Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 26 April 2026.

After the ridiculously poor performance at Brighton on the Tuesday, he didn’t last long. He had to go, didn’t he? I am not going to dwell too much on Liam Rosenior’s ill-conceived stint as Chelsea manager, but my post on Facebook on the Wednesday sums it all up.

“Well, the bloke lost me when he came out with that ‘respect the ball’ line as he tried desperately to defend the huddles in the centre circle. Promoted way too high, he was soon way out of his depth. The circus continues.

A big part of me would love Cesc to return next season, but he would be bloody mad to report to the loons in charge. I’d hate to see his legacy spoiled.

What now, Chelsea Football Club?

And who?”

I just hope that the board’s comment about undertaking a process of self-reflection to make the right long-term appointment is genuine and not a knee-jerk comment to placate supporters.

Chelsea needs an experienced manager – coach – and while we are at it, let’s buy an experienced ‘keeper, central defender, and striker too. But mainly an experienced central defender, just like Enzo Maresca wanted in the summer.

Going into the up-coming FA Cup semi-final with Leeds United, I suddenly felt more positive without Rosenior in charge, which is certainly a sad indictment on his tenure. Calum McFarlane was to be entrusted with first team affairs, and – well – we went to Wembley with double helpings of blind faith.

“Anyone but Liam?”

Sad but true.

The weekend was to be a couple of contrasting days.

On Saturday, Frome Town were up against Portishead Town at home in the last league game of the season. With the league title, and promotion, already gained, this would be a relaxing day of celebration.

On Sunday, the stakes were higher, Chelsea were off to Wembley with a semi-final against a bitter old rival, and I was apprehensive, to say the least, about our chances.

Saturday was a joyful and relaxing day, on a perfect April afternoon. I met up with some friends for a pre-match drink, and a recurring question was about the day’s attendance. For the championship clincher against Shaftesbury a few weeks earlier, the gate was a pleasing 1,096. With promotion already secured, I wasn’t so sure that the gate against Portishead – themselves in a play-off position – would beat that.

In “The Vine Tree” pub, I liked chatting to the son of a teammate from my Oakfield school team from 1977/78. Later at the game, I would chat to Steve and Kev, two other teammates from that same team. I find these links to my childhood one of the most endearing features of my attendance at my local team’s games. There was also a brief chat with Ray, who lived in the same village as me in my childhood, and who reads all these blogs, despite being an Evertonian and not a Chelsea supporter. This made my day.

Greeting us at the turnstiles was my friend Courtney, who had flown in from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport that morning. This has been a tumultuous first season for him as Frome chairman, and after his attendance against Tavistock in August and Hartpury in November, this would be his third game of the season. It’s always a great moment to see Courtney’s smile once again.

Last season, I attended a mighty forty-two Frome Town games, but the last game of this season would only be number twenty-three. Having Chelsea play many more Saturday games did not help my Frome numbers unfortunately. From November to January, I only saw four Frome games. It has felt that I have not been as connected to Dodge this time around, despite the all-conquering season that we put together.

I must do better in 2026/27.

There was an air of celebration in the stadium throughout the afternoon; it felt like a crossover between a village fete and a charity match. But that was to be expected. The pressure was off, and it felt fine.

The crowd was a healthy one, with around one hundred away fans, complete with “Posset” – their odd nickname – flags, but I wasn’t sure if 1,096 would be breached. I caught Callum Gould’s fine early goal on film, but Portishead put up a good fight and won the game 2-1. Frome sadly finished the season with two consecutive league losses, but a total of just four in forty-two games. There was, however, a Somerset Cup win on the same evening that Chelsea was getting stuffed in Brighton. It was the club’s first-ever double.

The trophy lifts were very special moments, and I include a smattering of some of the photos from the Frome game; apologies again for the colour red.

I stayed on after the game for Player of the Year presentations in the clubhouse, thus ending a very enjoyable few hours.

Oh, the gate? 1,095, unbelievably just one shy of the Shaftesbury game.

But this left Frome with a fantastic average of 558 this season. Last season, in a higher level – Step 3 – it was 510. Next season we will be playing more local teams in the Southern League Premier, so I fully expect our average gate to rise to 600.

At Step 3 in 2018/19, we averaged just 234.

My hometown team is on the up.

So, that was the easy bit, the Saturday. Sunday would be a different ball game. I collected PD and LP, and we flew into London for a great pre-match in three venues. First up, the much visited and much-loved “Half-Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road for a tasty and filling breakfast. There was a brief interchange with a Chelsea fan and his two boys.

Me : “I am feeling nervous.”

Him : “Me too. Fifty/fifty.”

Then a quick flit to “Walham Green”, the pub on the site of the old Fulham Broadway station, where we stayed for a couple of hours. Alan Hudson, who is often seen in the pubs of Fulham, came in and we shared a few words. He was looking very dapper. Now seventy-five, he of course sadly missed out on both games against Leeds United in 1970 due to injury. It was his debut season.

We then caught a cab to Paddington and then an Uber to Marylebone. Here we met up with tons of familiar Chelsea faces inside “The Victoria and Albert” bar and on the pavement outside. There were Leeds fans in the “Station Master” bar next-door. It was all very convivial and – dare I say it – friendly. The dark days of old seemed light years away.

I met up with Nina from New Jersey, who I first met at the tail-end of last season in the US, and met Brenda and Kerry from the US for the first time. Courtney had driven up from Frome the previous evening and had done some volunteering at the London Marathon in the morning but had managed to wend his way west to join us at Marylebone. Like me, he was on a two-game weekend.

With time moving on, Courtney, Paul, Parky and I caught the 1.40pm train to Wembley Stadium. Here, carriages were mixed, and there was banter between the two sets of fans. This would be Courtney’s first visit to Wembley.

Outside in the sun, I took a photo of Courtney with the towering arch behind.

A lot had been made of us not selling our full allocation of tickets; a situation that I was uneasy with. This was a game in London. Against Leeds United. Was the “disconnect” between fans and footballers so huge that the tickets did not fly?

My worries about the day continued to flicker in and out of my head.

I had always been concerned that we would not only struggle on the pitch against Leeds – who schooled us at Elland Road on that miserable night in December – but would lose the battle off the pitch too. Their fans would undoubtedly be “up for it” and I was dreading a repeat of the 2008 League Cup Final when we were devastatingly out sung by a baying Tottenham support.

There was also the “Wembley factor.”

I had every right to be concerned about this game since the last time that I had seen us win at Wembley was way back in May 2018 when Eden Hazard’s penalty gave us a 1-0 win in the FA Cup Final. Since then, there had been seven defeats in a row. Sadly, I was not allowed into our semi-final win versus Crystal Palace in 2022 as my Canon SLR was on the prohibited list.

On this day my small Sony “point and shoot” camera made it in with the briefest of security checks, and on another day, I am sure I could have smuggled my SLR in.

PD and LP made their way to their section behind the goal. As luck would have it, Courtney and I were in the same section, just on the corner flag, and both in the first row, and I was very happy with this change of scene and view. From memory, I had only ever been in the lower section along the side of the pitch just once before at the new Wembley.

I was in at 2.15pm.

Disregarding the games against Tottenham when they played home games at the national stadium, this would be my thirty-sixth Chelsea match at either Wembley stadia; nine at the old Wembley and twenty-seven at the new Wembley.

These figures still shock me.

These are huge numbers.

The first thing I noticed is that when both seats of players made their entrances onto the pitch at 2.25pm, the roar for the Leeds players dwarfed the roar for the Chelsea team; a bad omen for what lay ahead.

Lo and behold, on the pitch under the Royal Box, who should be interviewed by the annoying Chelsea PA chap but Alan Hudson. He was questioned about the 1970 final, and the battles between the two teams. Hudson spoke about the Chelsea team as being full of characters. He wasn’t wrong.

Next up was Tony Dorigo, who had played for both teams, and had won the league with Leeds in 1991/92. He mentioned the thrill of scoring at Wembley, and perhaps that was his subtle nod to us; his goal won the ZDS Cup against ‘Boro in 1990.

Our Chelsea team was announced, and Calum chose this starting eleven :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Tosin Adarabioyo – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Without Cole Palmer and Reece James, this was the best we could hope for, but it seemed a decent enough team to start.

As kick-off approached, the ends erupted in colour.

To my right, banners flew high on the upper balcony.

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS, THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

At pitch level, a line from the 1997 FA Cup Final song reminded everyone about 1970.

“WE’VE GOT SOME MEMORIES ALBEIT FROM THE 70’S.”

We were given flags to wave and unlike the generic standard issue ones of before, these mentioned the game and date; a nice touch.

These were waved during “Blue is the Colour”, even by me, I must be getting soft.

At the other end, yellow scarves had been handed out to the hordes from Yorkshire, and they held them high as “Marching on Together” was played on the PA. A line from the song was displayed at pitch level.

It was altogether, at both ends, quite a spectacle.

At 3pm, the game began.

I am not usually a fan of being so low down, but on this occasion, for a change of scene, it was fine. You get a great perspective of Wembley’s height. It was quite breathtaking. In the first few minutes I was mightily impressed with the noise that Chelsea were making, mainly to my right, but it seemed to encompass both the lower and upper tiers, never an easy task. This was very encouraging.

There was a low shot from Pedro Neto that was easily saved by Lucas Perri. Leeds were given a free kick that I caught on film, but which did not bother Sanchez. There was an early knock-down by Joao Pedro that set up Enzo, but his firm shot went wide. Garnacho, testing the Leeds defence but also our patience, was set free but fluffed his shot.

Chelsea had opened the game well, and were on top, and Enzo was directing operations and providing much-needed bite where needed.

But then, after initially swooping in to clear a ball, Chalobah picked the wrong pass and Leeds pounced. We were back-peddling, and the move brought back a host of recent disastrous moments. The ball was worked to Dominic Calvert-Lewin who flicked a defence-splitting pass to Brenden Aaronson. His low shot was on target, but Sanchez did ever so well with his reflexes to divert the ball away with his right foot. I’ll say it again; the bloke is a fine shot-stopper.

Immediately after the shot was blocked, I turned towards the Chelsea fans to my right and caught the reaction on Aaronson’s face on the large TV screen. It seemed to immediately match the face that I was pulling too; one of utter disbelief.

On twenty-one minutes, a fine move involving Enzo and Lavia set up Joao Pedro, who raced in on goal, but the ball flashed wide after smacking the near post.

Being in the front row, there was no real need for me to stand, and I didn’t particularly want to upset those immediately behind me. However, on twenty-three minutes, sensing a great chance, I stood without thinking, as Pedro Neto was played in by Joao Pedro after a long kick out by Sanchez. Neto steadied himself and sent over a cracking cross into the penalty area. Enzo rose and headed down, past Perri, and in.

Get in.

The Chelsea end roared.

On Tuesday at Brighton, Enzo stood in front of the Chelsea support, alone with his thoughts. Now he was celebrating with his teammates in front of the Leeds United supporters. I chanced a photo, full zoom, and it came out OK, with just enough detail to see the glum Yorkshire faces, apart from two lads, who might not have been Leeds fans at all.

We were 1-0 up.

Glorious.

Chelsea continued to dominate, but chances were quite rare. Our support dominated the Wembley arena, and I was stunned with how quiet the Leeds support had been.

On thirty minutes, Chelsea bellowed “YSIFS” – and it undoubtedly was.

Joao Pedro, the definition of a modern number nine, was playing some lovely stuff, and went close again with a lovely piece of close control followed by a volley.

On thirty-five minutes, possibly the best move of the match, but Garnacho’s cross whizzed across the six-yard box but there was nobody on hand to add a touch.

With five minutes of the first half remaining, the folks at the Western end of the stadium eventually found their voices.

“We all love Leeds, we all love Leeds, we all love Leeds, we all love Leeds.”

Then, just after, the first “Marching on Together” since the barrage of noise before the game.

Their quietness had really shocked me. Leeds have always had noisy support, and I wondered if their timid support for most of the first half was due to nervousness.

I remembered their last FA Cup semi-final, way back in 1987, when my college mate Bob joined the Yorkshire team’s support at Hillsborough against Coventry City. Leeds lost 3-2 but my abiding memory from that that day is of the Leppings Lane terrace being absolutely rammed with Leeds supporters. It looked amazing but also terrifying.

On forty-two minutes, Ethan Ampadu – good player, sigh – hoisted a long throw into the box but the resulting Leeds shot flew over the bar.

At the break, we were on top, but I wondered if 1-0 would be enough.

During the half-time break, I noticed that my mate Stephen from New Orleans via Belfast was sitting just a few rows behind me and so I invited him down to watch the second half in the spare seat next to me. I last saw him in the front row at Palace a few months ago.

Chelsea were, of course, now attacking our end, and I hoped for some better-quality photos with the Chelsea players, hopefully, being close by.

In the first minute, after another long Ampadu throw, the ball was knocked around and the ball fell to Anton Stoch who let fly just outside the box. Sanchez did ever so well to parry the shot and his strong wrist deflected the ball high and it dropped, thankfully, on the roof of the net.

Soon after, we drove through the Leeds lines with a lovely break and then with some ingeniously intricate play between Gusto and Enzo. This allowed Joao Pedro a final stab at goal, but he was crowded out and the ball went wide.

I think I pulled that face again.

Not so long after Joao Pedro, so fluid and intelligent, passed to Enzo, then to Garnacho, but his finish was deflected over.

But Leeds were enjoying more of the ball in this half. Just before the hour a cross from their left to an un-marked Calvert Lewin was met with a clean header, but a poor header that Sanchez easily saved.

Then, time for me to roll out my “I hate modern football” catchphrase.

Sanchez went down, the referee blew his whistle, Enzo raced to the manager for instructions, and the Leeds end booed. Inside I was booing too.

This pathetic routine needs to be banished from football.

Leeds were up in arms.

“You cheating bastards, you know what you are.”

We replied with a ditty to the same tune, no names, no pack drill.

On the pitch, Leeds were on top now, but they never really carved out too many chances. It was all about us defending with shape and perseverance.

With sixty-five minutes on the clock, Andrey Santos replaced Lavia.

The game became scrappier. The fans of both teams were experiencing different emotions.

On seventy-one minutes, Cole Palmer replaced Garnacho.

“Great, hopefully some shots of him teasing their full back.”

Well, I took a few, but Palmer never really got in the game, and I was seething when he kicked the ball away, resulting in a very silly yellow.

Chelsea defended resolutely as Leeds kept trying to break through our ranks. The Leeds support went up many notches in that second half; it was quite a turnaround.

Towards the end, though, sensing the players needed the boost, we rallied with some noise of our own.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.”

On ninety minutes, the stewards in front stood up, quite unnecessarily really, so we all stood up too.

“Two can play at that game.”

The noise doubled.

“SUPER CHELSEA FC.

WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM.

THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

We were defiantly loud.

Eight minutes of extra time were signalled.

“OLE OLE OLE OLE – CHELSEA CHELSEA.”

In the final minute, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro, who, along with Enzo and Sanchez were the game’s finest performers.

At last, the whistle.

Phew.

Lots of Chelsea smiles, lots of happiness. I tried to catch Courtney’s eye, but he was in his own little world.

As the team walked towards us, we focussed on one player,

“OH ENZO FERNANDEZ. OH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”

And he, once again, focussed on us, standing alone, taking it all in, again alone with his thoughts.

On this occasion, the thoughts were much more wholesome and pleasant, no doubt.

I grabbed my flag – though it will undoubtedly end up with others in a spare bedroom – and walked slowly out to meet up with Paul and Parky.

There was a warm glow. I was just happy to be walking back to Wembley Park after a win at Wembley. It had been eight long years for me. We were in no rush to slowly trudge our way up Olympic Way – not Wembley Way, which is elsewhere – and so we sat for a while to let the crowds disperse.

We were all so happy.

After another crazy season, I summed it up.

“Chaos and Cup Finals.”

We would be back at Wembley in three weeks for our seventeenth FA Cup Final.

Our current record, after years of successes, has now slipped to a record of eight wins and eight losses. Should we beat Manchester City, we would go third in the list behind Arsenal with fourteen and Manchester United with thirteen.

In a moment of ridiculous optimism, I sent a few people this message.

“The last week :

Win the Cup Final.

Beat Tottenham.

Relegate Tottenham.

Beat Sunderland.

On the piss in Newcastle as Arsenal finish second.”

I can dream, right?

While we were waiting, I happened to look up and spot a semi-recognisable figure; well-dressed, smart, a familiar gait, and I told the lads “I reckon that’s Eddie Gray.”

He was around fifteen yards away, and I bounced over.

“I know that every time you come to Chelsea, you get in contact with Ron Harris to have a chat and he really appreciates that. So, thank you.”

The photo I took of myself with a true Leeds United legend, a key player in the 1970 matches, and who was still playing for Leeds United when we beat them 5-0 in April 1984, was almost the highlight of the day. What an honour. And what a lovely man.

Just a few minutes later, Stuart Pearce walked past, and I nervously reached out to shake his hand too. He looked in a rush, but we shook hands. Another legend of football.

Alan Hudson, Eddie Gray, Stuart Pearce.

I did well.

We feasted on some sandwiches from a nearby “Tesco” and eventually left Wembley Park at 6.45pm. We were back at Fulham Broadway at 7.30pm, and I shot off to get my car and returned to pick the lads up for the trip home.

On that drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset, we realised that we had not heard – at Wembley at least – those two terrace standards of all previous Chelsea / Leeds encounters.

There had been no Dambusters.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

And no Doris Day.

“And go get your father’s gun…”

It truly shocked us.

I eventually reached home, with pleasant thoughts of the final five matches, and after the past couple of months that has to be a good thing.

Next up, a home game against Nottingham Forest.

See you there.

WEMBLEY

BADGERS HILL