Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 16 May 2026.

Who was confident before our FA Cup Final set-to with Manchester City? Anybody? I know I wasn’t. I put our likelihood of success at the 25% mark. I remarked to a few people that it was an odd feeling to be such an underdog in a Cup Final. And when I mean Cup Final, I mean the FA Cup Final, it’s the only Cup Final that you can get away with by just saying “cup final” in the UK; that’s for the overseas readers.

You must go back to 1994 for a similar set of circumstances. I would probably have put our chances at 25% in that one too, against a Manchester United team in their first real flush of pomp under Ferguson. Our defeat came as no real surprise, but it was just the strength of defeat – plus those penalties by Cantona – that hurt so much. It wasn’t a 0-4 game. Deep down, I silently feared some sort of hideous repeat.

I was to travel to London more in hope and expectation, and it was this phrase that was rebounding around the large void between my ears as I got ready on Cup Final morning.

It was an early start for me; thank goodness I set the alarm at the correct time this week. I was out of the house at 5.50am and was headed to collect Paul at 6am. As I drove through my sleeping Somerset village, I was met with a scene of arboreal beauty, with huge trees dominating the village’s main road. I decided to stop as I approached Rectory Corner and take a photo of the peaceful scene ahead of me and post it on Facebook as a scene setter for the day’s journey into London. It would be a day that would provide subtle and not so subtle variations between rural and urban vistas of England.

I captioned it appropriately.

“From Somerset to Wembley, we’ll keep the Blue Flag flying high.”

This song was born in that lovely 1993/94 cup run, and it is still sung triumphantly at key games to this day. Of course, that rain-drenched match was my first-ever Cup Final, coming a full twenty-four years after our previous one in 1970. It was the victory over Leeds United that was probably the catalyst for my support of the team, though the actualities are lost in time. In those intervening twenty-four years, we stood to one side as umpteen other teams played at Wembley in cup finals and wondered if we would ever get the chance to attend this most glorious of occasions. No less than eight London teams – Arsenal, Crystal Palace, Fulham, Queens Park Rangers, Tottenham Hotspur, West Ham United and Wimbledon – all played in cup finals from 1971 to 1993, whereas our beloved Chelsea did not.

You can tell it still hurts, right?

Without thinking, the photo that I took of Mells in Somerset on the way to London depicts the house – if you were to zoom in, it would be to the right of the cars, and opposite “The Talbot” pub sign – where I saw my first-ever FA Cup Final on TV way back in 1972 when I was six. It was my maternal grandparents’ house; the house where my grandfather was born in 1895 and where my mother was born in 1930. For the first five years or so, I always watched cup finals at their house. It’s amazing what I can remember from that day, and it didn’t even involve Chelsea.

1972 was a special year for the FA Cup; the year marked the centenary of this competition.

Leading up to the match, there was an Esso coin collection that my father and I completed over the preceding few months. These coins honoured all previous winners, and I was proud as punch that Chelsea were featured. I still have those coins, which are still housed in the special book that I have in my possession, to this day.

The final was between Arsenal and Leeds United and I liked neither. I don’t think I cared who won. I distinctly remember a parade of flags depicting all previous winners being held high by individuals as they walked around the perimeter of the huge Wembley pitch before the game began. Leeds United won 1-0 with a diving header from Alan Clarke from around the penalty spot, and it remains a rarity; a diving header from so far out. I also remember Mick Jones dislocating his shoulder as he fell near the goal-line, and him being wrapped up, painfully, in bandages – like a mummy – and the grimaces on his face as he ascended the steps to the Royal Box to receive his medal.

I mention this game in detail since it contrasts starkly with recent FA Cup Finals. I can remember so much from fifty-four years ago, yet I had completely and utterly forgotten that Crystal Palace beat Manchester City 1-0 in the final twelve months ago.

These days, FA Cup Finals are unfortunately seen as an inconvenience by many. In the office during the week, a couple of football fans didn’t even know it was on.

This would be Chelsea’s seventeenth FA Cup Final, and it would be my thirteenth, and – yes – of course I superstitiously looked at this as a bad, a very bad, omen.

Despite a run of four victories in 2007, 2009, 2010 and 2012 that gave us a decent 7-4 overall record, we lost three in a row in 2020, 2021 and 2022 to give us, now, an 8-8 record.

This one was to define if we were to go – in baseball parlance – “over five hundred” with a 9-8 record.

It seemed like the weight of football history was on our shoulders as I collected Paul and Parky. At Reading Services, I fuelled up and looked up at the number to see which pump I had used.

13.

Bollocks.

If I am honest, I was also perturbed by the number of single magpies that I had seen from my car on Friday and again on the drive into London.

“One for sorrow…”

However, it was a clean and easy car journey up to London; the plan was to reach “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 8.30am. I indeed was parked up at exactly 8.30am. Perfect.

The Cup Final Breakfast was perfect too.

Two rashers, a fried egg, liver, baked beans, black pudding, bubble, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea for just £11. And don’t worry; there weren’t sky blue ribbons on my mug.

I parked up near Queens Club and then joined the lads, who had been joined by Ben from Boston in Massachusetts, at Walham Green, the site of the old Fulham Broadway tube station entrance hall.

Despite the many awful decisions made by the FA in recent years regarding this fabled competition – the most heinous being semis at Wembley – I will give them praise for this being the stand-alone game throughout England and Wales on this day, with a traditional 3pm kick-off too.

The pub was an odd mixture of Chelsea fans going to Wembley but also Chelsea and Manchester United fans attending Stamford Bridge for the WPL game, which kicked off at 1pm.

From Fulham Broadway tube, we copied our “lucky semi-final” routine of a tube to Paddington, and an Uber to Marylebone.

We spent an hour or so out on the pavement outside the two station bars and were joined by Matt from DC – last seen in the US with Chelsea in June and July – and many other friends from various locales. The twin bars were not so busy as against Leeds United in the semi-final.

All ears were on the progress of Hearts at Celtic. We heard that the Jambos were 1-0 up but were then tied at 1-1. I was genuinely concerned for our great Hearts mates Kev, Rich, John and Gary. And I feared a repeat of a Saturday afternoon just over forty years ago.

On Saturday 3 May 1986, after I had watched Kenny Dalglish score the winning goal for Liverpool in a 1-0 win at Stamford Bridge – the 43,900 attendance is the biggest I have ever seen at home – I was utterly dismayed to hear, walking out over The Shed terrace, that not only had Celtic won 5-0 at St. Mirren, but Hearts – who only had to draw at Dundee – had let in two goals in the last ten minutes to throw the league title away. It was a hideous day; both Liverpool and Celtic were champions.

As the minutes ticked by, I said a little prayer for our Chelsea / Hearts quartet north of the border.

But time was ticking by. We downed our drinks and headed off to catch the rattler to Wembley Stadium. We hopped on the 1.45pm train on platform 3, just as a load of local lads from various towns in Wiltshire got on board. We were all sat together; Jack and his Dad Richard from Swindon, Les and his son Luke from Melksham, Jason from Melksham, along with us three from Trowbridge and Frome. We had seen Gary and Graham from Trowbridge and Devizes at Marylebone too. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

Well sadly, due to a fault with the train, which slowly pulled out at around 2pm, we weren’t flocking anywhere. The train had broken down, and after a few minutes of painful waiting, limped back to the station.

Time was moving on. We were going to miss the kick-off. I feared the worst for the whole day now. I also had this awful feeling in my gut about Hearts. I had this deepest fear that Celtic would prevail. I hated how one bad turn of fortune affected my whole mood; life, unfortunately, can be like this.

I feared for Chelsea. I feared for Hearts. I was going to be late for the match. Overhead, it was raining, and I was only wearing a T-shirt. Bollocks to all of it.

We scrambled off and tried to squeeze on another Wembley-bound train on platform 2, but the carriages were already full. I saw Paul and Parky try to squeeze on, but I ran on to other carriages. Alas, everything was full.

I glanced at my phone. Hearts had conceded one and then another, and my heart – excuse the pun – divebombed.

I still hadn’t given up on the train on platform 2. I must have sped up and down the length of the train four times.

I must have looked quite a sight as I scurried back and forth, and I had this image of both Paul and Parky, hemmed in against a window, watching me as I peered into the compartments for any potential space with an increasingly worried frown on my face.

“Look at that silly bugger. He was ahead of us as we got on the platform. How the hell are we on this train while he isn’t?”

“Maybe he went off for a pasty.”

I eventually gave up. The next train to leave was on platform 4, and so I rushed over to get on this 2.32pm train. Thankfully, there was room for a seat, just behind my mate Lee, from The Sleepy Hollow, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out at 2.30pm; in total, there had been a fifty-minute delay.

Unlike the tube journey to Wembley Park, the overland route to Wembley Stadium takes no time at all. We reached the station at 2.50pm. I knew I would miss the start, so I didn’t rush. I heard the national anthem as I approached the stadium; a few photos for good luck, a very quick ticket check, a non-existent security check, and up the escalators to the top level, just as my friends Nina and David arrived. We all had to quickly use the facilities, but once done, a quick check for entrance 522 and I was in.

It was 3.03pm.

Phew.

As I looked up towards row 20, I saw a gaggle of very familiar faces. It was the lads from Gloucester and Cheltenham who go everywhere with Chelsea and are undoubtedly good value for money. I even bumped into a few of them at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town match eighteen months ago. I shouted out to Richard, who had an empty seat next to him.

“Is that seat 244, Rich?” and indeed it was.

I shuffled past Andrew, Martin and the others and squeezed into my seat. I had to have a little chuckle to myself that among around 28,000 Chelsea supporters occupying the Eastern end at Wembley, I was sat among friends. I told Rich that I was humbled to be among such esteemed company.

“It’s like sitting in the Royal Box, this.”

Just after I arrived, Ryan from Stoke squeezed himself into a seat that wasn’t there and I quipped that I knew that there was safe standing at Wembley these days, but I wasn’t aware that they had unsafe seating too.

The three, and now four or five, minutes that I missed meant that I needed to play catch up and acclimatise myself to everything pretty sharpish. I had seen the team that Calum McFarlane had chosen while on the train. My only issue was trying to work out the shape.

My first real look at the action down below was of Chelsea recovering from a City attack, in which Marc Cucurella was very wide left, and very deep. If the formation that we believed that we had played at Anfield was being repeated here – and which both Chelsea and the BBC mentioned in their official match reports – then Cucurella would be as a pushed-on attacker ahead of a back four. But as the game developed, it seemed that we were employing a 3-4-2-1 formation.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – James – Caicedo – Cucurella

Palmer – Fernandez

Joao Pedro

I hoped that the players were not as confused as me, way up above the south-east corner flag.

What of the crowd? There were many red seats visible, especially in the “Club Wembley” mid-section, and it seemed that there were more unused seats in the City end.

Of course I had missed all of the pre-game displays and ceremonies and now the atmosphere seemed quite quiet. The sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky was Tupperware grey. This didn’t seem much like a Cup Final.

City, not surprisingly, dominated the early possession, and kept moving the ball around to test us, but we defended well, and I would soon be happy to see ten minutes on the clock. Then, a half chance, but Robert Sanchez was able to save easily from a flick from Omar Marmoush close in.

There was a quick break from Joao Pedro on the far side, but Abdukodir Khusanov slid in to nullify the opportunity.

Out of nowhere, the loudest chant of the game thus far, on eighteen minutes.

“Oh when the blues go streaming in, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

The chant was from our end.

The royal blues, not the sky blues.

One-nil to Chelsea, kinda.

Not long after, Erling Haaland poked the ball home after a low ball in from Matheus Nunes, and our world caved in, but thankfully the misery was short-lived; the linesman’s flag indicating that the Portuguese player had received a pass from Antoine Semenyo in an offside position.

The City support at this stage was shockingly poor, and it didn’t even seem that they yelped too loudly when Haaland appeared to score.

The Chelsea support was clearly on top, and we teased the City ranks with two barbs.

“Your support is fcuking shit.”

Which it was.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Which was probably true too.

On thirty-three minutes, a wild shot from Semenyo in the inside right berth after creating space against Cucurella went off for a throw-in on the far side.

Bloody hell.

Haaland, who had threatened rarely, was then sent in after a long searching ball, but his near post shot was well blocked by Sanchez.

In the closing moments, Joao Pedro was through, but he clashed with Khusanov. His fall was rather dramatic, and from so far away I could not ascertain the severity of the defender’s challenge. No penalty. I captured our striker’s cry for help on film, but I wished for more uplifting photos to come.

In the period leading up to the break, thousands of red seats appeared as a good proportion of the crowd disappeared for a beer and a wazz, or probably both.

The first half had hardly been a classic; far from it. City began strongest and dominated but we weathered the storm and carved a few half chances. My biggest fear was us having an off-day and getting humped. Thankfully that never looked like happening thus far. We had created a few attacks, despite no real efforts on goal, and at least we were still in it at the break. But we moved the ball slowly and with no thrust.

I wasn’t sure if we were witnessing Reece James’ best position. He seemed happy walking with the ball and pushing it out to others. Was that it? Both he and Caicedo were quiet.

But oh that City support was so silent; the worst support at a Cup Final that I can ever remember.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Eastern end. In the very first minute, a perfect cross from the left from Nico O’Reilly gifted Semenyo a golden chance but his free header flew over the bar.

At last, some City noise. Maybe they were waiting for their players to attack their end.

“City. City. We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

However, for the next fifteen minutes or so, we managed to obtain a better foothold, and the team was rewarded with some really excellent backing from the Chelsea crowd.

On the hour, a super-loud roar from us.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA. SUPER CHELSEA FC. WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

My voice was loud and I rasped along with the others.

But we never really created many chances. A Caicedo header was cleared off the line by Rodri, but for all of our wing play, and despite Cole Palmer trying to tease some gaps, we found it hard to break City down.

Our purple period – if you can call it that – came to an end, and with twenty minutes left, I began to wonder about extra time. Our defenders headed away dangerous crosses at one end and Joao Pedro went sprawling after minimal contact at the other.

On seventy-two minutes, a dangerous City break developed and as the ball was played to Haaland I yelled “don’t let that freak of nature have it.” He passed to Bernardo Silva and then Silva passed it back to Haaland, who peeled away out to the right.

Lo and behold, he crossed into the box, and Semenyo – with his back to goal – flicked the ball onwards. It flew in at the far post, with Sanchez beaten.

Now City roared. And they sung again.

“We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

A free kick was headed on by Levi Colwill, and Enzo instinctively swung a boot, but the ball flew over the bar.

On seventy-four minutes, Pedro Neto replaced Cucurella and we reverted to a four at the back.

There were two late substitutions.

Liam Delap for James.

Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro.

A slow-moving City attack meandered up our right flank and a shot from Nunes took a deflection, but Sanchez reacted well to nudge it against the post. There was another fine save from Sanchez from a Rayan Cherki effort late on.

A header from the hapless Delap went about six yards wide.

Sigh.

On this dull day in north-west London we had lost our fourth FA Cup Final in a row.

Fourkinell.

As I exited, the PA played “Blue Moon.”

Another sigh.

Considering the height from which I had to descend, I made it out pretty quickly. I waited for the gruesome twosome to exit and chatted to many friends as they headed away from the stadium.

“This bloody place. I never want to return.”

This phrase was uttered by both me and a friend.

There was time for one defiant team photo before we headed home.

We had planned on a repeat of the semi and wait for the crowds to fade away, but both lads, who walk with sticks, decided to head up Olympic Way to Wembley Park as the crowds seemed to be moving relatively quickly. The drizzle increased, and there was a hideous memory of the walk along the same stretch in 1994. Thankfully, we made it to Wembley Park in good time, at 5.35pm, and we then came up with a masterstroke. Instead of heading into town, we took a train out to Rayners Lane and then came back into Earls Court on the Piccadilly Line.

We never travel on this stretch of the tube network, and in an almost pathetic attempt to squeeze a little bit of enjoyment out of this most wretched of afternoons, I mentioned to the chaps as we passed through Park Royal that this was the tube station that my parents and I used on my very first visit to Stamford Bridge in 1974. For the next few stations, I was lost in time as I tried to remember my thoughts on that very special day all those years ago.

We grabbed some food at Earls Court, then took an Uber to where my car was parked.

I pulled out of Kinnoul Road at 7.45pm, and I drove nonstop back to Somerset.

My village was waiting for me as I returned at 10pm.

It had been a shite day.