997 season – I wasn’t there – the Chelsea fans were full of rude comments about this romantic liaison. In the “Daily Sport” newspaper – that beacon of journalistic integrity – the following day, there was a photo of Linsey Dawn McKenzie (baring all) with a headline to the effect of “How dare Chelsea fans be rude to both Dean and me?”

The editor chose to illustrate her tirade at the Chelsea fans with a picture of some Chelsea fans, set just behind a large photograph of Linsey Dawn and her quite substantial charms. The photo that the editor chose was from the Villa Park semi-final. It was the photo of my Ruud Boys flag. Or rather, a close-up photo of Glenn and me (looking, strangely, straight at the camera). The story goes that Glenn was sitting with his workmates during a tea break when one of them opened up the middle pages of his “Daily Sport” to exclaim –

“Hey, Glenn – there’s a picture of you and Chris Axon next to Linsey Dawn MacKenzie here.”

Next up, a game at Selhurst Park once again; Crystal Palace away on Monday evening.

See you there.

Tales From The North End Road

Posted on January 7, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Preston North End : 6 January 2024.

With the Christmas period over, our first match of 2024 saw us paired in a home FA Cup tie against Preston North End. Our paths do not cross much these days; this only would be our ninth head-to-head since 1963.

I recollected the previous two, both FA Cup ties, from 2002 and 2010. These have been my only sightings of the lilywhites from Lancashire.

On 17 February 2002, we played Preston at Stamford Bridge in the fifth round of the FA Cup. I remembered the visitors going ahead with an early goal – which I happened to capture on film – but my memory was of it being scored by Jon Macken, but it was actually scored by Richard Cresswell. Thankfully, we recovered well and triumphed 3-1 with goals from Eidur Gudjohnsen, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Mikael Forssell. The gate was just 28,133, possibly a result of the club not getting the pricing structure correct back in those days.

On 23 January 2010, on a cold and misty day, Parky and I travelled up to Deepdale and watched us beat the home team 2-0 with goals from Nicolas Anelka and Daniel Sturridge. The gate was 23,119. Before the game, there was time for a quick photograph of the lovely statue of Sir Tom Finney, the Preston plumber, outside the stadium. This statue, nicknamed “The Splash”, is based on the famous photograph taken at Stamford Bridge in 1956 of Finney evading a tackle by Chelsea defender Walter Bennet, and captures the sun hitting the water as it is splashing up from a water-sodden pitch. In 2010, the National Football Museum was based at Deepdale, but it has since moved to Manchester. I remember being impressed by Deepdale, a neat and clean modern stadium. However, there is nothing much left of note in Preston these days, except perhaps its bus station, a brutalist gem.

There are a few other Preston “moments” in Chelsea’s history and social history.

During the FA Cup run of 1968/69, we drew 0-0 at Deepdale and reconvened at Stamford Bridge on the following Wednesday. We were 2-0 up in front of 44,000 but after seventy-five minutes the floodlights failed. Lo and behold, the game was replayed on the following Monday when 36,000 showed up to see us win 2-1.

An episode of “Minder” was filmed at Stamford Bridge on the afternoon of 20 September 1980 during our game against Preston. The segment shows actor Denis Waterman watching at the bottom of The Shed terrace with some friends interspersed with some actual game footage, including a great little cameo by Mike Fillery, before he walks along the gangway at the back of The Benches.

On 28 February 1981, Chelsea fan Gary Lee was tragically killed after being chased, with some friends, by locals before our away game at Preston when he slipped and fell from a multi-story car park. At the game in 2010, supporters close to where I watched the game raised a banner in his memory. His mother, the well-loved Breda, was always on the Chelsea Specials. I remember seeing her around Stamford Bridge and at our away games on many occasions.

Gary Lee RIP

I dropped my fellow travellers at “The Eight Bells” and at Stamford Bridge and I parked up just off Lillee Road at about 11.15am. I had a little time to kill. I would eventually meet up with the lads in the pub, but wanted a bite to eat. Lillee Road is the site of the 1873 FA Cup Final, just as it nears West Brompton tube station.

As I started walking down the North End Road, I spotted that the “Norbros” pizzeria next to “The Goose” had been re-opened as “Koka” and so as it was lunchtime I popped in for some food. Midway through my pizza I spotted Alan walk past, no doubt on his way up to “The Oak” further along the North End Road. In an instant, I decided to join him for a drink and the title of this “Tales” was immediately decided upon.

I walked north, past “The Elm” which looked like it was being refurbished. Just as I was about to pop my head inside inside “The Old Oak”, I saw a Chelsea face pass by. He was heading a hundred yards further north to “The Clarence”. These little run of pubs are decidedly old school. No tourists make it up to these parts, away from the match day buzz and shiny attractions around Stamford bridge. Opposite “The Old Oak” is the site of “The Seven Stars”, a lovely old art deco pub that we popped into once or twice back in the mid-‘nineties, once after the 1997 FA Cup parade at Fulham Broadway. It is now flats but the façade has remained. I wondered if any North End supporters would be drinking anywhere along the North End Road. Maybe up at “The Famous Three Kings”, where we used to drink a few years back? I remembered some Sheffield Wednesday fans in there in 2019.

Alan and Gal were inside “The Old Oak” and I joined them for a while. I hadn’t visited this particular pub since early 2019/20. My friendship with Alan goes back to 1984. My friendship with Gary goes back to around 1988.

I then did myself proud. Rather than take the tube or bus, I walked the 1.6 miles from “The Old Oak” to “The Eight Bells” and got some steps in. It is pretty much a classic match day walk, deep in the heart of Fulham; down the North End Road, onto Fulham Road, onto Fulham High Street. I spotted a family of PNE fans opposite “The Temperance” but I was surprised that neither “The Temperance” nor “The King’s Arms” was full of away fans. Where the bloody hell were they? With six thousand of them in town, they couldn’t all be drinking at Earl’s Court surely?

When I had set off from “The Oak”, at 2.25pm, I texted PD to say that I would be about thirty-five minutes. At 3pm exactly, I walked into “The Eight Bells.”

I work in logistics.

It was a rather shortened drink-up in there. The pub was quiet. Still no away fans anywhere. With the tubes knackered, we caught a bus to Fulham Broadway.

As expected, Preston had the entire Shed End, some six-thousand strong. Again, I had swapped out with Parky to allow him to sit next to PD and Alan. I took up my “Cup” position in the MHU.

The team?

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Colwill – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Broja

So, a full start for Alfie, soon becoming a Chelsea cult-hero.

The usual darkened arena, lights flashing, flames.

Once normal lighting had been resumed, there was a moment of reflection on the one-year anniversary of the passing of Gianluca Vialli. A banner was passed below in the MHL. This struck me as being a “first”. I do not recollect us acknowledging anniversaries of the passing of past players ever before. I think this exemplifies how much the great man was truly adored in SW6. Well done Chelsea.

Gianluca Vialli RIP

At kick-off, there was a ridiculous “shift” from Preston. Four players were lined-up on the half-way line between the centre circle and the East Stand touchline. Here was a variance on the way to start a match. I liked that. A deviation. Something out of the ordinary. One of the hideous buzzwords in popular football parlance these days is “overload” but here was a fine example of it. The ball was played back to Freddie Woodman, the ‘keeper, who pumped into the air. Chelsea won the first header and the resulting second ball.

Oh well. Next time Preston.

The first-half was shite, eh?

I am not going to waste too much time writing about it.

As expected, the six thousand in The Shed were suitably energised and full of noise.

“Jump around if you hate Blackpool.”

Ah yes, the rivalries in Lancashire are alive and kicking; Blackburn and Burnley, Preston and Blackpool, lovely.

“PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE PNE – PNE – PNE!”

Ah, good old Paeonia lactiflora.

Perhaps we should have replied with a song about Apium graveolens.

Our first attempt on goal came after fifteen minutes. Then the visitors had a dig at our goal. But this was lukewarm stuff. On twenty minutes, Raheem Sterling unleashed a stinger at Woodman.

I was sat next to strangers, and both were ridiculously quiet. I found myself commentating at times in the way that many football fans do.

“Second ball!”

“Don’t let it drop.”

“Into them, Chels,”

I felt a bit odd. I needed to engage with someone. Thankfully John and his son were sat right behind me, so I was grateful for an outlet.

I could not but help notice that Alfie was wearing black boots. It seemed like he was trying to “out JT” John Terry.

A beautiful ball from Enzo was lofted into space but Cole Palmer was quickly closed down by the Preston ‘keeper and the ball bounced wide. This remained virtually the sole moment of unscripted innovation from the whole team in that turgid first-half.

There was angled shot by a Preston attacker, but easily saved by Djordje Petrovic.

The half-hour was reached and it was so dull. I was getting so perplexed with the continued lack of movement from those in advanced positions. Armando Broja, like Nicolas Jackson, needs to move their markers more often. Everywhere I looked, we had players who were ball-watching, mesmerized into a state of inertia. There were hardly any runners looking to exploit space.

We would have been no match for Tony Hancock’s mother’s gravy which “at least moved about.”

Palmer was a meagre plus point. Enzo showed a very occasional hint that he might be able to unlock things, but this was a terrible game. As the end of the first-half approached, even the away fans had almost given up on it, their noise decreasing with each passing minute. There were even a few muted boos as the referee signalled the end of the first forty-five minutes. I was mentally preparing for two more days off work to attend the replay at Deepdale in ten days’ time.

At the start of the half-time break, just before I trotted off to turn my bike around, I joked with John that I was leaving my camera at my seat so I would be forced to return for the second-half.

Chelsea attacked us in the Matthew Harding in the second-half. Early on, a lovely ball from Enzo was dropped towards Palmer but the ball fell short and he could not get a touch as it bounced above his leap.

A Moises Caicedo error allowed a Preston attack but the effort from Alan Browne was always curing over.

Throughout the game, the away team chose the currently out-of-favour style of goal kicks; all players huddled either side of the half-way line and a boot up field from the ‘keeper.

Just after a booming shout of “Fuck The Tories” from the away supporters, Malo Gusto sent over a pacey cross down below me. A leap from Broja, a flick, and the ball ripped into the goal.

Oh how we love the sight of footballs nestling against the white mesh of goal nets.

The crowd was now alive at last.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

CFC 1 PNE 0.

GET IN.

In The Sleepy Hollow, Alan sent me a text that I soon reciprocated.

You know how it goes.

Broja charged down a poor clearance but could not convert. Soon after, almost a copy of the first goal. A great cross from Mudryk, another leap from Broja, but the ball scraped the bar this time.

Ooooh.

Some substitutions on sixty-one minutes.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Noni Madueke for Mydruk.

Silva slotted alongside Disasi, Colwill moved to left-back, Gusto moved to right-back.

On sixty-six minutes, a Palmer corner kick from my left and our right zipped towards the near post. Silva rose and headed it convincingly past Woodman.

CFC 2 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught Silva’s celebrations on film, if not the goal. He was certainly pumped full of passion. He roared. I spotted him place a clenched fist beneath his shirt to signify his heart.

An iconic image.

Shortly after, John and I were completely bemused and befuddled as to why VAR had been consulted.

The. Goal. Came. Direct. From. A. Corner.

VAR – do fuck off.

An air horn had been surreptitiously smuggled into the East Lower and every time that it sounded, I could not help but notice the predominantly young voices that responded “CHELSEA!”

A very odd sensation. It sounded like every single voice had yet to brake; a choir of pre-pubescent young’uns. I looked around. There were, indeed, many more families with kids in attendance than for normal league games.

Three minutes later, Palmer was fouled centrally and Sterling took aim. I caught his approach and strike on film. The ball spun and dipped over the wall. I could hardly believe it had beaten everyone.

Another roar.

CFC 3 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught his run and leap too.

Three goals in just ten minutes. And the floodlights stayed on.

Broja came close again, but an effort was cleared off the line.

On seventy-six minutes, more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Palmer.

Deivid Washington for Broja.

There were shots on goal from Gusto and Gallagher.

On eighty-eight minutes, a ridiculous scramble inside the Preston box, but the ball eventually presented itself for Enzo to prod home.

We celebrated but we soon saw a flag for offside. To be fair, it looked offside. Oh well. Then, the elongated pain of VAR. The players all tracked back to the half-way line. The wait seemed to go too long. Maybe ninety seconds? Ridiculous.

The sign from the referee : goal.

I did not celebrate.

CFC 4 PNE 0.

I hate VAR.

A very late substitution.

Michael Golding for Enzo.

The substitute almost prodded home a debut goal. There was still time for a rousing “Zigger Zagger” from Cathy down below the lads in The Sleepy Hollow, a merry dance into the box by Madueke but a blocked shot and an effort from Sterling that zipped wide.

It finished 4-0.

I am not sure what Mauricio Pochettino had dropped into the players’ cocoa at half-time but it certainly worked.

We made our way home and into the next round. Who do I fancy in Round Four?

An away game at any of these please –

Coventry City

Ipswich Town

Maidstone United

Newport County or Eastleigh

Plymouth Argyle

Sheffield Wednesday

Wrexham

Now that we are not actively involved in the league’s top placings nor in European competitions, the two domestic cup competitions really are the focus of our attention this season.

Next up, more days off work and another cup tie.

Middlesbrough away, Tuesday night, a League Cup semi-final, a Chicken Parmo,I can’t wait.

See you there.

2002.

2010.

THE NORTH END ROAD.

2024 PART ONE.

MYKHAILO MUDRYK.

THIAGO SILVA.

RAHEEM STERLING.

2024 PART TWO.

Tales From One Team In Fulham

Posted on October 5, 2023 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 2 October 2023.

After our pleasing, but narrow, win at home to Brighton & Hove Albion in the League Cup, one game dominated my thoughts.

But it wasn’t our next game, the SW6 Derby at Craven Cottage.

It was Frome Town’s FA Cup tie at Ramsgate in Kent.

I had mentioned to a few work mates and close friends during the build up to this match in the competition’s Third Qualifying Round that I was more excited about it than any other game during the season thus far; more so than the previous eleven Frome games and – gulp – more so than the previous eight Chelsea ones.

It had dominated my thoughts so much that I had subtitled my Facebook post from the MHU before the Brighton game with the words “The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.”

My reasons were clear and obvious. For starters, it would be my longest ever trip to see Frome Town play. The distance from my village in the east of Somerset to the tip of Kent would be 186 miles. It could be a classic FA Cup tie, an away game in a far flung ground, a new ground at that, with all of the associated dreams of advancing further. There would be the chance to meet up with a band of loyal supporters. There would be the hopes of an entertaining game. There were hopes of drama. If we sneaked a win, or even a draw, we would be in the hat for the Fourth Qualifying Round draw on the Monday. There was the anticipation, however misguided, of getting past these two rounds to qualify for the First Round Proper and to meet a Football League team for the first time since 1954.

On 24 November, Frome Town played host to Leyton Orient in the FA Cup in front of a mighty 8,000, losing 0-3.

We all hoped for some sort of repeat.

On the night before the game, the directors, players, management team and a handful of supporters travelled to Ramsgate by coach. My friends Louise and Steve, the club’s historian and my friend for over forty years, travelled up too. On the Saturday morning, one mini bus and three further cars set off from Frome; my car was one of them. I picked up Simon and his son Charlie, plus his mate Ethan, just after 8am. Also setting off was Trotsky and Terry from Launceston in Cornwall; their trip was a mighty 289 miles.

One coach, one mini-bus, four cars.

We would have around forty fans there.

Pre-match was spent in the massive pub that looks out onto the beach and the English Channel. It was a gorgeous day and every one of us mentioned how impressed we were with the town, nestled around a decent marina, close to a small harbour, a vibrant sea-front with bars and cafes.

Southwood Stadium was a treat, with uneven terraces at both ends, a raised bar area overlooking the 3G pitch in one corner, and a concrete-roofed main stand that oozed charm and was surprising sleek and chic.

Frome started the better team and dominated the early exchanges. The home team really ought to have taken the lead just before the break but a chance was spurned. Alas, Ramsgate improved after half-time and went 2-0 up. A late Warren Maidment goal made it 2-1, a score that flattered us slightly. The gate was a healthy 720.

The dream was over.

But it had been a lovely adventure in the World’s oldest football competition and one that everyone had thoroughly enjoyed. Even a long delay in Kent on the drive home didn’t dampen our spirits too much. I returned home at around 10pm, my FA Cup journey on pause now until January. I had seen three of Frome’s away games – at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate, 932 miles in total – plus the home replay against Plymouth. I had missed the home tie against Clevedon due to Chelsea duties.

It had been a blast.

Thanks, Dodge.

However, I was somewhat pleased that there was no Chelsea game on the Sunday. On the Monday, the alarm sounded at 4.30am and I worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I had promised PD and Parky that I would drop them off outside “The Eight Bells” at 4.30pm.

I did so at 4.29pm.

I hoped that it was a good omen.

I went off to park up on Whittingstall Road close to Parsons Green tube station. I had booked a “JustPark” spot from 4.30pm to 10.30pm.

On my walk down to the pub, I spotted the old pottery kiln that stands just off the New King’s Road. I was reminded of a recent snippet of family history. A couple of weeks ago, I took a day off work to travel down to Parkstone in Poole with my Canadian cousin Kathy and her husband Joe, who were visiting England for a month. My grandmother Gladys and Kathy’s grandfather Bill were siblings. Their surname was Lovelace, a beautiful name. However, after being widowed our great grandmother could not cope with the onerous task of looking after five children and so Bill was sent to Ontario in Canada to begin a new life at the age of just ten. I once met Bill, a very quiet man, at Heathrow in 1978 when he was passing through to visit another grandchild who was working in Kenya.

We visited the house where our grandparents were born. This terraced house was quite close to the site of Poole Pottery and the dwelling was probably built by the owners to house the workers. In her research, Kathy had uncovered the news that their father had been a “moulder” at the pottery, and we were lost in thought for a moment as we envisaged him walking off to the pottery each day for a hard day’s graft. We were pleased that he wasn’t a general labourer; that he had a trade.

“That’s weird, you know…him being a potter. The other two areas of England known for pottery are Chelsea, the home of my football club, and Stoke-on-Trent, where I went to college.”

Funny game, pottery.

…Graham Potter to complete the circle? Nah. How about Percy Axon, the former chairman of Stoke City in the ‘seventies instead? Yes, that’s a much better fit.

We even visited the interior of the local church where Gladys Lovelace and Thomas Axon were married in 1921.

Let’s get back to Fulham.

I joined PD and Parky at our usual table at 5pm and the place soon filled up. Salisbury Steve soon joined us. I was sat next to five visitors from the US, and I presumed that they had gone to the NFL game at Tottenham at the weekend; instead they were calling in to London, a first visit, after a few days at Munich’s Oktoberfest. They all had tickets to the game so I gave them a little background.

“Oh, they hate us, Fulham. And we don’t mind them, which winds them up even more.”

They were from Indianapolis and Joe, who got the brunt of my spiel, was a QPR fan.

Yeah, I know.

DJ had handed me a copy of “CFCUK” and so I had passed it over to them.

Anyway, they promised me they would take a look at the blog so this is for them.

“Hope you enjoyed the game.”

Courtney from Chicago and Kevin from Toronto were in our little group of Chelsea loyalists and it was good to see them. Paul, who I last saw in Baku, was back for a couple of games from his home in Brisbane. When he lived in London, he used to run the Eight Bells’ Sunday league team.

That Chelsea world keeps getting smaller.

We set off for the ground at 7pm. Throughout the drive to London, there had been sporadic outbursts of rain. Thankfully, I remained dry on my walk from the car to the pub and thankfully the walk to Craven Cottage was dry too. We were joined by friends Rob and Martin, both who sit behind me at Chelsea.

I bumped into Big John as I approached the ground.

“Not really too excited about this one. Why am I here? A sense of duty? Habit? Routine? I really don’t know.”

Despite a chap with a loudhailer imploring fans to have bags checked in a specific turnstile, I ignored him and shot through a normal one. I was in like Flynn. Job done.

It didn’t seem five minutes since the last game at Craven Cottage; that odd, feisty encounter in January when we played well and then didn’t. As with that occasion, I would be watching way down the front of the Putney End. Alas the rake is so shallow down there that it makes spectating – and photography – very difficult.

I reached my seats just as Alan arrived. Gal was already there. Parky arrived a little later, John later still.

A special mention for Charlotte and Paul from Somerset.

“So good to see you both.”

The rain was holding off. Fingers crossed.

Amazingly, the main stand – now with a dinky logo all of its own – was still not completed, with nobody sitting in the central area of the upper deck. There was the darkening of the lights, and a few Fulhamistas went all Barry Manilow on us and held their ‘phone torches up.

Bless.

Just before the teams strode across the pitch from the Cottage, electronic dance music pumped out and it all felt ridiculously incongruous. At least there were no fireworks; Chelsea take note.

Us?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

I remember that Willian played a blinder for Fulham in January. He started again for them.

Chelsea wore the new sponsor’s name for the first time.

“Infinite Athlete.”

Bring back “Bai Lin Tea”, say I.

We attacked the Hammersmith End, but as I predicted, my view was annoyingly poor. I didn’t expect great things from my SLR all night.

I liked our energy, pace and movement from the start and we totally dominated. An early effort from Armando Broja flew over and there were a few groans. He was offside anyway.

“A sighter” I thought to myself.

The midfield three fought for every ball, and the wide players showed a willingness to come close to receive balls to their feet or to stay wide and stretch out their markers. Early on it seemed like it would be a half-decent performance. I was soon warming to the game, to the evening, to the whole experience. Despite my flirtation with my local side, Chelsea is my team, these are my players, despite me not feeling too connected to many of them. I soon joined in with the singing.

“One team in Fulham. There’s only one team in Fulham.”

We needed to remind them who was who and what was what; this was, after all, the SW6 Derby. The blurb on the electronic signs on the Riverside Stand might well say “London’s Original Football Club” but they are still shite. One hundred and forty-four years and not one single major trophy.

Fackinell.

The irony is, had they beaten Atletico Madrid in Hamburg in 2010, I would have been genuinely pleased for them. And that sums up the Fulham / Chelsea rivalry perfectly.

We continued to purr and Mudryk enjoyed a few advances down the left, inside and out. His turn of pace is so electric. We just need to plug it in and use it.

Fulham had an occasional attack, an occasional corner. Our defenders stood firm.

On eighteen minutes, a clipped cross from Levi Colwill found an unmarked Mudryk. He leaped to chest the ball down, to cushion it, then swept the ball home.

Bloody hell, it was in.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBASTARD.

I screamed like a fool.

The away end, already bubbling along nicely, exploded with arms flailing everywhere. After the dust settled, I looked over to Alan.

The quickest “THTCAUN / COMLD” soon followed.

Less than ninety seconds later, Cole Palmer’s played a ball through to Broja. The Fulham defender Tim Ream tried to clear but made a hash of it. The ball struck Broja. The net rippled gloriously.

I completely lost it this time, arms outstretched, and even louder screams.

“Bloody hell Chris, this reaction is heart-warming.”

Chelsea were back and so was I.

We played some nice stuff for the remainder of the half. I immediately had thoughts of a cricket score but knew that this might well turn out to be a close game should the home team grab a goal.

I kept looking over to the spectators in the lower tier of the new stand to my left. A couple of blokes resembled Prince William and Prince Albert of Monaco; surely not. Next to him was a family from the US, the father wearing an Arizona Cardinals jersey, the mother smiling as she recorded the antics of the Chelsea support.

“Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.”

Then a bearded fellow nearby who showed us his Chelsea logo on his ‘phone, then joined in with a few of our songs.

…mmm, our songs.

It was one of those evenings, like at Brentford a year ago, when we really plundered the Chelsea songbook.

But songs in praise of Frank Lampard, Timo Werner, Dennis Wise, Salomon Kalou, Cesc Fabregas?

Even Willian, bloody Willian?

No.

That’s infuriating.

It is also infuriating that so many Chelsea supporters think it’s “Solomon” Kalou.

I joined in with the “Vialli” chants out of respect for our late player and manager but that is a little different.

Rant over, for now.

A shot from Enzo, bang on form again, rose too highly and sailed over.

We continued to dominate and I can’t really remember Robert Sanchez being tested at all. This was a fine showing and things were beginning to tick. Conor Gallagher was full of his usual running but he had added some fine passes to his armoury on this damp night in SW6; yes, the rain had started again.

We were up 2-0 at the break and all was well with the world.

There were plenty of old school heads in the Hammersmith End and it was good to see. I wondered what the visitors from Indianapolis were making of it all.

Ian Maatsen replaced Mudryk; we presumed that he had suffered a knock. I had spotted Mauricio Pochettino with his arm around the player’s shoulder as they walked off the pitch at the break. I thought nothing of it, but…

In the away end, the singing continued.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

“Conor Gallagher, da da da – da da da da…”

“Oh Thiago Silva…”

“His hair’s fucking massive…”

“Mudryk said to me…”

At least these five were playing.

But then a very loud song about flutes, religion and terrorism.

Oh boy.

Do we sing about low emission zones, “Tesco” meal deals, global warming, puddles, the price of breakfast cereals or the pedestrianisation of Norwich city centre?

No, because these are not relevant at football.

Oh well, another rant over.

The home team managed to see a lot of the ball in the second half but thankfully didn’t manage to do a great deal with it. Was this whole half of football a nod to Mourinho-style game management – “no need to score any more, this game is won” – or was it a result of tiredness and a slackening of intent by Pochettino and his players?

Not sure.

But we were off the pace compared to the first forty-five minutes.

Raheem Sterling replaced the tiring Broja.

Maatsen struck a shot that hit the framework of the goal at the Putney End, but there were so many people in the way that I could not see if it was the post or bar. Corners from in front of the Cottage were also a mystery for me. I pointed my camera at the pitch whenever my view was not obstructed.

Willian danced in from the Fulham left a few times. On one occasion, the ball was fed into Sasa Lukic but Sanchez’ outstretched left leg hacked the ball away. A goal then would have turned us into jabbering wrecks.

The Chelsea fan in the lower tier to my left had been supporting the team a little too openly for his own good and was lead out by four security guards.

The side was refreshed with some late substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Palmer.

Noni Madueke for Caicedo.

Alex Matos for Palmer, a debut.

The game deteriorated further.

Thankfully, no further worries or scares.

Fulham 0 Chelsea 2.

At the end, I messaged a few friends “Thank God it’s over.”

I hurried back to Whittingstall Road and then collected the chaps from outside the stadium. I was famished so stopped at Reading Services for a top up of junk food. The A350 was closed at Chippenham so I was forced onto the A4. All of this meant that I eventually reached home at 1.35am.

I can’t ever go straight to sleep, so after reviewing my photos and chatting to a few mates in the US, I eventually called it a day at 2.30am.

It had turned out to be a twenty-two hour day.

Chelsea, eh?

Home

Away

Come On You Blues

Tales From The Eton Blues

Posted on September 20, 2023 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 17 September 2023.

The Chelsea website would call this an entertaining game.

I beg to differ.

Here’s my take on the match at the Vitality Stadium, plus a few other football-related anecdotes thrown in for good measure.

Our home loss against Nottingham Forest – that match feels like it took place ages ago – was followed by a period of inactivity for Chelsea as the increasingly despised international break took over the football calendar. It took over my calendar too; I buggered off for an international break of my own in Italy and France.

I flew to Genoa and then took a train to Diano Marina on the Italian Riviera, a town where I have enjoyed many visits – and football-related incidents – since I first visited it in 1975. On the Friday, I caught a train to Nice, passing through Monaco, the scene of our first UEFA Super Cup win against Real Madrid, a fine trip that one. I met up with my good Chelsea friend Dave, who I had not seen since Sheffield United at home in 2019. We first met up in Los Angeles while on tour with CFC in 2007 and he has lived in the South of France since around 2016. We updated each other with our recent histories while enjoying a few lagers in a couple of bars. It was a joy.

On the Saturday and Sunday, my work colleague Lorenzo from Milan, and his wife Marina, met up with me in Diano Marina, and we had a lovely time walking west to Imperia and then east to Cervo along the site of the old Roman road the Via Aurelia. There were beers, fine food and tons of laughs. That I was staying in the same hotel that my parents visited during their first holiday to the town made my stay even sweeter.

On the Monday, before my flight home, I even managed to pack in a three-hour walking tour of Genoa; such an historic, cramped and photogenic city. It left me yearning for more. As fate would have it, I used the services of the same taxi driver on two separate occasions, quite by chance. He was a Samp fan, and also favoured Chelsea as his English team. As I left his cab, we toasted the memory of Gianluca Vialli. They idolise him in Genoa.

Incidentally, on the Thursday, as I darted in and out of a couple of bars near the city’s Piazza Principe train station, I spotted many folk wearing Genoa colours. I panicked a little and wondered if I had made an error and that they were playing that night, a chance to see a game at the Luigi Ferraris Stadium missed due to poor planning. I was to find out that the fans were instead off out to celebrate the club’s birthday, formed one hundred and thirty years ago to the day. It made me think; do any British fans celebrate their clubs’ birthdays with such a show of public affection? I think not. Maybe Genoa are a special case; Genoa Cricket And Football Club, as they are officially known, are Italy’s oldest club after all.

One last comment about my mini visit to the twin Rivieras of Italy and France. Over the five days of my stay, the most popular replica shirt that I saw?

Not Juventus. Not PSG. Not Milan. Not Inter.

Real Madrid.

I hate modern football.

As the following weekend approached, I had the English Riviera in sight.

Kinda.

On the Saturday, Frome Town were playing an FA Cup tie at Plymouth Parkway. This naval city is not exactly on the English Riviera, which the tourist boards of Torquay, Paignton and Brixham have chosen as their own moniker, but not too far away. On the Sunday, I had the Chelsea game in Bournemouth. The Dorset Riviera anyone?

The FA Cup game, a keenly-contested 2-2 draw in front of almost 400, was very enjoyable. Frome Town twice led through Owen Humphries and then James Ollis, only to conceded a late equaliser. The two teams would meet again the following Tuesday at Badgers Hill in a replay. This really pleased me; two Canadian relatives were to visit my local area during the week and had been keen to see a football match, any football match, in person during their short stay in Somerset. With the draw, they now had a game to watch.

Another North American tourist came into my plans, like a last-minute substitution, when I awoke on Saturday morning before my flit down to Plymouth. Tom, from Orange County in California, was staying at a hotel only two miles from my house and was angling for a place in The Chuckle Bus for the short trip to Bournemouth on the Sunday. Some strategic logistical planning quickly took place and everything was sorted. One Chuckle Bus became two, parking was arranged outside the Vitality Stadium, and everyone was happy.

Sunday soon arrived. I picked Tom up at the hotel at eight o’clock, but before we headed down to join up with Glenn, PD, Parky and Sir Les in Bournemouth, I treated Tom to a whistle-stop tour of both my home village of Mells and my home town of Frome.

I darted around Mells, quickly combining facts about the village – “fifteenth century church”, “Manor House”, “my mother was born in that house”, “I spotted Robert Plant outside that house last year”, “Fussell’s Ironworks”, “Little Jack Horner”– with a few football-related things too – “here’s where I kicked a tennis ball against the wall opposite my house, breaking many windows in the process”, “this is the school where I first became a Chelsea fan”, “I played for my village the first time here” before then heading into Frome.

We even had time to stop off – and step inside – Badgers Hill, the home ground of Frome Town, where I watched my first real football game in 1970.

I zoomed down to Bournemouth and we joined up with the chaps in “The Moon On The Square” at around 10.20am. It was wet outside. So much for the Riviera.

A few other friends drifted in as I ordered a light breakfast, and Tom ordered his second breakfast of the morning. Glenn said he’d attend the Frome game on Tuesday. There wasn’t too much talk about the Chelsea game. It had been such an underwhelming start to the season.

And not just at our club.

In many ways, I have been struggling further with football in general. In a rare and lucid moment before a Depeche Mode concert with my mate Dennis from DC, at a pub on the River Thames in Richmond in June, I stumbled across a phrase that summed it all up.

With a nod to my deepening alienation from top level players, my dislike of VAR, of UEFA, of FIFA, even the FA, the deadening of the atmosphere at games at Stamford Bridge, the entitlement of many fans, players’ obscene wags, late changes to kick-off times, blah, blah, blah, I summed it all up.

“I am not a fan of football, but I love being a football fan.”

I love the planning of travel to games, the sorting out of tickets, the driving, the endless driving, the drink-ups in the pubs, meeting new Chelsea friends from various places, the away days, the clobber, the laughs, the piss-taking, the banter, the memories…and I like being at games, live-games, taking in all in, the architecture of stadia, the history, the terrace humour…and I’d like to think I am a good supporter too, singing and cheering as much as I can, being there for the team…then there is the photography and the words in this blog.

I enjoy it all.

I love being a fan.

The football?

Not so sure.

We got drenched – absolutely soaked – on the short walk to the multi-story car-park. The two Chuckle Busses set off :

Glenn, PD, Parky, Sir Les, Daz in Glenn’s van.

Tom, two of Daz’ mates and me in my car.

We arrived at the same “JustPark” location – a large space outside a house on Littledown Avenue – at around 1.20pm. The rain still fell.

I was soon inside, evading the eyes of the tedious “bag gestapo” at the away turnstiles.

Made it.

A few “hellos” and a few handshakes in the away concourse…before I knew it “bloody hell, it’s ten to.”

Into the away seats we went.

The floodlights were on, the sky was dull grey, the rain still fell.

The teams appeared and Chelsea were to wear the newly-confirmed third kit of Eton Blue. For once, I approve; a nice nod to our inaugural colours of 1905. Typically, I was amazed how many of our new fans were blissfully unaware of the light blue racing colours of the Earl Cadogan. It’s such a subtle shade. I think it looks fantastic.

Our team?

Definitely a back four, right kids?

Sanchez

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Uguchukwu – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

There was the usual “make some noise – for the boys” bollocks from the PA, plus some social deviant yelling out “Red Army!” on the TV screens.

Oh aye.

Conor was captain.

Before the game, a minute of silence for those that perished recently in Libya and Morocco.

The game began, and it began ever so brightly as the Eton Blues attacked the goal to our right. A move down the right and some deft interplay between Mykhailo Mudryk and Nicolas Jackson set up Gallagher but he could not fully connect.

“Big game for Mudryk, Gal.”

Jackson then thumped an effort against a post after being set up by Mudryk.

We had a decent start, but the play was tending to by-pass Enzo. Both Sterling and Gallagher were combining well and creating a few solid advances into the opponents’ half. The game then struggled along, and Bournemouth slowly got back into the game. A low reaching cross towards the far post was met by Dango Quattara but Robert Sanchez made a fantastic block, spreading himself out, and the chance was fluffed.

There were songs for Frank Lampard and Dennis Wise?

Why – oh, why the fuck why?

Then, an odd moment. Sanchez was in possession just in front of his goal and as he ran through his options, we were treated to the bizarre sight of all four defenders lined up along the goal line. It was football, but not as I knew it.

The problem was that the home team weren’t necessarily taking the bait and pushing up. They stayed back. This was just hideously sterile football.

On the half-hour mark, more Bournemouth possession. They enjoyed a little spell.

But then a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played in to Conor in a central position. He shimmied himself. The world seemed to stop. He took aim. His shot was saved, damn it.

Damn you, Neto.

A Bournemouth effort was smashed so high into the air, and so wide of the goal – it went out for a throw-in – that I immediately Christened it the worst shot that I had seen in almost fifty years of football.

It was one of those games.

As the first-half neared completion, the noise levels had dwindled.

“You can cut the atmosphere with a shovel, Gal.”

Sigh.

There was a lack of cohesion and urgency after the initial flourish, and only Sterling and Gallagher could take much comfort from the first-half. However, Sterling’s fine touches in tight areas and purposeful spins into space just seemed to peter out as he reached the final third. He – and we – lacked a cutting edge.

Sound familiar?

Soon into the second-half, that man Sterling sized up his options at a free-kick. He struck a spectacular curler at goal, but it ping’d the underside of the bar and bounced down and across the goal. Levi Colwill was on hand to knock the rebound in, but the goal was immediately chalked off for offside.

Bollocks.

“Will be 0-0 this, Gal.”

The sun came out, and it got uncomfortably hot in the away section.

Jackson was in on goal but slashed an effort ludicrously wide. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We came close after a scramble that followed a Jackson effort. However, the Bournemouth ‘keeper managed to get a strong hand to a goal bound prod while lying on his back.

At the other end, Richard Billing drilled a shot just wide of our goal from a central free-kick.

Both teams struggled.

“Their final ball is worse than ours, Gal.”

Nearing the end of the game, the home team broke down our left and engineered a chance for our former striker Dominic Solanke. Again, Sanchez saved well.

I noticed that Jackson was too easily out-muscled in many of his his one-to-ones with his marker. But we have to give him time.

There was a plethora of substitutions :

Cole Palmer for Mudryk.

He hadn’t had that good game that he needed.

Ben Chilwell for Colwell.

We all moaned when he had passed, obliquely, after a fine run, the goal at his mercy.

Ian Maatsen for Enzo.

I disliked Enzo’s slow walk off the pitch as he was substituted.

Our last chance came from a rampaging Palmer – “keen Gal, but no options” – chose to pass to Sterling rather than shoot himself. Sterling then crossed to Palmer, whose snapshot was saved well by Netto. A follow-up shot by Maatsen was blocked.

It was all pretty woeful.

“I enjoyed Plymouth yesterday more, Gal.”

It was so dull that I sighed when eight extra minutes were announced.

I just wanted to go home.

It ended 0-0.

Next up, Plymouth Parkway on Tuesday, Bemerton Heath on Saturday and Aston Villa on Sunday.

This football life, eh?

Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1

Posted on August 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 20 August 2023.

There were several instances during the build-up to our game against West Ham at the London Stadium where I told my match-day companions that I fancied us to win. And I honestly believed it. Despite me venturing to the Stratford wastelands on six previous occasions and not seeing a single Chelsea victory, after the pleasing performance against Liverpool I sensed a few reasons to be cheerful. I couldn’t have been the only one.

My week had been busy from a footballing perspective. There were two Frome Town away games, encompassing two new grounds, on the Tuesday and Saturday, and both were enjoyable.

I drove down to Salisbury on the Tuesday after work and met up with Salisbury Steve for the league game against newly-promoted Bemerton Heath Harlequins. I loved their neat ground with a decent clubhouse behind one goal and tall yew trees on two of the remaining three sides. Despite going ahead, Frome Town contrived to get two players sent off and eventually lost 1-3.

On the Saturday morning, it was an early start for me – to avoid holiday traffic – as I drove the 170 miles down to Falmouth in Cornwall. I set off at 6am and arrived at 10am for the second preliminary round of the FA Cup and a match against Falmouth Town. This was another excellent ground, with a bona fide terrace behind one goal and seats set upon a slope along one side. There was even a noisy home support, including a section called “F Troop” involving banners, flags, a music system and even a bloke in a Pikachu body suit – don’t ask – but despite all this, Frome Town carved out a fine 6-2 win.

I got back from Falmouth at 9.30pm on Saturday night. I was up again at 6.30am to head up to London. Over the weekend, I would end up driving 560 miles for football. It’s my life.

I had picked up PD, Simon and Parky by 8.30am and we were parked at Barons Court by 10.30am.

At last we were able to enjoy a decent pre-match prior to a West Ham away game. All the others had been early kick-offs or evening games. Here was the chance to relax. We headed to London Bridge, just as the women’s World Cup Final was kicking-off. There was a vague plan to catch a bit of the game but none of us were too bothered.

I hadn’t seen a single kick of the men’s World Cup in Qatar, and – thus far – I had not seen a single kick of the women’s World Cup in Australia and New Zealand either. International football isn’t my thing for reasons that I can’t be arsed to list.

As we changed trains at Green Park, Parky realised that he had left his match ticket in my car so he had to back-track.

Simon, PD and I ploughed on regardless. We walked from London Bridge to Tower Bridge Road and made our first stop of our pre-match on both banks of the River Thames. I had visited M. Manze once before, and I had promised the lads a visit on one of our wanders around London on a subsequent match day. This establishment, which dates from 1892, serves up traditional pie and mash, and is much-revered. It reminds me of the very first pie and mash shop that I visited on the North End Road before the famous 5-0 Leeds United game in April 1984. I was with PD then, too.

All three of us opted for double pie and double mash, served with the famous parsley-decorated green liquor, and splashed with copious amounts of white pepper and chilli vinegar. It’s a London staple, not found elsewhere in the UK. The food didn’t touch the sides. We sat at old wooden benches and ate in glorious silence. We heard that Spain were 1-0 up down under. Replenished, we left the green and white tiled interior and caught a bus to Canada Water. From here, an overground train to Wapping, which – er – went under the Thames.

From here, we walked up to a famous old pub, The Prospect Of Whitby, which has been on “the list” for a while. This is a glorious pub, and acted as our base camp. Not long after the first drinks were ordered, Parky joined us. In Sydney, the score had stayed 1-0 to Spain. We had not seen a single kick of the game.

It was time to relax. This boozer abuts onto the River Thames. There are stone floors, wooden beams, terraces, a beer garden, history everywhere. Out in the river, a noose hangs from a gibbet, a memory of the days of yore when pirates were put to their death on this site.

There were drinks and laughs.

Simon told of how his grandson is named Enzo – not because of our Argentinian midfielder – and he had recently bought him an Enzo shirt.

This was such a fine time.

“Do we have to go to the game?”

I could have stayed there all day.

A Chelsea fan who lived locally arrived to give Simon a spare ticket, and we were then able to move on to the next pub. Wapping, once an area of trade and warehouses, was yuppified in the ‘eighties, with conversions taking place everywhere. Nowadays, the place reeks of wealth. On the walk between pubs, we spotted Porsches and Mercs parked on the cobbled streets. There is a distinct air of fine living in the shadows underneath the converted warehouses. I saw a couple of people with West Ham shirts. This wasn’t classic Cockney territory like Mile End, Poplar or Plaistow, but as good as it gets in modern day London.

Fackinell.

We dipped into the second pub, “The Town Of Ramsgate”, and this was another Thames-side pub with a terrace abutting the river and access to the shingled reach below. It was another winner. We made plans to return. There are three other pubs close by.

At about 3.15pm, Simon booked an Uber and we were soon on our way to the game. The London Stadium was less than three miles away. We could relax.

“Been a great pre-match, boys. Was even better when Parky fucked off for ninety minutes.”

“I still fancy us to win today.”

Halfway to our destination, I continued on :

“Tell you what, it makes a nice change to get to an away game early. No rush. Fed up of arriving late. Glad we have grown out of that habit.”

With that, Doctor Uber took a wrong turn and we found ourselves on a road headed for the Blackwall Tunnel.

“Fackinell.”

Helpless, we peered out as the car was swept under the river, unable to deviate. We did a U-turn past the O2, then swung north once again. Thankfully, we arrived at Pudding Mill Lane at just after 4pm. Outside, the heat was suddenly blistering, away from the cool shadows of Wapping. After two bag searches, we were in the away end at 4.15pm.

Parky and I joined up with Alan, Gary and John in the fourth row of the upper section. Simon was twenty rows behind us. PD was adrift in the lower tier.

Prior to the teams entering the pitch, a large mosaic was displayed in the East Stand depicting the Europa Conference trophy that West Ham stumbled upon last season.

West Ham in a virtually all claret kit, Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Our team?

Alas, we were missing Reece James, so Malo adjusted into the right wing-back berth.

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Gusto – Gallagher – Enzo – Chukwuemeka – Chilwell

Jackson – Sterling

Bloody hell, Kurt Zouma was captain of West Ham, alongside Emerson Palmieri, another ex-Chelsea player. There were familiar names in the home side. Simon had warned that Michail Antonio always seemed to perform against us.

At 4.30pm, the game began. It doesn’t always happen at West Ham, but this looked like a virtual full house. I couldn’t spot many empty seats anywhere. Gulp.

As always, we attacked the far end, the Bobby Moore Stand, in the first-half. It’s a little ironic that West Ham have switched from a very tight ground at Upton Park in favour of a wide-open elliptical set-up at London Stadium, whereas we have gone from a sprawling oval of the old Stamford Bridge to the tight stands of the new Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t sure if those Chelsea fans in the lower tier, nearer the action but with poor sightlines, were better positioned than those in the upper tier, with a better overall view but so damned far from the pitch. We were right in the middle, above the claret-coloured void. Perhaps we had the best view of the two, a compromise.

On the pitch, a middling opening, and not a great deal of noise from any section.

The home team attacked and won a corner which Robert Sanchez took care of. Soon after, the former Southampton player James Ward-Prowse, sent in another lofted corner, and as the ball dropped I was unfortunate enough to catch the moment that Nayef Aguerd out-muscled one or two of our players to head home.

Fackinell.

I turned to John : “didn’t even make it difficult for him to jump.”

We dominated the possession but I noted a lack of movement up front. In the stands, all was quiet. How was it possible for over 62,000 to make so little noise?

Gradually, we improved.

Nicolas Jackson’s involvement increased and there were a couple of half-chances. On twenty-seven minutes, Ben Chilwell’s cross was cleared but the ball fell to Carney Chukwuemeka. His sway and shimmy lost his marker and as the ball was worked to his right foot, he curled a shot that Alphonse Areola was unable to reach.

Carney made him look like a proper tit.

The Chelsea crowd celebrated, as did the scorer who reeled away with a jump towards the home fans in the corner.

A rare West Ham attack resulted in a shot from Lucas Paqueta that bounced up off a post down below us.

There had been a shout for a Chelsea penalty after Jackson was sent sprawling but VAR had noted an offside. When Raheem Sterling squirmed into space on the edge of the box, Tomas Soucek hacked at him, and there was no VAR to save the home team.

We watched as Enzo stood and faced off against Areola. It was a weak penalty and the ‘keeper was easily able to save to his right.

Sigh.

In the closing minutes of the first-half, Chukwuemeka was injured and was stretchered off.

With Sterling running at pace against a worried defence, and with able support from Jackson and Chukwuemeka, we had played some decent stuff in that first-half. At the half-time break, everyone around me was positive.

“Sterling excellent.”

“All us really.”

The first song aired by the PA at the break was “Radio Ga Ga” by Queen, probably my most loathed band of all time. I thought to myself “that has no right to be played at a football game” and I fucked off to the gents.

As I descended the stairs down to the airy concourse, I was reminded of how away games these days are populated by a greater number of lads – mainly lads – in their twenties than in previous years. Not that it needs stating every game, but I also noted how the vast majority of our away support eschew club colours of any description. This was brought home to me when a couple in their forties passed me. Both of them were wearing Chelsea shirts and, to be frank, they really stuck out. All around me, behind me by the bar, grouped at the base of the stairs, chatting and laughing, were lads – mainly lads – dressed in anything but Chelsea gear.

Plain T-shirts, polos, shorts, jeans, trainers.

Lyle & Scott, Lacoste, CP, Boss, Barbour, Fila, Fred Perry, Weekend Offender, Pretty Green, Moncler, Baslager, Adidas, Nike, Aquascutum, Puma, Paul & Shark, Armani, Ralph Lauren.

I often wonder what goes through the mind of Randy and Brandy from Badgercrack, Nebraska when they show up at a Chelsea away game with full shirt / cap / scarf Holy Trinity and find themselves in a sea of lime, lavender, coral, mint, navy, peach, beige, cerise, black, grey and white.

The West Ham DJ had redeemed themselves. The last song of the break was “Born Slippy” by Underworld, with hints of Hibs Casuals and a working class culture.

Mykhailo Mudryk replaced the unfortunate Chukwuemeka.

Last season, we eked out a 1-1 draw under a grey sky in Stratford. There were white fluffy crowds amid a blue sky on this Sunday in August. The second-half began.

Whereas I stood throughout the first-half, as were those near me, I noted that many were sat as the game recommenced. I sat too, and hated myself for it. I felt that this was a sure sign that we weren’t up for it. There was no noise to speak of.

Bloody modern football.

Soon in to the restart, the ball stood up nicely for Said Benrahma on a break but the effort went wide. Just after, a long ball caught our defence out. We seemed too square, too high, almost as if the menacing Antonio was himself the last man. He raced away past Levi Colwill and shot low past the dive of Sanchez, a hideously perfect finish. Now the home fans roared.

But oh their “Champions Of Europe” chant.

It’s beyond parody really.

And no, they are not even being ironic.

When we twice won the Europa League, we would never have dared sing that.

Fuck me, if West Ham are champions of Europe in 2023, then that means that the Brotherhood Of Man were the best band throughout Europe in 1976.

Sorry Led Zeppelin, sorry Fleetwood Mac, sorry Abba, sorry Rolling Stones, sorry Thin Lizzy, sorry Sex Pistols.

Save all your kisses for me, West Ham.

The second-half really disappointed. In the first-half, there was at least intent and cohesion. The second period just got worse and worse.

I compared notes with John.

“The only time we win here, I had to work.”

“Like me at United. Been there fourteen times. Not seen us win.”

We toiled but it was terrible to watch.

Malo Gusto made an absolutely sublime last ditch tackle when a one-on-one break reached the point of no return.

Sadly, Enzo was a poor shadow of the man who played so formidably against Liverpool.

On the hour, Mauricio Pochettino replaced Chilwell with new signing Moises Caicedo. We switched to four at the back with Caicedo bolstering the midfield.

Goal-scorer Aguerd was then booked for the second time and was sent off on sixty-eight minutes. Our attacking play was disjointed. We were afraid to shoot. Sterling dithered on more than one occasion. Mudryk had pace but no end product. More substitutions.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher.

Mason Burstow for Gusto.

A debut and thus a very proud moment for my mate Andy, who coached Burstow at a club in Kent for a while.

Mudryk was pitiful. One shot of his, after arriving late at the far post, was volleyed so far into the air that it spent ages coming back down to Earth, and when it did, it didn’t even go off for a corner.

This was horrible.

Quite bizarrely, I was aware that a young lad, maybe in his late teens, who was sat to my immediate left did not utter one word the entire game. Not one word; no word of encouragement, no comments, certainly no songs of support.

Can anyone fucking explain that to me?

Madueke showed some intent and was almost rewarded when a shot was deflected on the base of Areola’s post.

With hundreds of Chelsea leaving before the end, a rash challenge by debutant Caicedo resulted in Paqueta scoring from the spot.

Holy Moises.

West Ham United 3 Chelsea 1.

Sigh.

So, seven visits to the London Stadium, and still no wins.

Shall I stay at home next season?

We made our way back to Pudding Mill Lane and caught the first of three trains to take us back to Barons Court. On the second one, a Jubilee Line train, the announcer stated that “this train will terminate at Wembley Park.”

I turned to the boys and said “I don’t think our season will.”

We had crossed the River Thames six times during the day and we were at last on our way out west.

I eventually reached home at 10.30pm.

This, of course, was a disappointing performance bit I genuinely think that I – and many others – immediately found ourselves getting overly upset with a few negatives.

It was, after all, only our second league game of the season.

Next up is a Friday night match at home to Luton Town.

See you there.

Manze’s