Tag Archives: Falmouth Town

Tales From The Woolwich Wanderers

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 6 September 2026.

After a hectic spell of six games – three blue, three red – in ten days, I enjoyed a brief period of rest during the week. However, ahead of Chelsea’s away game at Arsenal, I originally planned to follow my hometown team Frome Town in their quest to advance in the FA Cup on the Saturday at Falmouth Town in deepest Cornwall. However, on the Friday, the thought of covering almost six-hundred miles over the weekend fried my brain. I took the decision to abandon the expedition to Falmouth and thus concentrate on my first love; Chelsea Football Club.

I rested on Saturday but was buoyed by the news that despite conceding an early goal, Dodge came back to claim a 4-2 victory. I experienced no regrets in missing this match. I would be fresh for Sunday.

On the Sunday morning, I spent a small amount of time dipping into the personal histories of the two managers who would be locking horns at The Emirates later in the day. As youngsters, Xabi Alonso and Miguel Arteta played for the same football club, Antiguoko, in San Sebastian, and both dreamed of playing for Real Socidead. Born a few months apart, they went on to cross swords playing for the two teams on Merseyside but never played together at their favoured Real Sociedad. How strange that they would now meet as managers of London’s two giants.

This would be a real test for Alonso’s fledgling team.

I pulled out of my drive at 10.30am and set off for a very rare solo trip to London. PD really suffered with the walk from the stadium down to Highbury & Islington last season, so decided he would not be attending this one. Parky decided against it too. They would be back with me again for the Leeds United League Cup game on the following Wednesday.

I chose the southerly route to London, across Salisbury Plain, past Stonehenge, and onto the A303, then the M3, joining the slow-moving traffic on the M25, before hitting the more familiar route in via the M4 and the A4. I took a familiar right-turn onto the North End Road, and I was soon parked up where Rylston Road met Dawes Road. It was 2pm.

I again dipped in to “Walham Green” for a quick drink, but my travel plans took a jolt when I saw that Fulham Broadway was closed. So, I hopped on a bus and commenced my trans-London commute at Earl’s Court on the Picadilly Line that quickly connects the football clubs of Chelsea and Arsenal and the boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham and Islington.

The train was full of Arsenal supporters of course.

I could not help noticing a chap who was sat across the way from me. He was around thirty-five, was wearing an Arsenal replica shirt, but also a black baseball cap with Mickey Mouse on the front and a Disneyland Paris logo on the back.

Oh boy.

Too many punchlines, not enough time.

As I hurtled north, Xabi Alonso’s choice of starters came through.

I couldn’t easily work out the formation.

Emi Martinez

Josh Acheampong

Maxence Lacroix

Wesley Fofana

Jorrel Hato

Reece James

Romeo Lavia

Pedro Neto

Cole Palmer

Morgan Rogers

Joao Pedro

Maybe it would all make sense once the players lined up at the kick-off.

It only took thirty minutes to reach the rabbit warren that is Arsenal tube. I immediately met up with Emma from Bridgwater in Somerset.

“Going to be a tough one, this.”

We edged up the incline to street level, and the bright sunshine was a contrast to the tube interior. I had recently spotted some evocative photos from an Arsenal vs. Chelsea match at Highbury in August 1971. A few images illustrated the colourful scene on Gillespie Road – rosettes, scarves, supporters – which is where I now stood. I wanted to replicate these, fifty-five years later. I took some photos with my phone. No SLR on this day.

I bumped into Andy and Graham from Glasgow who had flown down to London that morning.

Chelsea supporters streamed out of the tube station sing “Viva Gabriel” and the home supporters seemed to look away.

I could not resist an opportune photo of the first four letters of “Arsenal” near the Danny Fiszman Bridge over the railway lines and I shared it on “Facebook” with my comment:

“Right Up Them.”

I made my way towards the away turnstiles and spotted a large mural on a section of the stadium exterior that stated “Opportunity. Greatness.”

It sounded like a David Brent soundbite from one of the very first scenes of “The Office.”

“If a good man comes to me and says, ‘thank you for the opportunity and continued support in the work-related arena’…

“I can make it come true, a.k.a, to you… “you talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk, vis a vis you have not yet won the European Cup.”

I was inside at bang on 4pm; it had been a relaxing day thus far, the timings were decent, but now it was starting to get a little serious. I aimed for block 20, along the side this season, rather than my usual perch near the corner flag.

Who should be walking up the aisle steps but my good mate Foxy from Dundee, who often shows up, unannounced, at various locations. It was a great pleasure to chat to him for a while.

I then spotted my awayday companion John, and I sidled past a few familiar faces – “going to be a hard game” – in the seventh row and soon realised that my seat, number 591, was right next to the slender gap of around four feet between the away supporters and the home fans.

“Oh great.”

They were going to be in my right earhole all afternoon.

Sigh.

When the Chelsea players trotted over to clap the away supporters, I noticed a chap in the second row of the home section to my right, just a few yards away, applauding the players. This surprised me. It also surprised an agitated Arsenal supporter who was right next to him in the front row. I saw him mouth the words “why are you clapping?”

And I understood this completely. It’s an obscenity to see this in home areas. The guy looked flummoxed and from his body language he appeared to gesture to the entire stadium as if to say, “I am just looking forward to the game.”

I wasn’t convinced and neither was the Arsenal chap.

A while later, I saw this bloke – he looked like a tourist, for sure – getting a selfie with the “Gunnersaurus” Arsenal mascot; blimey, another faux pas.

This bloke was making a right dick of himself.

I had to laugh that many inflatable European Cups had again found their way into the away end and were poised to be hoisted towards the Arsenal support, including that odd little knot of around two-hundred black-clad Ashburton Ultras behind the Clock End goal, at key moments during the afternoon.

Gary arrived and stood next to John. None of us were confident of a result.

The pre-game routines continued.

Arsenal is one of a few London clubs that dig out “London Calling” to play before the teams enter the pitch. I am not sure why they can lay claim to it. Joe Strummer, the lead singer of The Clash was a Chelsea fan by all accounts, and Fulham certainly live by the river.

Arsenal?

Who knows?

There is a river down at Woolwich, mind.

Last season, I started calling Arsenal – among many other, nastier, things – the Woolwich Wanderers and it seemed apt.

I couldn’t believe the abundance of various replica shirts being worn by the home supporters to my right. I know I always mention it a few times each season, but Chelsea – in the main – don’t tend to wear club colours in the same way as many other teams. Arsenal, though, lead the list. Is this the same club that many fans of other clubs heralded as the best dressed in London in the early ‘eighties when a new way of doing everything took hold? It was hard to believe.

I wondered that with all these man-made fibres being concentrated in such a tight proximity, it might represent a fire hazard should they get overly excited and start hugging each other; perish that thought.

As the teams came out from the tunnel, flames flew up into the air in front of us all, and I dreaded one spark heading towards the red hordes to my right.

Thankfully, the moment passed.

With a minute or so before the kick-off, “North London Forever” was bellowed out by the Arsenal devotees, and I refer everyone to my Woolwich comment earlier.

“Not exactly forever, is it?”

With two wins for both teams in the nascent Premier League thus far, the match kicked off with Chelsea, as usual at this venue, playing left-to-right and defending the Clock End.

I took an early photo and joked to John that I had at least one photo when it was 0-0.

Well, the joke was on me.

A floated free-kick from Reece James, central-left, and a little bit of head tennis. The ball fell conveniently to Morgan Rogers on the edge of the box. A fine stab at goal, and the net rippled. David Raya seemed to drop late.

We were 1-0 up.

Just over a minute had been played.

Bloody hell.

Pandemonium in the South Stand.

I may or may not have glanced, fists clenched, towards the nylon and polyester to my right.

I soon spotted that matey boy in the second row was being escorted out by a couple of stewards. What a silly boy. He obviously celebrated the Chelsea goal. At least he left with a selfie of him with the Arsenal mascot.

We could hardly believe it of course, and I suspect many among the three thousand must have thought “we have scored too soon.”

Arsenal, unsurprisingly, came at us, and I attempted to fathom out our formation, but being so low it was not always easy. There was an almighty scramble in our six-yard area, with bodies and limbs crunching against each other, but Martinez – returning to his former home – managed to bravely scoop the ball out for a corner. He went down and a few text messages later in the day would suggest that he had been the recipient of a boot to the head.

Bodies crunching and limbs flailing in opponents’ six-yard boxes seem to be an accepted way of playing the Arsenal way these days, and it isn’t pretty. It reminds me of the slapping that goes on during New Order’s “True Faith” video. Or Reeves and Mortimer with their frying pans.

On twelve minutes, another Arsenal free-kick out on the right, and a low delivery into the box. There was an inevitable scramble, and the ball bobbled in and around the six-yard box for what seemed like an eternity. The ball was eventually prodded in. The goons to my right erupted.

Fackinell.

But then, the TV screen signalled “VAR – possible offside” and there was hope. The goal was indeed chalked off, though you still won’t catch me cheering a VAR decision.

Chelsea, attacking with greater intent than which we are familiar, hit back with a few efforts. A shot from Cole Palmer was straight at Raya. The same player was then involved and played a ball into the far post but missed everyone. There was a blaster from Reece that was well saved.

At the other end, a formidable block by Reece from an Arsenal effort on goal. A fine tackle by Hato at the right moment, too. Attacks were mounting up, with pace, from both sides and the game was pulsating now.

On twenty-five minutes, the ball was played to the lanky German misery Havertz, and we watched as he cut inside and despatched a low strike on goal. Alas, it crept in at the near post.

Bollocks.

The Arsenal lot to my right erupted but nobody caught fire.

I think Havertz thought about trotting over to goad us but decided against it.

So, 1-1, and twenty minutes to the break.

Arsenal’s number seventeen Christos Tzolis – he has adopted Brian Marwood’s haircut in some sort of odd homage to the former Arsenal player – was involved in front of us and looked useful. Again, I was surprised how deep Declan Rice was playing. I still have nightmares thinking of how he turned to us and fist-pumped after a delivering a corner that led to a goal last season.

On forty minutes, we had tons of possession in the Arsenal third, but it all ended up with a tame cross from Pedro Neto into the ‘keeper’s hands.

Just after, a terrible free kick from Reece missed the frame of the goal by some margin.

Neto made use of acres of open space out on our right on a few occasions in the first half, and on forty-six minutes he raced forward to collect a great ball from Joao Pedro, and edged inside, but avoided playing the ball others, and hit the base of the far post. A follow-up cross from Reece was lofted wide.

It was 1-1 at the break. A quick synopsis? Decent going forward, over-run in midfield, our defence often collapsed back too many yards when they attacked us. The noise within the away section hadn’t been great, but the home support was hardly noisy either. It had been a decent game thus far, though.

The second half began, but after just five minutes, Brian Marwood played the ball into the box, Havertz dummied and the ball reached Martin Odegaard. His shot was central and flew past Martinez.

Sigh.

Immediately, the Arsenal lot were noisy as hell.

And this was hell.

Especially being just four feet away.

The stolen-from-Liverpool “Allez allez allez” chant was aired and after that died down, they started “Champions of England – we know what we are.”

I thought to myself :

“How Chelsea 2012.”

Chelsea had to attack, as defensively we didn’t seem assured. Rogers broke away in front of me, and there was a one versus one chase against Gabriel. The Arsenal defender’s sliding tackle was so good that it hurt me to witness it.

Alonso turned to the bench.

On the hour, Pep Chavarria for Hato and Malo Gusto for Lavia.

We now had two right full backs in the midfield duo. Without Moises Caicedo – and now with no Enzo Fernandez – we look rather deficient in that key area.

There was a Palmer shot straight at Raya.

Soon after, an effort from Rogers went high above the bar.

We kept the pressure up; we had much of the ball in the final fifteen minutes, and we kept willing the team on.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Then, at the other end, a fine save from Martinez foiled Bukayo Saka, a diving sprawl to his right.

Another substitution on eighty-one minutes.

Estevao for Neto.

Just after, a break from Palmer but the ball flew over.

This was becoming a pattern.

On eighty-seven minutes, Danny Welbeck replaced Rogers.

Remarkably, I kept saying ton Gary and John “I still fancy a late equaliser. A goal in the first minute. Another in the last.”

On eighty-nine minutes, the tricky Brazilian Estevao fooled his way inside his marker and unleashed a wicked shot at goal. Alas, we witnessed a dramatic leap from Raya and a fingertip push over the bar.

Stunning football, but no goal.

Four minutes of injury time were displayed, and although the referee played five, the late equaliser never came. There were glum faces all around me, and I slowly made my way up the shallow steps and out onto the concourse. It seems ages since the last time that we were victorious here; a 2-0 victory in August 2021. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed down the slope behind the southern side of the stadium. There was time for one last shot as the sun blitzed against the stadium glass. This slope always reminds me of the exit ramp from the old Shed. I can never remember seeing a photo that exists of that part of Stamford Bridge. I wonder why.

Rather than battle the inevitably slow-moving crowds on the Holloway Road, I hid away in a Chinese restaurant for three-quarters of an hour and let the crowds subside. Fed and watered, and suitably rested, I walked down to the tube station at Highbury Corner and made my way back to Rylston Road.

I bought some coffees for the return trip back to Somerset and set off. I was philosophical about the afternoon’s events. We had shown glimpses of “the new Chelsea” but Arsenal is an obstinate beast, and we didn’t quite have enough to get something out of the game.

I drove on and on, reaching home at 11pm.

Next up, Leeds.

See you there.

Tales From A Visit From The Vale

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Chelsea vs. Port Vale : 4 April 2026.

The hangover from the loss at Everton lasted longer than I had expected, but it is no real surprise. The Chelsea team performed at a very low level, there was my personal altercation with a fellow-supporter, and the sight of the Chelsea team playing in front of just five-hundred of our three-thousand fans at the end of the game didn’t sit well with me at all.

However, there was a full fortnight before the next Chelsea game and I would be able to enjoy three Frome Town games in that period. It felt like a busman’s holiday, of sorts, and a very pleasant one too. That I needed to squeeze in five days of holiday in that fortnight made for a very nice feeling indeed.

The first of these games took place on Tuesday 24 March at Falmouth in Cornwall. After my faux-pas in booking up the wrong dates for a potential two-day stay, I made this a lengthy “in-and-out” mission. I had time for a drink with a Frome mate on the quayside first, though, and was amazed how many Frome supporters had travelled to the game. On a very wet night, in a competitive match, Frome ran out 4-1 winners. My position in the covered main stand meant I kept dry, but others were drenched despite standing under cover. There is, indeed, no escape from horizontal rain.

My abiding memory of the game was how entertaining the match turned out to be. Despite a soft pitch and atrocious conditions, both teams went hell-for-leather. Hats off to the Falmouth Town support too, who made a racket even when losing heavily.

However, I again realised a major difference between football on this night at this game and at this level in general and that of the Premier League.

At the very top level, players are super fit, and play is often squeezed into a very compact area, with defenders sitting deep. Therefore, play slows down because there is such a lack of space. Often players are squeezed into only thirty yards of the pitch’s length. However, at Frome’s level, players are not quite so fit, conditions are not so perfect, and play is much more spread out spatially. Very often, players take up half of the pitch’s length. This results in more space and a greater variety of ways and methods to attack.

Leaving a sodden Falmouth that night, my love of the lower levels of football was strengthened. I had seen football “how it used to be played” and those memories kept me contented on the long drive home.

These days, as always, we don’t need sporting perfection; we just crave entertainment.

The next game in my Frome Town trilogy was a home match with Didcot Town on Saturday 28 March. On a gorgeous sunny day, watched by a lovely attendance of 608, two David Duru goals gave Dodge a 2-0 win against a stubborn Didcot Town team. It rounded off a fine week of three wins, and our unbeaten run now stood at twenty-five in the league alone.

The final match took place in Worcestershire in the village of Inkberrow on Good Friday, home to Sporting Club Inkberrow. On a very windy day and backed by around one-hundred and forty away fans, Frome stormed to a 3-0 lead in the first half in a fantastic display of attacking football. No further goals ensued, but this was a very comprehensive performance. It meant that my hometown team required just one more point in its remaining four games to become Champions and secure automatic promotion back to the Southern League Premier.

One moment struck a chord from this game, though. Losing 0-3 and with just minutes remaining, the Inkberrow players were streaming forward in search of a goal. Their spirit was amazing to see. As a stark comparison, I was reminded of many occasions when Chelsea are losing and we witness defenders and midfielders passing the ball painstakingly between them, none of them taking ownership of the moment, none of them looking to play outside the tedious regimen we find at that level.

Sigh.

With the Frome break now behind me, it was time to focus on the oldest football competition in the world; Chelsea were up against Port Vale at Stamford Bridge in the Quarter Finals of the FA Cup.

A game against Vale was long overdue, despite them being only the twelfth team that we ever played way back on 21 October 1905. Our history with them goes back as far as is almost possible to go. However, we last played the Valiants from Burslem in 1929.

This would be a massive game for them. It was their biggest FA Cup match for decades. I tried to think of a Chelsea comparison. Maybe our visit to the San Siro in 1999, when it felt like a rights-of-passage, a tilt at giants, a massive away game.

Vale would be bringing around 6,500, the entire Shed End, and it meant that Parky would be displaced.

On the way over to collect Parky from his village, I spoke to PD about this.

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today, mate?”

We had a little giggle.

It was a clear run up to London on this Saturday morning. Midway through our journey I asked Parky where he was sitting.

“Matthew Harding, mate.”

“Whereabouts, Parky?”

“Dunno, let me look at my phone…U08”

“That’s our section.”

“Oh nice…Row D, Seat 371.”

“Fackinell, mate…you’re sat next to us. You must have Clive’s seat.”

We cracked up.

What were the chances of that?

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today?”

Us, that’s who.

Oh boy.

I met up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”, but there was a different vibe on this occasion. The Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race was taking place on the Thames, starting at nearby Putney Bridge, and so the pub was overflowing with pretty young things supporting both universities. There was also a smattering of Port Vale fans in the pub, causing no problems, and this added an extra dimension.

When it was revealed in the summer, the Port Vale home shirt gained lots of attention for its class and style. Up close it is even better. I spotted that the back of the shirt is sponsored, in feint gold, by my alma mater, the University of Staffordshire. Back in the ‘eighties it was known as North Staffs Poly. Because I always lived close to the Victoria Ground in Stoke, I always gravitated to Stoke City – I think I saw them play around seven or eight times in my three years in The Potteries – and never felt like supporting the “obscure but trendy” option of Port Vale. In fact, I only ever saw them play once while living in the city.

Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play Brentford. In my third year of study at North Staffs Poly, I had yet to visit Vale Park, and I knew that I would have to get at least one visit in during my stay in the area. Why did I choose Brentford? I was lured in because Micky Droy, the ex-Chelsea defender, was playing for Brentford in 1986/87.

I took the bus up to Burslem – grey buildings, grey skies – and paid £2.50 to get in. After all that, Droy wasn’t playing. He was injured. Bollocks. I heard a voice inside my head say, “why in God’s name are you here?”

I watched from the Bykers Road end, a very ram-shackle terrace, as the home team won 4-1 in front of just 3,012. The star of that Vale team that season was their young striker Andy Jones who later signed for Charlton Athletic, though Robbie Earle, now a TV pundit, was playing for Vale too, himself a local from Newcastle-under-Lyme. I counted just sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.

Now, almost forty years later I would be seeing Port Vale play once more.

I chatted to a couple of “Stokies” in the pub and one of them mentioned how poorly his team were playing, mired to the bottom of the third tier.

“If you score one early, we will crumble.”

The pub was full of visitors from Vale and the Varsity, and it was a nice change. I even found myself watching the boat race on the TV, with memories of my childhood, eager to spot Craven Cottage on the TV screen.

Before the game began, there was a respectful mention of former Chelsea goalkeeper Tony Godden who had recently passed away, aged just seventy. Tony came in to our team in 1986 to offer some experience and played around thirty games. I liked him a lot. He went down in Chelsea folklore by saving two penalties within a few minutes of each other at the Stretford End in a game on 28 September 1986, a game that I attended while living in Stoke.

RIP Tony Godden

I can’t lie; despite Port Vale’s lowly position in League One, I was still worried about the outcome of this match. It had the potential to become the biggest banana skin of them all. Forget Orient in 1972 and forget Bradford City in 2015. This could be the biggest.

Which team did Liam Rosenior select?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Tosin – Hato

Santos – Lavia

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

This was surely a good enough team to beat the lowly Valiants?

In the game at Inkberrow on Good Friday, Albie Hopkins pounced on just twenty-two seconds to put Frome Town ahead, and Chelsea got off to an absolute flier in this game too. Pedro Neto fired in a corner in front of the travelling Vale fans at The Shed. The Vale ‘keeper Joe Gauci flapped not once but twice, and the ball broke to Jorrel Hato who smashed home from close range. Just sixty-four seconds were on the clock.

Chelsea 1 Port Vale 0.

Alan, next to Parky : “They’ll have to come at us know, duck.”

Me, next to Alan : “Come on my little diamonds, duck.”

There was that early goal. I wondered if they would indeed crumble.

We were dominating the early portion of the game, putting the visitors under pressure. A shot from Cole Palmer was blocked.

They countered occasionally, and a cross-come-shot from Rhys Walters whizzed across the six-yard box but here was no Port Vale player present to tap in. A header flew past the post from Connor Hall. But we never looked under threat.

On twenty-one minutes, Palmer set off on a central run, but resisted the urge to shoot on a few occasions, eventually ran out of steam, and lost control. A year or more ago, I felt sure he would have pulled the trigger. It illustrated his form of late, a product of both a lingering injury and a fall in self-confidence.

Just as the frustration was rising in the Stamford Bridge stands, Pedro Neto dug in to beat his defender on the right and crossed for Joao Pedro. He took a touch, pirouetted, dummied to shoot, then slotted home. It was a lovely goal.

Chelsea 2 Port Vale 0.

On thirty-nine minutes, a rare shot from Romeo Lavia, but a pathetic shot too, right at their ‘keeper.

Just after, on forty-two minutes, a ball forward – HOLD THE FRONT PAGE – by Tosin was beautifully touched by Malo Gusto into the path of Joao Pedro. Gusto had continued his run and drifted wide. Joao Pedro played in Gusto whose low shot was pushed out by Gauci towards Palmer. His stab at the ball was deflected in by the lunge of defender Jordan Lawrence-Gabriel.

Chelsea 3 Port Vale 0.

Game over? Surely.

Soon into the second period, we witnessed a lovely move. We won the ball and it was played out to Joao Pedro. His quick touch set up Santos to play in Estevao, who had been relatively quiet in the first half, but his left-footed shot grazed the post. Just after, Palmer was centrally located near the “D” and studiously aimed a shot towards the same post. It turned into the slowest shot of the season. Gauci ate it up.

Neto slammed a fine strike at Gauci.

The Matthew Harding, oddly, taunted the Vale support.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

This was odd since the home support had hardly sung a note all afternoon.

On fifty-seven minutes, Gusto was found in some space and lofted a fine cross towards the ridiculously un-marked Tosin. The defender rose well and headed down well. It was a neat finish.

Chelsea 4 Port Vale 0.

Soon after, the old favourite echoed out throughout Stamford Bridge.

“Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be.”

Not so long after, a mightily loud “Vale ‘Til I Die” rang out of The Shed. It was their loudest moment. None of them had left, either. They were staying put.

Estevao, sent in by Neto, forced a save from Gauci.

On the hour, Liam Rosenior made some changes.

Alejandro Garnacho for Pedro Neto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

There were moans after Estevao played in Garnacho, who planted the ball over the bar.

Fackinell.

There later followed many instances of that crouching dribbling style of the Argentinian down below me.

On sixty-five minutes, Estevao hit the other post after being set free, and after twisting and turning inside the box. This young lad has such talent. His smile is infectious. I hope he stays with us for a while before others come calling.

From nowhere, the Stamford Bridge crowd at last generated some noise.

On sixty-nine minutes, an Estevao corner, a Santos leap, an easy goal, but awful defending again.

Chelsea 5 Port Vale 0.

On seventy-four minutes, a rare shot from a Vale player; a firm strike was well-saved by Sanchez, pushed out for a corner.

On seventy-eight minutes, a debut for Ryan Kavuma-McQueen, who replaced Romeo Lavia, quelle surprise.

On eighty-two minutes, a lovely ball set up Garnacho who struck a shot against the post, only for Estevao to tuck in the rebound. There was a suspicion of offside, but VAR disagreed.

Chelsea 6 Port Vale 0.

I chuckled when the visiting fans taunted us :

“Is there a fire drill?”

On eighty-five minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

In the last minute of the match, strong hold-up play from Delap set up Garnacho who was up against a lumbering Vale defender. He tumbled, and a penalty was signalled.

It looked to me like Garnacho had to argue with Delap about who would take the kick. In the end, Garnacho took the ball, and we waited.

I almost expected him to dribble the ball in.

But no, a confident strike.

Chelsea 7 Port Vale 0.

I would like to say “magnificent” but the opposition were truly atrocious.

They were lucky to get nought.

Right then…

Charlton Athletic, Hull City, Wrexham, Port Vale.

Who is next?

The Frome Trilogy

Chelsea vs. Port Vale

Tales From West Bridgford

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2025.

For the second time in less than four weeks, I was headed up the Fosseway for an away game.

Then it was Lincoln City, now it was Nottingham Forest.

Due to the lunchtime kick-off, at 12.30pm, the three of us had agreed that this would be an “in and out” mission, with no time to have much of a pre-match – no drinks – nor a post-match. This was football but cut to the most basic of away days. Sometimes it happens like this. Burnley at 12.30pm on another Saturday in the near future is another one.

Everything was dark as I pulled out of my driveway at 6.40am. I quickly sped over to Nunney Catch to top up the car’s petrol tank, and then picked up PD at 7am, and then Parky at 7.30am. After a quick pitstop in Melksham for an early breakfast, we were away.

The journey north-east was pretty decent apart from a slight detour through Cirencester due to an RTA and then a quarter of an hour wait at traffic lights at Moreton-In-Marsh.

Overhead, the skies were light grey. It conjured images of the Chelsea away kit from 2018/19, but – alas – with no orange to sit alongside it. The autumnal colours outside were not at their visual peak simply because the sun was unable to penetrate the thick cloud cover and light up the autumn hues. It was all rather muted.

I hoped that our performance alongside the River Trent would not be something similar.

I was parked up at 11.30am at my JustPark slot on Fleeman Grove, just a fifteen-minute walk from the City Ground. I have used JustPark for Chelsea away games for quite a few years now, and during the week I found out that it began life when the founder asked a friend where he parked at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea home games.

“We just asked someone if we could park in their driveway, and we have been doing it ever since.”

West Bridgford seemed a decent location, full of pre-War semis, with neatly trimmed gardens, and it seemed that there still might be families tucked away behind lace curtains, fathers with Brylcreem, mothers with pinnies, listening to the home service. I almost expected a “Just William” character to appear at a gate, wearing a cap, holding a slingshot catapult, and sporting a cheeky grin.

“Alright, me duck?”

While PD and Parky trotted off to the away turnstiles, I had a little mooch around the rear of the Brian Clough Stand, originally the Executive Stand, that dates from 1980. The lower section of this stand used to house some of the away supporters, and I have a vivid memory of watching a game there in 1987 when taking celery to Chelsea games was at its height. Although I managed to smuggle a bunch of celery in under my voluminous jacket, the police were out in force to search others, and as a result, there were several large piles of celery deposited outside the away turnstiles that day. It was a comical sight.

From celery in 1987 to cameras in 2025, I was at it again.

Alas, my allotted “pat down” steward spotted my camera bag bundled up in my hand-held jacket and for a moment, I was a little agitated.

“On that’s a nice camera. In you go.”

My SLR was in.

If only all grounds, including Stamford Bridge, was as easy.

It was around midday, so the away concourse and the away seats were filling up now.

A steward asked to see my ticket as I approached the top of the aisle that led to my section. I had to chuckle as she advised me that “the rows are alphabetical, and the seats are numbered.”

Shocker.

I caught the players going through their pre-match drills, dressed in subtle green training tops that matched the colour of the shorts.

The skies overhead were still light grey with no hint of the sun breaking through. As kick-off approached, we were treated to the usual assault on the senses with pumped dance music booming around the stadium.

“Freed From Desire” and “Insomnia” are fed to us ad nauseum now and are the modern day equivalents of the more organic and natural supporter-generated classics such as “Chelsea Agro, Chelsea Agro, Hello Hello” and “You’re Gonna Get Your Fuckin’ Heads Kicked In.”

Joking aside, these musical interruptions work against an atmosphere rather than add to it.

The teams entered the pitch, and as they broke, the old Forest anthem of “Mull Of Kintyre” signalled Kop-style scarfing, with the home supports joining in at the allotted time.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent, my desire is always to be here, oh City Ground.”

On the drive up to Nottingham – we were calling it Dottingham in lieu of an old ‘seventies advert for “Tunes” – we rued the fact that our injuries would impact Enzo Maresca’s team selection, and here was the evidence.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Romeo Lavia – Andrey Santos – Malo Gusto

Pedro Neto – Joao Pedro – Alejandro Garnacho

Or something like that.

In truth, it took me all the first half to work out the midfield positions, and after forty-five minutes, only Gusto remained so from then on it didn’t bloody matter anyway.

The game began.

Nottingham Forest – red, white, red.

Chelsea – white, green, white.

There was a very early scare within the first minute as sloppy play from Malo Gusto – probably the most erratic player in the squad – allowed Taiwo Awoniyi, now fully recovered from last season’s health scare, a chance but he sent the ball wide of the goal at our end.

On four minutes, some neat Neto trickery on the right was followed by a cross that pin-balled around for a few seconds but that eventually flew over the bar via Andrey Santos at the Trent End.

Alejandro Garnacho on the left and Neto looked lively, but the midfield trio seemed lost.

On the quarter of an hour, there had been a litany of mis-placed passes from both sides, and I wearily commented to Gary : “gonna be 0-0, this.”

On eighteen minutes, Trevoh Chalobah nervously let in Morgan Gibbs-White, but his effort smashed against the red post that held the netting taut rather than anything more worthwhile.

Then, in the very next minute, the same Forest player jumped high to try to connect to a Douglas Luiz set up but only succeeded in lashing it high and wide.

“Has Santos touched the ball?” bemoaned Gary alongside me.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free kick at the Trent End and Reece James took aim. Sadly, the kick was so poor that it resembled a bloody pass back.

Neto kept applying himself on the right, but Garnacho had faded.

On thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match involving the two Pedros, but Santos walloped over. Then just after, Joao Pedro lost his marker with a lovely shimmy / twist / turn and chipped a decent pass on to Santos. I expected a goal. Sadly, the low shot was struck wide of the right-hand post.

Fackinell.

In truth, it had been a poor first-half.

I turned around and chatted to Richard from Swindon and Jason from Swanage, and to be blunt, the half-time natter was more entertaining than the forty-five minutes of dire football that had preceded it. As the combatants returned to the pitch, Gary amused himself by lampooning the sheer size and length of Forest’s Murillo’s shorts.

Despite the inadequacies of our play thus far, none of us could believe the wholesale changes at the start of the second half.

Moises Caicedo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Santos.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

I was happy to see Caicedo on the pitch but wondered why he had not started.

Just four minutes into the second half, as Neto took hold of the ball on the Chelsea left, and therefore right in front of the support, he touched the ball on.

Showing my uncanny ability to grasp the situation and to impart my quite considerable knowledge of football, I muttered, with disdain, “no you should have played it first time”, but I then watched as he strode on, advancing towards the goal-line in front of me before chipping a cross into the box. I looked across to see the leap of Josh Acheampong and the ball fly into the corner of the net closest to me.

I celebrated wildly and called myself several unsavoury names.

My camera was called into action, but the viewing position is so awful being so low down at Forest that I just blindly shot a few photos.

However, I like the one I took of the players – blurred – celebrating but with the faces of the home supporters – crisp and in focus – sternly watching from the stand behind.

I spotted Neto completely losing himself as he double fisted during a celebratory scream towards the Chelsea faithful.

Soon after, strong play from Guiu won us a free kick. The twin threats of Neto and James stood over the ball. After a wait, James touched it sideways, and Neto struck it home. We celebrated again. This time, there were no photos taken, I was simply lost in the moment.

Neto celebrated with another clenched fist salute and primeval scream.

“You deserve that, matey.”

This two-goal blitz had come out of nowhere, but we didn’t care.

The calls for the Forest manager Ange Postecoglu to be sacked in the morning rang out from the away end.

With Chelsea at ease with the two-goal cushion, this became a lot more pleasing to watch.

However, football is a cruel mistress and Gary warned “next goal is important.”

I replied, “let’s hope there isn’t one.”

Just before the hour, the increasingly impressive Joao Pedro tucked the ball just wide of the near post.

However, not long after, Neco Williams appeared to have the goal at his mercy but blazed a shot wildly over the bar.

From a deep corner, Robert Sanchez managed to get down to smother a goal-bound effort from Nikola Milenkovic and then sprung up to tip over a follow-up effort from Ibrahim Sangare. These were two bloody great saves.

As a shot stopper and claimer of crosses, he is a solid 8/10, but his distribution and footballing intelligence seems to be stuck at 5/10.

I realised that despite our far better showing in the second half, the game could easily have been tied at 2-2.

There was more drama ahead. Callum Hudson-Odoi, who appeared as a second-half substitute when we went 2-0 up, set Igor Jesus up in front of the goal. As he swung at the ball I whispered “goal” and the ball crashed into the back of the net.

Bollocks.

2-1.

But within a nano-second, the ball had come back out and had appeared to hit a post on the way.

No goal.

“How did that not go in?”

From the ensuing break, Guiu blasted way over.

Fackinell.

On seventy-eight minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the tireless Neto, my man of the match.

I wanted us to keep it tight, but I also wanted Estevao to show us some trickery. Very soon after his appearance, he did ever so well to doggedly win a tackle – a great part of his game – and I was hoping for some nice bits of skill too.

I commented to Gary that our lack of players in the centre of defence due to injuries was so bad that John Sitton was un-zipping his tracksuit.

Instead, on eighty-one minutes Tosin Adarabioyo replaced young Josh.

Soon after, a loose ball on the edge of the box, and a Forest defender and Reece James both went for it. At that moment, I thought that the Forest player was going to get to the ball first but might do some damage to our captain in the follow through. The intent was there from both sides. In fact, both players met the ball – fairly and squarely – and the resultant noise boomed around the stadium. Rarely have I heard a louder tackle. It made me shake, well almost.

I said to the bloke next to me that I was happy that Reece didn’t pull out of the challenge. An injury might well have followed.

From the resulting corner, Estevao stroked in a ball that Matz Sels could only flap at, and the ball fell conveniently towards Reece James. The captain slammed it home. I did not see the net ripple; I just heard the roar.

More intense celebrations to my right, but with arms flailing away, I was only able to obtain three decent snaps.

By now the away was booming.

“Cheer up Postecoglu. Oh, what can it mean to a fat Aussie bastard and a shit football team.”

Peter Reid has a lot to answer for.

In the dying moments, a ridiculously poor sliding attempt to get the ball by Gusto gave the referee no option but to hand out a second yellow.

Oh boy.

Well, that was just daft.

But it did illicit a little gallows humour from the travelling faithful.

“Red card again, ole, ole.”

“Ten men again, ole, ole.”

By now, the home fans were flipping up their seats and heading home.

“Is there a fire drill?”

At the final whistle, a roar from us and we waited for the players to walk over. The last to arrive, dramatically, was the captain, and we serenaded him.

He replied with wide smiles.

It had been a very odd game. A poor first-half, but a much better second-half. Despite the 3-0 margin, we were lucky not to concede. Let’s put it behind us and try to iron out some inconsistencies.

We walked back to the car, but before we reached the final few hundred yards, a couple of smiling Forest fans shouted out “he’s sacked”, and – quite frankly, and despite the songs – I was flabbergasted.

It was around 3pm, and my Sat Nav guided me through the city. The return route was not a repeat of my journey to Nottingham. Instead, it took me further west, down the A42, the M42 – a stop at Tamworth Services, a very rare visit – and back home via the M5, the M4 and the A46.

Frome Town were playing at home against Winchester City as I drove home, and a couple of friends flashed-up score updates.

The previous Saturday – the international break weekend – I had watched Frome beat Falmouth Town 2-0 on a perfect afternoon for football with a few good friends. There had been autumn sun, pitch side drinks, chats with mates, a keen game of football, a home win, a decent gate, only £12 to get in, and then Glenn and I treated ourselves to a lovely post-match meal in a cosy local pub. And we were home by 7pm. It was as near perfect a Saturday afternoon as I could imagine.

Later that evening, I texted Glenn “I think we’ve seen the future.”

On this occasion, the footballing Gods were not on our side.

Frome went 1-0 up early on, then conceded an equaliser, then missed a penalty in the second half, and then apparently had a genuinely good goal ruled out in stoppage time. At least the gate was a season-high 525.

I reached home at around 7.30pm.

It had been a decent day.

Next up, two home games in quick succession, against Ajax on Wednesday and Sunderland on Saturday.

Oh, and an away game at Portishead on Tuesday.

See you there.