Lincoln City vs. Chelsea : 23 September 2025.

After the long journey to Old Trafford that took up so much of my weekend, I was now faced with another long trip on the following Tuesday. Chelsea were paired with Lincoln City, and instead of hosting them at Stamford Bridge – as is usually the case, it seems – the Footballing Gods had bequeathed upon us a rare gift.

An away game. And a new ground for many.

There was no way I was going to miss this little beauty. I think many felt the same. With the first phase of this season’s Champions League returning us to Munich, Baku and Naples, I noted that Big John was looking forward to Lincoln more. I tended to agree.

With holidays at a premium, I decided to see if I could do this one without using any holiday at all. My plan was to work 6am to 2pm, zip up to Lincoln after work and then return home straight after, but with the added bonus of working a little later on Wednesday and doing a 10am to 6pm shift.

My three passengers were waiting for me in my work car park at 2pm; P-Diddy, Lord Parky and Sir Les, all using a crutch these days.

For one day only, The Chuckle Bus became The Cripple Bus.

My route was simple enough. I would drive over the M4 and soon take the route of the Fosse Way, the old Roman Road that linked Exeter and Lincoln. Its course runs a few miles to the west of my home village, nestled between the Mendip Hills and Salisbury Plain, and it’s always a great pleasure to drive along it. We always use the Fosse Way for away trips to Nottingham and Leicester.

My Sat Nav suggested that the drive from Melksham to Lincoln would be around four hours, but after a slow start getting up to the M4, that time proceeded to increase slowly but surely.

It was a long old slog. It was not helped by a thirty-minute tail-back on the M69 as we neared a short section of the M1. However, once past here, and after by-passing Leicester, it felt that we were finally making progress.

I last drove, for a limited section, along this A46 on the way to Forest last season, but the only other time that I drove in this area was on the way to Hull City in 2008.

My father, however, drove all of the way from Somerset to Grimsby during half-term in the autumn of 1973 to visit some friends, thus preceding my journey on this day by almost fifty-one years. I can vividly remember visiting Lincoln, spotting Sincil Bank stadium as his car drove very close to it, then seeing the impressive cathedral on the horizon.

After Blackpool’s Bloomfield Road – visiting friends in the ‘sixties – Sincil Bank, I think, was only the second football stadium I had ever seen.

I drove past signs of ugly place names like Ratcliffe on the Wreake, Ragdale, Grimston, Stragglethorpe, South Scarle, North Hykeham, Tithby

It’s no surprise that Scunthorpe is in Lincolnshire. Nor Grimsby.

Between 6pm and 7pm, the sun began to fade as we travelled those flat lands of Lincolnshire. To our right, we spotted the new sculpture of a Lancaster Bomber, hovering over a corn field on a slight rise of land. It’s a very impressive structure and commemorates the area’s role as a centrepiece of Bomber Command in the Second World War. Incidentally, my father was a wireless operator in Wellington Bombers, but served in Coastal Command in North Africa in the latter years of the war. He would have loved to see this new piece of public art.

Our route into the city took us around to the west and then in, and we approached Sincil Bank, now LNER stadium, from the north and not the south as in 1973.

The path took us past a very interesting structure, a Victorian grandstand by the side of the road that looked as though it was once allowed spectators to observe military parades or tattoos. The stadium buff inside me sparked to life.

At 7pm, I had found a secure parking spot on the pavement of the aptly named Scorer Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the ground. It was a perfect place, and I was happy.

The trip to Lincoln had taken five hours, but unlike the drive to Manchester, the weather had been nigh perfect, no rain, clear skies, dry roads, and my fellow passengers had provided me with good chat along the way.

As I gathered the troops for a photo with Lincoln Cathedral in the background, none other than Stuart spotted us. He lives three miles from me, and only a mile or so from the Fosse Way itself.

A little canal runs alongside Sincil Bank and oddly gives it the air of a foreign town or city. I half-expected fishermen with those long sturdy poles to suddenly appear.

I managed to get the money shot of the night; the cathedral to the north, so imposing, but with a grafter hawking half-and-half scarves in the foreground. My mission was accomplished; I could relax.

We were ushered along behind the away stand – the Stacey West Stand, named in memory of two Lincoln City fans who sadly perished in the Bradford Fire of 1985 – and as we stood in the queue to get in, there was a gathering of the clans with many familiar faces striding past.

This game really had caught the imagination of the Chelsea populace. Or to be correct, the stadium, if not the game per se.

I had sorted a ticket out for Cookie from Trowbridge, who luckily found himself within driving distance of Lincoln on one of his nights out as a lorry driver, “tramping” from spot to spot. Eventually, his digital ticket was sorted.

In the line to get in, fans were nervously holding their phones, displaying the red digital ticket, nervously hoping that it would not suddenly disappear.

I entered the packed terrace at about 7.20pm with no hint of a security check or bag check. My SLR was back in the car. How annoying.

I took my place in the stand, exactly behind the middle of the goal, row K, seat 73.

For the first ever time, I was able to select an exact seat from a coherent seating plan for this game, as you would do for a flight, and it made me giggle that the first time wasn’t for a game at Wembley, or Stamford Bridge, nor Old Trafford, but little Lincoln City.

Kick-off soon arrived. There was a vibrant atmosphere in the compact stadium which holds around 10,500. There are single-tiered stands on all four sides, but the one to my left, although the highest, was truncated, a little like the main stand at The Valley in days of yore.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Hato

Santos – Fernandez

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

George

I was frankly amazed that Estevao, pulled off so early at Old Trafford, was not starting. And I wasn’t convinced, again, about Tyrique George leading the line. He seems to have very little physicality. He has wiry skills, but no punch.

So here I was. I had just about timed it all to perfection, it had been a decent drive up, but I seemed a little distant. Perhaps I was missing a pre-match of any description. This all seemed a little one-dimensional.

My body was at the LNER Stadium, but my mind wasn’t fully engaged. Need I be worried? Was this the start of the decline? Was I reading too much into it all? I put it down to the pressures of driving. I had no time to decompress. I hadn’t even been able to walk around the stadium, a real sin on a first visit.

The game began, and the intensity and noise from the home fan really surprised me, but enthused and excited me too. This game obviously meant a lot to the locals.

We are, after all, the World Champions.

“You’re only here for the Chelsea.”

And what a bombardment during that opening period of play, with the red and white striped home team getting in our faces from the off. There were a couple of long bombs from both sidelines, the Lincoln players launching massive throw-ins towards our six-yard box. There was a strong shot from an angle that thundered back off our far post, with the home crowd sure of a goal.

We were up against it here.

Next up, the unconvincing Filip Jorgensen came for a high ball but flattened Wesley Fofana in the process.

Fackinell.

During rare moments of attack, Alejandro Garnacho was chopped to pieces, and then roundly booed by the vociferous supporters in the packed stand to our right. Why was Garnacho being singled out for abuse? I wondered if many of the Lincoln City fans were also Manchester United supporters. After all, many fans follow a smaller club too. It just happened that theirs was Manchester United.

Lincoln were excellent in the first part of the game and never let us settle. We looked, most definitely, like the Southern Softies of past times.

There were homophobic shouts at us from the folk to our right.

Yes, very Man United.

Lincoln caused worry with every throw-in, every free kick, every corner, and our attacks, a little more methodical and patient, ended up going nowhere. To his credit Jamie Gittens did show nice pieces of close skill on the right. On eighteen minutes he wriggled clear and met a fine lofted ball from Enzo but shot over down below us.

A header from a corner bounced narrowly wide of Jorgensen’s goal.

Garnacho and Gittens swapped wings.

Despite our middling performance on the pitch, the away support, around 1,800 of us tightly packed together, were making a decent noise, though was there any real need to goad the home fans with “you’ve won fuck all?”.

They’re Lincoln City, for Gawd’s sake.

The home team tested us with an effort close-in when a corner was headed back into the mixer, and Jorgensen punched thin air, but thankfully the ball bounced away.

Another nice set of skills from Gittens, and his run into the box thrilled us, but he only made the side netting ripple.

Soon after, on forty-three minutes, I missed the apparently ludicrous pass across the defence by Enzo, but I saw their player take the ball off Chalobah and set up Rob Street, who calmly slotted home.

Three-quarters of the place erupted.

We fell silent.

Oh boy.

The celebrations from the stand to our right included the Dambusters, and I am sure I also heard the shrill sound of an air raid siren going off.

Fair play.

At the break, I sat to take the weight off my legs and contemplated a tiring trip home, perhaps after penalties if we managed to get a goal from somewhere.

“Town Called Malice” boomed on the PA, and I shouted back to Minnesota Josh.

“A Frome song…”

It had really been a poor show from us. It was typically slow and ponderous, with few plusses. Enzo had produced a litany of misplaced chips and passes, and I was amazed that he started the game too. As many have said, he looks tired, all played out.

The second period began.

After just two minutes of play, a run from Gittens on the left, and after losing possession the ball bobbled back and into the path of George. With virtually no time to think, and with minimal back lift, he swiped at the ball, and we watched as it lasered its way into the goal, maybe clipping the far post on its way.

It was a thunderbolt.

Did it remind anyone else of Jimmy at Old Trafford in 2000?

Previously underwhelmed and a little distanced, I celebrated the goal wildly.

I was back in the game.

GET IN.

Miraculously, just two minutes later, George played in Facundo Buonanotte who danced his way into the box and adeptly placed the ball into the goal. It was a really fine finish, neat and sure.

More celebrations in the Stacey West Stand.

Get in.

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

How would the game go now?

The rest of the match was an odd one. Lincoln City never gave up and we had to be dogged in our defending. Many a robust challenge went in on their players. At times it felt like we thought that we were 3-1 or 4-1 up, as we overplayed it and looked for a fancy move rather than playing it safe.

Changes were made.

59 minutes : Estevao for Garnacho.

71 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo

71 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gittens

71 minutes : Shumaira Mheuka for George

There was an unselfish ball from Estevao to Neto, but the shot was just wide.

We were still singing.

“When the samba rhythm starts to play, dance with me, make me sway, Estevao is running down the wing, scores a goal, makes the Chelsea sing.”

Fackinell, it was like being back on the Copacabana.

Neto passed to Buonanotte but his shot was straight at the ‘keeper.

Then, at the death, on a night that he probably would want to forget, Jorgensen came for a cross, absolutely missed it, but the half-chance was squandered as the ball was knocked over the bar.

Oh boy.

We made it.

At the end, my mate Jason texted to say “Buonanotte has had a good night” and I should really close this match report at this point.

Boo!

Via a rather circuitous route out of the city – due to the partial closure of the A46 – we eventually got away. At one stage, several cars – most undoubtedly Chelsea – were following each other through small Lincolnshire hamlets, villages and country lanes, no doubt following their GPS in the hope of hitting the main road again. On several occasions we found ourselves heading north.

I likened it to those convoys from village churches to wedding receptions when one car takes the lead and others blithely follow on.

Parky piped up “when you turn into your driveway tonight, you’ll have seven cars behind you.”

Thankfully, the A46 was reached, the rain stayed off and I eventually made it home at 2.10am with no cars crawling behind me.

It had been another epic night on the road.

The next round?

We all fancied Port Vale away.