Tag Archives: FA Trophy

Tales From A Stroll Down The North End Road

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Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 6 October 2024.

Well, I have to say that even though we couldn’t quite score the goal that would have won us the game against a spirited Nottingham Forest team, there is no doubt that I really enjoyed this match. At the end of it all, as I was on the way out of Stamford Bridge, I mentioned to a few friends that it had developed a real “old-fashioned” feel to it, and the second half especially. My friend Rob breezed past me and called it a “breathless” game of football and I knew what he meant. I suspect that it is a phrase that I have often used to describe certain football matches.

On the walk along the crowded Fulham Road, I bumped into a stranger and almost tripped him up. We struck up a conversation and agreed that it had been a decent game. He thought that we had played within ourselves in the first half, though I had actually enjoyed it, but we then spoke about the frantic nature of the second period, when – in my words – “it took on a life of its own.”

I met up with PD and LP in the car, and we all shared the same opinion; in these days of occasionally flat games of football, if we couldn’t see our team win, then at least it was good to witness an entertaining match.

This Chelsea game was the second match of my weekend. On the Saturday, I watched Frome Town for the first time in three weeks, a home FA Trophy tie against Havant & Waterlooville, a team that had beaten us 5-0 at their stadium in the league just a fortnight ago. In a tight game, the visitors went ahead with just ten minutes to go, but James Ollis equalised in the last minute. Alas, the home team lost 5-4 in the resultant penalties. The gate of 293 was a little disappointing but to be expected in light of a dip in performances over the past month. Unlike in 2023/24, there would be no FA Cup nor FA Trophy runs for my hometown team this season.

After I had parked up on Mulgrave Road, I took a short-cut via the Clem Atlee Estate, next to The Goose, and soon found myself walking south down the North End Road. Out of nowhere, I doctored the words to “Blue Day” and sung a new version to myself.

“The only place to be every other Sunday is strolling down the North End Road.”

I had a little smirk to myself. In some ways, the North End Road is just as much part of the Chelsea experience as the Fulham Road. With that, I looked over to the other side of the road and who should be walking alone in the other direction but my great friend Alan, who has been sitting next to me at Chelsea since 1984.

I shouted over to Alan and he looked around to see who was calling his name.

“Al!”

I crossed the road and we chatted.

“I’m off to the ‘Clarence’ to see Gal, you off down the ‘Eight Bells’ mate?”

“Yes mate. What time did you get back from your game yesterday?”

“About 8.30pm.”

While I was at Frome Town, Alan was up in Lancashire watching his other team Bromley eke out a 0-0 draw against Fleetwood Town in League Two. He had left his house in South London at 4.30am for that expedition, making my departure at 6.45am for the Forest game seem much more comfortable.

We chatted about both Saturday games and then went on our way.

“The only place to be every other Sunday is strolling down the North End Road.”

“Meet your mates, have a drink…”

A Chelsea song had just sprung to life.

I dropped into the café at the bottom end of the North End Road.

It’s as good as any a time to talk about the next match from our 1984/85 season, which had taken place exactly forty years ago to this very day. On Saturday 6 October 1984, we travelled to Carrow Road in Norfolk, the home of Norwich City. Unlike Alan, who attended this match, I spent the day up in Manchester, visiting a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly. I spent the afternoon nervously awaiting the score updates on radio and TV. It’s weird how some stadia evaded me long periods over the past fifty years. I never made it to Carrow Road until the momentous 2004/5 season. Whisper it, but I am still to visit Portman Road in Ipswich.

On that autumn day forty years ago, there is not much to tell. We drew 0-0. The gate was just 16,871.

I took the tube down to Putney Bridge where I spent a decent two hours crowded around our usual table in the “Eight Bells”. Our two guests on this particular day of Chelsea football were Jimmy from Southgate in North London and his pal Paul from Doncaster in South Yorkshire, and we all shared plenty of laughs alongside PD, LP and Salisbury Steve.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 1.30pm, in plenty of time for the 2pm kick-off. Enzo Maresca had changed the team 100% from the game against the gentlemen of Gent. This absolutely felt like our “A Team”.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I remembered the 0-1 home defeat against Forest just over a year ago. I remembered the tight game at the City Ground in May. This lot had just won at Anfield. A win, any win, please.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Forest in red / white / red.

A game between the European Cup Winners of 2012 and 2021 and the European Cup Winners of 1979 and 1980 began.

We attacked The Shed and it was a bright enough start. In the initial period, Enzo Fernandez and Jadon Sancho were seen to be developing a little relationship on the left, while as the game developed there was also some nice understanding between Cole Palmer and Noni Madueke on the right.

I soon photographed a twisting run from Sancho on the left that ended up being guided out of the Forest penalty area by their defenders. Soon after I caught a more direct run from Madueke that resulted in a shot being drilled wide of the near post.

It was an open game. Down at our end, Robert Sanchez saved easily from a Ryan Yates header. I sensed that Palmer wasn’t enjoying the best of starts, and others in the Chelsea team caught the eye. All of a sudden the twin pillars at the back Levi Colwill and Wesley Fofana resembled a partnership, and even the often-maligned Enzo buzzed around brightly.

Malo Gusto crashed a shot goal wards but it was routinely blocked. Another shot from Madueke curled over the bar as it was swung in towards the far post. Another shot from Gusto, but another shot that was high of the goal frame.

While Clive got us some hot chocolates, we continued to dominate and I thought that we were playing the ball quicker with fewer dawdling touches than in previous games.

Then, a Forest break but a shot right at Sanchez. Another easy save.

With the end of the first half approaching, Madueke – the biggest threat – raced away down the right and set up Enzo, whose shot was saved by Matz Sels in the Shed End goal.

Madueke, again driving deep into the box, set up Palmer but his shot was blocked by former blue Ola Aina. The ball rebounded off the post, and just as we were all expecting it to be prodded home, Sels recovered just in time to scoop the ball off the line.

At the other end, we had to thank Colwill for blocking an effort by Yates.

I had enjoyed the first-half. There were hints of some progressive football. The full backs Cucarella and Gusto were nicely involved in our attacking play.

At some point in the first-half, Palmer had exhibited a piece of skill that left me dumb-founded, and it was worth the admission money alone and other clichés.

At half-time, I bumped into Suk. Back in 2015, Alan and I spent a day with Suk out in Israel as we went on a never-to-be-forgotten trip to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. We remembered that I had bumped into Suk strolling down the North End Road – that place again – around five years ago. Alan last saw him at a bar in Tel Aviv as we devoured some Lowenbrau lagers some nine years ago. It was a pleasure to see him once more.

What of the second half then?

With Chelsea attacking the Matthew Harding, Moises Caicedo had the first chance of the second period but his daisy cutter was well wide of the goal.

On the forty-ninth minute, there was a deep free-kick from the Forest right. As soon as Nicola Milenkovic got a downward nod, I just knew that we were in trouble. Just as I correctly sensed danger when Havant & Waterlooville broke away on the Saturday, my sixth-sense was correct on Sunday. A poke of a leg from the journeyman Chris Wood was just enough to push the ball into the net.

Chelsea 0 Forest 1.

“Bollocks.”

The place hadn’t been too noisy, but I was proud with the way that the home support responded.

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

On fifty-seven minutes, Palmer found Madueke. He advanced and cut inside his marker and beautifully struck a shot that just crept inside the far post. I caught the strike on film, celebrated with a fist pump, and then shot away as the scorer ran towards the Chelsea bench, some of whom looked pleased that he had scored. There had been mutterings around me about Madueke needing to pass the ball rather than always look to shoot, but this is Football 2024 and this is what inverted wingers are supposed to do.

Chelsea 1 Forest 1.

The home support was engaged now, and the noise increased. This in turn seemed to invigorate the team. We hit a purple patch. Enzo to Madueke and a header but right at the Forest ‘keeper. Nicolas Jackson – the quietest attacker thus far – sped forward and played the ball to Sancho. His excellent cross was perfection but Madueke relaxed a little too much and the ball ballooned over the bar.

On sixty-three minutes, craziness in the Forest penalty area as a host of Chelsea strikers found it impossible to apply a finish as the ball ricocheted around bodies and legs.

Enzo then sent over two horrible – and pathetic – corners from down below us in The Sleepy that failed to beat the first defender. After a decent enough first half, the Argentinian was enduring a horrific second half, and watching him was just as horrific.

We had to wait around seven minutes for a Forest player to receive attention at a free-kick and it was not the first time that the away side were roundly booed for their time wasting.

With twelve minutes to go, with Jackson looking to burst ahead into space, James Ward-Prowse combined our three national sports of football, rugby and cricket and thwarted the Chelsea attacker by bizarrely grabbing the ball from under his feet.

It looked a red, it was a yellow, but a second yellow.

Off he went.

On eighty-one minutes, the first two Chelsea changes of the game.

Joao Felix for Enzo.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I liked the applause when Our Callum was substituted just after.

A pause to remember that initial Lampard ensemble that caused us so much joy, but which was then taken away from us in a COVID-related hurry; Tomori, Christensen, James, Mount, Gilmour, Abraham, Hudson-Odoi, it was lovely while it lasted.

With three minutes to go, a ridiculous touch from Palmer – it defies description – on the edge of the Forest box set himself up for a shot which was lashed at Sels. The ball came back out to Palmer and Sels saved again.

Stamford Bridge was rocking.

The next drama was the uproar at the side of the pitch, though I did not really see what had ignited the melee. I saw Palmer slump to the floor and initially presumed that he was injured. I shot a series of photos that show a lot of irritated millionaires.

Thirteen minutes of extra time were signalled.

“Come on Chelsea.”

The stadium roared again.

Some late substitutions.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Tosin for Colwill.

On the right, Pedro Neto sent over a cross that Felix headed down but wide. Then, at the other end, a venomous shot from Neco Williams that Sanchez palmed away magnificently.

This game, suddenly, was up for grabs.

Next, a gut-bursting run along the left touchline from Mudryk and an inch-perfect cross for Nkunku. We were up celebrating a late winner but we watched a brilliant save at full stretch from Sels. Nkunku was motionless on the Stamford Bridge turf. We knew how he felt.

Fackinell.

The rain was falling now, Stamford Bridge a misty dream.

Then a short corner, and Gusto lashed at goal, but Sels lept and touched the wicked strike over the bar.

Phew.

Breathless stuff indeed.

A long-range shot from Palmer narrowly missed the frame of the goal.

At the other end, a shot right at Sanchez.

“This could go either way.”

From a Forest short corner, a cross from Aina, and Jota Silva was completely unmarked at the near post. His header was at goal, but Sanchez threw himself down to his right in a movement that reminded me of the Banks save from Pele in Guadalajara in 1970. This save was the best of the lot.

It was an absolute stunner.

The last twenty minutes of this game was just ridiculous. It was as entertaining a period – without goals – that I had witnessed for some time.

Alas, it ended as a 1-1 draw.

We go into the second International Break in a very pleasing fourth place, but we have some very tough games ahead over the next period.

Our next game is at Anfield on Sunday 20 October.

See you there.

JADON SANCHO

NONI MADUEKE

THE GOAL

HANDBAGS

Tales From The Weekend That Wasn’t

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Everton vs. Chelsea : 10 December 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, I will miss it.

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

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

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

I inwardly smiled.

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

Click. Click. Click. Click.

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

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

Park End terrace.

Park End seats.

Main Stand top balcony.

Bullens Road paddock.

Bullens Road upper.

All those memories.

I waited for “Z Cars.”

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

The minutes ticked by.

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

“I’d settle for a draw, Gal.”

The time was ready.

“Z Cars.”

Magnificent. Gets me every time.

The team? Definitely a 4-3-3.

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

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

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

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

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

The entire Park End was seated and silent.

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

“We forgot that you were here…”

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

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

And that was it.

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

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

Noise now.

Fackinell.

“E – ver – ton, E – ver – ton.”

We replied with a loud “Carefree”.

Game on? Maybe.

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

On sixty-six minutes, a double substitution.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Broja.

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

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

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

“We are the Goodison Gang.”

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

On eighty-four minutes, more substitutions.

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

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

I must have had a sixth sense.

Substitute Lewis Dobbin rifled the ball home.

Fackinell.

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

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

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

So, Goodison, is that it then?

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

It had been an ultimately unrewarding weekend.

Frome Town FA Trophy glory on Saturday? No.

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

So much for those two game nineteens.

See you at Stamford Bridge against Sheffield United.

Saturday

Sunday

Tales From The Loyal Three Thousand

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Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2023.

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

That was the plan.

And then Frome Town buggered it all up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kim!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top marks.

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

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

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

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

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

The current United team is not known in my household.

The game began.

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

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

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

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

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

GET IN.

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

It was still 0-0.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er…what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy game.

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

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

YES!

We went doo-fucking-lally.

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

There was a song for Palmer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lower tier of the Stretty.

Good God.

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

Modern football, eh?

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

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

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

“The size of your shorts, Shaw.”

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

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

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

2-1. Bollocks.

Two goals for McTominay. Bollocks.

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

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

Garnacho, with an instinctive angled shot, wide.

Fackinell.

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

Reece James blazed over from an angle.

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

Oh God.

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

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

No hope.

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

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

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

“Says it all, doesn’t it?”

Yeah, Scott bloody McTominay.

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

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

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

“I’ll take a draw now.”

It is becoming our mantra this season.

I eventually made it home at 2.50am.

There is no punchline.

TEAMS

US

CORNER

STAND

YELLOW

STEPS

THEM

ALONE

OUTSIDE

> dedicated to the loyal three thousand

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 25 November 2023.

Where does the back story begin for this game? How about October 1973? Let me explain.

No matter what this season brings, no matter how successful, how disappointing, or even how uneventful this campaign turns out to be, it will always be an important one for me. For this particular Chelsea devotee, all eyes are on March 2024 as it will mark the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game.  

My first one was a home game with Newcastle United on Saturday 16 March 1974, and if the current fixture list remains unchanged, I will be celebrating this major milestone with an away trip to Arsenal on Saturday 16 March 2024. It could have been so much better though. In this season’s fixtures, Chelsea host the Geordies just a week before this date on Saturday 9 March. Damn the FA and damn their fixture lists.

So – to set the scene perhaps, here’s a little mention of 1973/74 and the reverse fixture of my first game. On Saturday 20 October 1973, Chelsea travelled to Tyneside in a Football League Division One encounter but unfortunately lost 2-0. The feared striker Malcolm Macdonald scored a brace in front of 32,154.

The Chelsea team that day was as follows.

John Phillips, John Hollins, Eddie McCreadie, Steve Kember, David Webb, Ron Harris, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Osgood, Peter Houseman, Chris Garland.

It pains me to see the names Hudson and Osgood listed as I sadly never saw them play for Chelsea. I never saw Eddie McCreadie either.

Fifty years later, another trip to St. James’ Park had been planned for a while. This was another game involving an overnight stay – or rather three of them – although Parky was forced to miss out due to a hospital appointment. On the Friday, I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 8am and began the long drive north. Luckily, it was a fine and sunny day and the drive was a joy. We had booked some digs in Felling, Gateshead, and I was parked outside the house at 2.15pm.

Over the past few years, the area has become familiar to me. On a trip to see Chelsea play at Newcastle in January 2020, I met a local lass, and I have been visiting her a little since then. This trip to the Newcastle area would be my fifth visit of the year. I celebrated my last two birthdays with Julie in the city of Durham and there have been a few nights out in The Toon and the surrounding area.

However, back in July, I wanted to visit a location – alone – that I think about every time that I see a game in Newcastle.

On 11 June 1957, Hughie Gallacher, the former Newcastle United and Chelsea striker, walked in front of an express train at Low Fell, in Gateshead, and was instantly killed. He was just fifty-four years of age. After a phenomenal career, in which he scored 24 goals in just 20 games for Scotland, he returned to the North-East – his last games were for Gateshead – but found life outside of football to be very difficult. I have always been fascinated by Gallacher and I bought “The Hughie Gallacher Story” by local journalist Paul Joannou a few years back. What lead to his suicide? In a fit of rage, he had thrown an ashtray at his son Mattie, drawing blood, and had been denied access to him. This haunted Gallacher and for many weeks he could be seen pacing the streets of Low Fell in a daze.

I felt that I needed to visit Low Fell.

It took me a while to find the location of where the incident took place on the main London to Edinburgh line. I drove in and around Low Fell for a while, imagining Gallacher walking those same streets almost seventy years earlier. I stopped near the railway and parked close to a bridge. I took a few photographs. On my very first visit to Newcastle in March 1984 – ah, another anniversary of sorts – I would have travelled on this very same piece of railway on a Chelsea Special, without knowing the sad story enacted here.

What I found amazing was that St. James’ Park, at the top of the hill in Newcastle, was clearly visible from Low Fell. And, if I let my imagination work away, I wondered if the St. James’ Park floodlights would have been visible as Hughie Gallacher climbed up on to the railway track on that fateful day in June 1957.

Hughie Gallacher was idolised at Newcastle United. The club’s record gate of 68,386 marked the return of the diminutive striker to St. James’ Park after his transfer to Chelsea. On Wednesday 3 September 1930, that huge crowd saw the local team defeat Chelsea 1-0.

In July this year, I had a quiet moment of remembrance in honour of the one Chelsea player from our distant past that I wish I had seen play.

On the Friday night in Newcastle, after a little session at a warm and welcoming pub in Felling – waiting for our mate Rich to arrive by train from Edinburgh – we dotted around the crazy city centre, meeting up with a few usual suspects, before finally getting back to our digs at around 2.30am.

We awoke late, and tired rather than hungover, before catching a cab into town. Our digs were just a few hundred yards from the Gateshead Stadium, home to the current Gateshead team. We breakfasted at The Quayside pub, where we met up with Steve and the Two Bobs, plus a few pals from Minneapolis, over for a week of Chelsea games.

This was to be, of course, our first game since the hated international break. I spent my “free” weekend watching Frome Town play Worthing in the FA Trophy. In another stupendous match at Badgers’ Hill, Frome drew 2-2, and won 4-3 on penalties to advance. Later that evening, PD, Glenn, Parky and I watched From The Jam in the town centre. It was a very special day. On the Monday, we drew Torquay United in the next round, easily Frome’s most prestigious game in my living memory. I can’t wait to attend that match, luckily taking place on the Saturday before our visit to Everton on the Sunday.

Although modern football continues to bewilder and sadden me in equal measure, I still find the act of attending games with good friends so addictive.

You might have noticed.

There was just time for a solitary drink in the Crown Posada, deep under the bridges on the quayside at the bottom of the hill. This lovely old pub gets a visit from me every time I return. As we were supping our lagers, Led Zeppelin IV was being aired on the old-fashioned turntable on the bar.

“Stairway To Heaven” was played and it felt really incongruous. Not a football song. Not a football moment.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold.

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.”

It made me wonder if her name was Amanda Staveley.

We caught a cab to the stadium at about 2.15pm. The cabbie, from Morocco, claimed he was a Chelsea fan, but was able to reel off a few of the former players that he had met in London in the Gullit and Vialli years. And there was me thinking that it was just a ploy to get a big tip.

The stadium is so close to the city centre. I love it.

Never mind stairways to heaven, we just wanted to get our arses in the lift to the top tier. Once there, there was the usual meet and greet with a few familiar faces in the bar areas. As we walked into the top tier with ten minutes to go the kick-off – perfect timing – the pounding “Blitzkrieg Bop” by The Ramones provided a fine accompaniment.

If this was heaven, I was happy.

Next up, “Blaydon Races” boomed out.

This took me back to 1974. I can well remember my father teaching me the words to this well-known Geordie song, no doubt during the time leading up to that very first game. It would have been further engrained in my memory bank by the time Newcastle United played in the 1974 FA Cup Final two months later.

“Gannin alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

I shook hands with Alan and Gal. No John on this occasion. We were in the third row, just wide of the goal.

The familiar view, more familiar for me now. This was my fifteenth visit to this stadium and I looked south to the high land of Gateshead, Felling to the left, with Low Fell just about visible between the towering roofs of the Gallowgate and the Milburn Stand – no, not the railway line – and a church spire right at the top of the hill. I have had some good times here. Julie and I are sadly not an item anymore, but a thought about her too. With that, the PA boomed with “Going Home : Theme Of The Local Hero” – and I turned to Paul and said –

“Some city this.”

I will admit, I was a bit emotional.

Fackinell.

A massive flag crowd-surfed in the lower tier below me as the two teams appeared.

Back in March 1974, the visitors to Stamford Bridge memorably wore hooped socks. They have chosen white ones this season, so we were forced into wearing blue ones.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Fernandez – Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

Time to think about the game. I had previously mentioned that after four goals against Tottenham and City, were we in line for four more against the Geordies? I was of course joking. This would be a tough one. We agreed that a draw would be fine. But – a big but – a win would be seismic.

The game began.

They attacked us, the old Leazes End. We attacked the Gallowgate.

It was a busy, lively first five minutes. I was keen to find positive signs to assuage any fears of a poor performance. I continue to live in hope. There was a shot from Conor Gallagher – wide, no Hughie incarnate – and we traded a few punches with the home team. Every time the recalled Benoit Badiashile touched the ball, his song cascaded down the terraces from behind me.

“In a Lamborghini…”

It was a decent start, but on thirteen minutes a ball was threaded through for a Newcastle United player to tap home. In my mind, the scorer was offside. I expected the lino’s flag to be raised. I waited in vain. There was no flag, no VAR decision. We were 1-0 down. The goal scorer was Alexander Isak. It was, I believe, their first effort of the game. The home crowd had been pretty quiet but now they found their voices.

We tried to find spaces and Raheem Sterling was particularly busy. After one advance down the left, he was fouled just outside the “D” by Kieran Trippier. I settled my nerves to time a photograph as he shot. The ball dipped over the wall and the Toon ‘keeper Nick Pope did not move. The ball nestled into the goal.

A guttural “YES” from me and a clench of both fists. The scorer ran away to a corner, and team mates joined in. He was booed for the rest of the first-half.

It developed into a decent half. I disliked the way that Cucarella was often exposed with a wide man often in space. But Cucarella seemed to be trying his best, full of endeavour, I could not fault that. The man from Brighton, though, never ever seems to make a regular bog-standard block tackle. The bloke is forever scurrying after people.

I thought Cole Palmer was having a quiet game.

I caught a terrible miss from Joelinton at the far post on film. The goal was gaping. He really should have done better.

The best move of the match followed, the ball pushed one way and then the other, with Reece James eventually setting up Enzo who sadly shot too close to goal and Pope tipped it over. Later, a terribly weak effort from Gallagher with his left foot was scuffed past the post. I could see Hughie Gallacher pointing at the goal and shouting in rage.

Just before the break, a Trippier free-kick touched the top of the bar.

It had been a decent enough half.

The night began to fall during the break. And as the second-half began, the temperature fell too. There are safe-standing barriers throughout the away section in the Leazes now, but the trick on an afternoon like this was to avoid touching the exposed metal. Hands were stuffed deep inside pockets. My camera was used sparingly.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. It sadly dawned on me that we were not in this now. The second-half was being punctuated by free-kicks and there was little flow. What football that there was came from the home team despite very little backing from the home support.

On the hour, a cross from James Gordon – a very fine cross, it has to be said – was met by a free-header from Jamaal Lascelles, who firmly planted the ball wide of Robert Sanchez.

Now the bloody Geordies sung.

“E I E I E I O – Up the Premier League we go.”

Not a minute later, Thiago Silva slipped, Joelinton pick-pocketed him, and easily struck the ball past Sanchez.

Silence in my head. Silence in our end.

St. James’ Park was in heaven now.

The noise was deafening. I wondered what the visitors from Minneapolis thought of the noise, the city, the whole buzz.

Sadly, many Chelsea left.

“Thanks then.”

A triple substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher

Armando Broja for Jackson

Moises Caicedo for Ugochukwu

While I found myself looking back at the faces of a few familiar supporters in the rows alongside me and behind me, I missed the foul by James that resulted in a second yellow.

Silence in my head again.

Numb.

Levi Colwill for Palmer.

Mudryk had a couple of runs from deep but typically ran out of gas and ideas.

On eighty-three minutes, with the spritely Gordon running at full pelt, I uttered the immortal line.

“Don’t let him come inside.”

At that exact moment, he came inside. His low shot was perfectly placed beyond the despairing dive of Sanchez. There’s that fourth goal.

Fackinell.

Newcastle United 4 Chelsea 1.

Noni Madueke replaced Sterling.

The game ended. It was cold now. A few handshakes. A few nods. Not good Chelsea. Not good at all.

“Terrible second-half.”

This was the worst Chelsea defeat that I had ever seen at St. James Park. The worst in our history was a 5-0 reverse in October 1974. Ah, back to 1974 again. Perhaps I had best stop talking about it. We made our way down to street level. There had been no stairway to heaven on this visit to Tyneside. Not for us anyway. We walked down Barrack Road outside the glass and steel of the Milburn Stand, then stopped by for a cheeseburger with onions at a stand outside the Gallowgate.

We walked all of the way down, through the Bigg Market – a few locals wished us well, “have a good night lads” – finally stopping at a familiar chip shop right at the bottom of the hill.

While The Toon was in full flow, we caught a cab back to Felling.

But there will be another time in Newcastle. Another visit. It’s a favourite city.

Next up, a home game against Brighton next Sunday.

See you there.

Tales From The Warm Cloak Of Friendship

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Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 24 September 2023.

On the drive up to London early on Sunday morning, none of us were feeling confident of a pleasing performance against Aston Villa.

“Just can’t see where the next goal is coming from.”

“If we are driving back down the M4 tonight with a 2-0 win behind us, I will be absolutely amazed.”

“Tough game ahead.”

Elsewhere in my football world, things were a little better. Since Chelsea’s lifeless and underwhelming 0-0 draw at Bournemouth, I had witnessed two Frome Town games.

On Tuesday evening, in wet and blustery conditions, I watched with my Canadian cousins Kathy and Joe and a few friends – eight of us in a line – in the small main stand at Badgers Hill as Dodge met Plymouth Parkway in an FA Cup replay. Despite wet and blustery conditions, we watched transfixed as the home team won 2-1 with a great performance that included grit and determination and no little skill. James Ollis scored both goals. There was even a very late penalty save from Kyle Phillips to preserve the victory. It was, I am sure, one of the most enjoyable games of football that I have ever seen in Frome. A circle was completed that night since Kathy’s parents, Mary and Ken, met us at Stamford Bridge in August 2001 for the home opener against Newcastle United. They watched in the West Stand and loved it. Twenty-two years later, another game brought the family together once again.

On Saturday – the start of yet another two-game weekend – I travelled down to Salisbury to see Frome visit Bemerton Heath Harlequins in the FA Trophy. Here, the visitors were victors again, with another two goals for Ollis and one for the mercurial talisman Jon Davies.

I think there’s a tendency at lower level football to allow players – your team’s players, your players – a little more room for error than in the professional game; to be a little more lenient, to not get irate with every single mistake. For starters, the standard is lower, there are bound to be mistakes. Why would any spectator get on the back of such players? Of course, the gates are lower too (312 on Tuesday, 109 on Saturday) and to see a supporter glowing with incandescent rage in such surroundings would surely be frowned upon. The supporter in question would be labelled a fool. And the supporter would look stupid too.

However, at the top level of football, supporters seem to enjoy berating under-performing players at the slightest opportunity because greater levels of skill are expected. Oh, and their salaries. The salaries alone allow for constant abuse right?

I know what type of “support” I appreciate.

I arrived at “The Eight Bells” just after the pub had opened at 10am and The Smiths’ “The Queen Is Dead” welcomed me in.

“Has the world changed or have I changed?”

Quiet at first, the boozer soon filled up. The lads from Kent soon showed up, always full of smiles and laughs. They had heard that Frome Town’s next game in the FA Cup – the third qualifying round – was to be at Ramsgate next Saturday.

“Are you going, Chris?”

“Hope so, yeah.”

“Bloody hell. It’s a long way from Sevenoaks, let alone Somerset.”

Phil, Kim and Andy were all to tell me at various stages during the pre-match that the UK’s biggest “Spoons” is in Ramsgate. Kim also had a funny story from his last visit to Ramsgate.

“We were in this boozer and a bloke comes in and asks if the pub is doing Sunday Roasts. So the barman says ‘sure, I can do a beef or chicken’ and the bloke asks if there are any vegetarian options. The geezer goes ‘well, I can do you exactly the same but without the beef or chicken’.”

Howling.

How odd that we were in the “Town of Ramsgate” pub before the West Ham away game last month. My FA Cup travels will take me from Cornwall to Kent this autumn. I love the early rounds of the FA Cup.

Glenn and I wolfed down a full English.

Bacon, sausage, fried egg, hash browns, baked beans, fried tomato, mushroom, toast and butter.

Perfect.

I was enjoying this pre-match, as always, and was sat with Parky, Salisbury Steve, PD and Glenn. I looked from wide left to wide right and saw only blokes in our half of the cramped bar. There were around fifty in view. Only one was wearing official Chelsea gear.

…talk about “old school.”

While I was waiting for a friend to arrive, I stepped outside the pub for a few minutes. My ‘phone wasn’t logging on to the pub’s wi-fi connection and I wanted to see if I had missed any messages. As I stood outside, I flicked on “Facebook” and found myself reading a post from my friend Gary, originally from Fulham but now living in Torquay, about his trip to London but also about his increasing alienation from Chelsea Football Club. Halfway through his post, I looked up to see him walking by, no more than five yards away. I never see him down this part of Fulham. What a small world. We had a little chat, a little grumble about the way the club is being run, and we centered on the abandoning of the away coach travel subsidy. It is a subject close to Gary’s heart since he used to run up to five coaches to most Chelsea away games in the late ‘eighties and ‘nineties. “Gary’s Coaches” have gone down in Chelsea folklore. We spoke about how the modern game has increasingly left us cold. Over the past few weeks, I have mentioned to many that the “warm cloak of friendship” is the major reason why I still go to Chelsea. This club just doesn’t seem like my club any more. New ownership. New players. There is not a great connection these days. It was so noticeable that those who went to the “Legends” game while I was in Italy a fortnight ago really enjoyed themselves and many mentioned the special relationship that they enjoyed with those players from that era. I find it hard to warm to this current lot, this current bunch. Funny game, football.

Not long after, my friend Phil, and his brother Richard, arrived in the now heaving pub. Phil is originally from South London, just south of the river, but has been living in the United States since 1973. I have known him since a memorable weekend in Chicago in 2006 when Chelsea played in the MLS All-Star Game. We have met up on many a US Tour though, like me, he didn’t go to any games this summer.

“Why are we playing a team with the calibre of Wrexham?”

Phil has been loyally reading these match reports since they first appeared around fifteen years ago. Phil’s “thing” is to pick one particular phrase that I have used in each report and to simply repeat it. I wonder what phrase it will be from this week.

Anyway, thanks for your continued support mate.

I had managed to grab a last minute ticket for Phil and – luckily – the seller’s father drinks in “T8B” too. It was an easy exchange to set up.

At 1pm, we set off for the ground. With the increased security at games now, I had devised a new way of smuggling both my camera and lenses into the stadium without getting stopped by the line of stewards. Large cameras are now clearly on the list of banned objects at Stamford Bridge but I won’t let the bastards win. I can’t give the game away completely, but I hid my camera and lenses using a system not dissimilar to the way that newly excavated soil was hidden from the camp guards in “The Great Escape.”

I was inside at 1.30pm.

What with the amount of injuries that had hit our squad, the team that Mauricio Pochettino chose looked surprisingly familiar.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

With Alan absent, Rob from Melksham came down to sit next to me.

So, 2012 & 2021 vs. 1982.

The game began.

As is so often the case, we began brightly. Aston Villa looked happy to hold back allowing us the ball. Early on, a good move found Raheem Sterling in the inside-left channel. His touch let him down.

I mouthed “terrible first touch.”

My neighbours agreed.

Budgie : “Terrible first touch.”

PD : “Terrible first touch.”

I leaned over to PD.

“That needed the touch of a silk glove.”

“Like the way you’d touch a woman.”

I laughed.

“Not the way you would touch a woman mate. The ball would have cleared the stand roof and the hotel.”

PD howled.

The first quarter of an hour was all ours, but Villa had unsurprisingly led the singing.

A chant of “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” (you know the tune) was met by ironic cheering from the away fans.

On twenty minutes, much against the run of play, Robert Sanchez reacted magnificently to Lucas Digne’s rasping and dipping volley that was knocked out to him from a corner.

“Typical. All us, but they have the best shot on goal.”

Just after, a great ball from Mudryk set up Nicolas Jackson into space but his shot was well saved by Emiliano Martinez, the ball creeping past the near post.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

We dominated play with occasional bursts from the two wide players.

“Don’t forget the ball, Mudryk.”

The same player then bottled a tackle and the resultant shot was deflected wide.

The quiet atmosphere improved when a semi-decent “Cam On Chowlsea” swept around the ground.

Glenn was annoyed that Pochettino was sat for most of the game. He wanted him prowling the technical area.

“Nah, he’s paid a lot of money for that dug out seat mate. Why should he stand?”

On thirty-four minutes, a long pass from Axel Diasi found Malo Gusto who then cut the ball back to Enzo. His shot faded and drifted just wide.

On thirty-eight minutes, a long corner was headed back to Nicolo Zaniolo – who? – but his fierce volley was magnificently thwarted by a great Sanchez reaction save. Top marks indeed.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Mudryk continued to cause a few moments of worry in the Villa defence as the half ended and at last there was noise in the stands. After a fine Sterling cross, a Disasi leap and clean header hit the back of the net but was immediately called back for offside. There was an air shot from Sterling when he found himself close to goal at an angle.

It had been a frustrating half, and the two saves had, worryingly, kept us in it.

At half-time, nobody was shocked that we hadn’t scored.

The second-half began as brightly as the first. Sterling, running on to a lovely long ball, carried it too far and virtually ran in to Martinez at the near post. How frustrating. Jackson went close from a delightful chip from Enzo but was ruled offside anyway. A great ball from Silva, splitting the atom, found Sterling but his shot was blocked again. The same player was then ruled offside again. Again so frustrating.

Fackinell.

Then, calamity. I didn’t really see it, but a tackle by Gusto on Digne. A yellow. Then the boffins in Stockley Park ruled a second look. But then the same boffins weren’t sure. Back to the referee. Back to the pitch. What a fucking farce.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

A delay. We knew how this was going to end.

A red.

Fackinell.

Surprisingly, the offence was shown on the TV screen; this doesn’t usually happen. At first glance, I concentrated on the contact between studs and leg.

If I had seen further replays, which I didn’t, I would have seen the player get the ball first.

In 1965, 1975, 1985, 1995 and 2005 it would not have been a red card.

I hate modern football.

It looked like Armando Broja was about to come on – presumably for Jackson – but the sending-off changed the plan.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

Ben Chilwell replaced Mudryk.

There was applause.

For Mudryk? For Chilwell? Probably for both.

I noted how Jackson was through on goal, a one-on-one, but showed no signs of being able to out-muscle his defender and glide, Drogba-like, on towards goal. Maybe that time will come. I won’t hold my breath.

Enzo, for the second game in a row, was really poor.

The two teams exchanged half-chances.

On sixty-eight minutes, some substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Enzo, oh Enzo.

Cole Palmer for Jackson.

But then a lightning-quick break from Villa. Ollie Watkins raced through and Levi Colwill managed to stay with him and block with a perfectly-timed tackle. Sadly, the ball bounced back to Watkins who drilled the ball home from the tightest of angles. I struggled to see how the ball had crept in.

Bollocks.

Just after, a fine bit of football. A searching ball from deep from Cole Palmer found Chilwell down below us. He advanced but his low shot was hacked away by Martinez.

On seventy-nine minutes, Broja replaced Moises Caicedo, his first game since another useless friendly.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning” sung the Villa support.

The last phase of the game consisted of more Chelsea offside decisions and another Sanchez save, plus half chances for Broja and Disasi. A shot from Palmer was blocked.

“Sterling has got worse as the game has progressed, Rob.”

Despite the extra eleven minutes at the end, we never looked like scoring.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.