Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.
This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.
Thus far, four games and four wins.
Players.
The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.
There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.
But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.
There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.
We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.
But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.
Managers.
The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.
At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.
Modern Football – Part One.
My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.
The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.
Modern Football – Part Two.
I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.
Modern Football – Part Three.
Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.
If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.
Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.
At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.
“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.
There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.
It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.
I was in at 7.45pm.
Teams.
Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella
Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez
Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho
Tyique George
Kick-Off.
Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.
“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.
Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.
Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.
The First-Half.
From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.
I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.
The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.
There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.
After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.
On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.
Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.
I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.
GET IN.
And then my night got worse.
“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.
My heart sank.
I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.
Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.
I hate modern football.
The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?
It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.
On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.
Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.
Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.
The Second-Half.
The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.
Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.
On the hour, two more substitutions.
Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.
Joao Pedro for George.
This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.
He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.
“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”
“OI OI OI.”
It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.
I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.
If only, eh?
If fucking only.
After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.
We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.
On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.
Reece James for Gusto.
Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.
Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.
We howled.
It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.
Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.
In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.
For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.
At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.
It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,
Let’s Go Home.
It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.
We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.
With the semi-final against Fluminense won, and with surprising ease, the third day of my eight days in Manhattan began with a lovely positive feel. I woke in Dom’s flat at around 9am, suitably rested after the football-related wanderings of the previous day, and for a while I just chilled out.
However, there was no rest for the wicked. This day was all about securing my ticket for the final on the Sunday. Tickets were to go on sale at 10am local time on the FIFA CWC App. Unlike the previous game, I was thankfully able to navigate this correctly. To cut a long story short, the $195 tickets in the upper deck, what the Americans call “nose bleeds”, soon went, leaving me to buy up one of the remaining tickets in the lower deck for a mighty $358.
Of course, this was much more than I wanted to pay, but I needed to guarantee a ticket for the final. After all the tickets disappeared on the FIFA App, more than a few US-based friends had missed out and I felt terrible for them. Their route to tickets would be via the secondary market, namely “Ticketmaster”, but there were many who were hoping that FIFA, in their desire to fill the stadium, would again offer free tickets to US-based supporters clubs as they had done for the semi-final.
After chatting to many friends about the ticket scenario, I eventually set foot outside at midday. It was another hot day in Manhattan. I devoured some pancakes at the “Carnegie Diner.”
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I chatted with a mother and daughter from Philadelphia who were all dolled-up and about to see a show. They were sat at the counter alongside me, and I entertained them for a few minutes with my tales of football fandom. I had to stifle a groan or two when they asked me, full of glee, about Wrexham.
Americans and football. It’s still a conundrum to me.
I then set off on a leisurely excursion down to the tip of Manhattan and took the – free – ferry to Staten Island. While I enjoyed the journey and the fantastic views of the harbour, I was aware that the second semi-final was taking place at The Meadowlands no more than ten miles away.
Who did I want to be victors?
Here was a dilemma, but not much of one. From a football perspective, it would undoubtedly be better for Chelsea for Real Madrid to win. I think that everyone involved with football would have agreed that PSG, the newly crowned European Champions, could claim the title of the greatest current club side in world football. Therefore, if we fancied our chances of winning this whole tournament, a game against Real Madrid would be preferred.
But with Real Madrid’s massive fan base – a former line manager from Latvia was a supporter, go figure – there is no doubt that this would induce a price hike on “Ticketmaster” and FIFA would have no problems in shifting all possible spares via their App. In a nutshell, Madrid reaching the final would mean less tickets becoming available for the Chelsea supporters.
So, my mind was easily made up. I wanted PSG to win so that more of my friends, mainly in the USA, could get tickets for the final.
It was simple as that.
On that ferry trip across the harbour, I soon heard how PSG had obliterated Real Madrid, scoring three goals in the first twenty-six minutes, and had eventually won 4-0.
So, the final on Sunday 13 July would be Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain. This would be a very tough game, a very tough game indeed. Honestly, I was worried, as worried as hell. Secretly, I was just hoping that we would not get embarrassed. I hated the thought of a 0-3, a 0-4 or worse. PSG were an established team, while we were still growing.
Later that afternoon, I overcame some personal anxieties and visited the area that is now called “Ground Zero”; the memorial that now marks the footprints of where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre once stood prior to the terrorist attack on 11 September 2001. I had walked around the bases of these two skyscrapers in the June of that year and had witnessed the events unfold as I was at home on the afternoon of the attack. In the intervening years, I had avoided re-visiting the area as it was all too difficult for me. However, while returning to Manhattan the previous evening with Alex, he had told me that he had lost no fewer than twelve friends on that day. That fact alone stirred me to visit. I did not regret it.
That evening, I rested in the apartment. I needed it. A lot had happened over the previous five days.
I decided to try not to think too much about the final on the Sunday. After all, in addition to following the team, I was of course on holiday. I owed it to myself to try to relax a little, to put negative thoughts about the final to one side, and to enjoy myself in – probably – my favourite city of them all.
From the Thursday to the Saturday, life was great.
I was in no rush to get up too early on Thursday. For starters, I had no real plan of what I might do with myself. This was now my nineteenth visit to the city in the past thirty-six years and there wasn’t too much left that I wanted, or needed, to see.
There had been historical landmarks, cathedrals from the inside and out, breathtaking ferry trips, towering skyscrapers, famous department stores, shopping sprees, walking tours, bridges, verdant parks, visits to Madison Square garden and five individual baseball stadia – and the site of one former ball park, Ebbets Field in Brooklyn – beaches, art galleries, museums, sports bars, dive bars, restaurants and diners. That I have been able to spend so many days in New York with many top friends, plus even one day in 2010 with my mother, makes all these memories all the more sweeter.
So, what was left?
Thankfully, I soon came up with a plan. Not far from where I was staying in Hell’s Kitchen was the Museum of Modern Art on 53 Street. I had only visited “MOMA” once before, and that was during the first few days of my very first trip to New York, and the US, in September 1989. I was long overdue a return visit.
I was out at 11am. It had rained overnight, and everything was a little cooler. I dropped in for another breakfast, this time at the “Roxy Diner” and at last found a decent coffee.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I reached MOMA at just after midday and stayed for three hours. At times it was almost too overwhelming. I loved so many of the pieces on display, but especially some work by Gustav Klimt, Edward Hopper, Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet and Andy Warhol. The place was busy, almost too busy, and I needed time to myself on a few occasions.
I remembered that during that first visit in 1989, my college mate Ian and I were rather perplexed by the number of visitors who – rather crassly in our eyes – took great happiness in being photographed in front of their favourite paintings.
I also remember myself taking a photo of just one painting, Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol. I tried my best to locate it in 2025, and had almost given up, but eventually spotted it.
With an ironic nod back to 1989, I recorded a video of myself in front of this iconic painting and sent it to Ian via Messenger. He then quickly sent a video back to me of him in his kitchen in Fareham with a painting over his shoulder.
This was great. It felt like Ian was with me at MOMA after all these years. With that, I exited out through the museum shop just as “Blue Monday” by New Order was being played.
Perfect.
Back at the apartment, there was some Chelsea stuff to sort out. We had heard that Claude Makelele was to make an appearance at “Legends”, the large bar on 33 Street that hosts the New York Blues, on Saturday evening. It was ticket only so I spent a few moments sorting out that, more Apps, more QR codes, oh boy.
I passed this news on to a few Chelsea supporters who were making their way over to New York for the weekend. I looked forward to seeing more familiar faces from England in the city.
That evening, I fancied a very chilled and relaxing pub crawl around Manhattan. I was out early at 4pm and started off at “McSorley’s”, seven blocks from where Glenn and I had stayed on East 14 Street in June, and just one block where my friend Roma and I had stayed in 2001. It was great to be back; I made it my fifth-ever visit.
Next up was a visit to the Chelsea Hotel. I had twice stayed in the Chelsea district, in 1989 and in 2015 but this would be the first time inside. Of course, those of us of a certain vintage remember the infamous nature of this hotel in 1978 and 1979; Nancy Spungen, Sid Vicious, what a mess. It’s a cracking hotel, though, and I loved spending the best part of an hour at the bar, but I made sure that the small bottles of Kirsch lager, at $14 a pop, took ages to drink. I wanted to savour every drop.
Just along from there, on the same street, was a very funky place called the Trailer Park Lounge, and I popped in for a drink. This had the feel of a southern dive bar, maybe jettisoned from Florida or somewhere, and was a nice distraction.
Next, “Grey Bar”, a reasonable bar, but nothing special. Here I chatted to the barman, a Yankee fan, while messaging many folk about tickets for the game on Sunday. It seemed that Chelsea would not let me completely relax.
Lastly, I dropped into “Legends”, underneath the towering Empire State Building. Here I chatted at the bar to a guy from New York, Jeff, who was an Arsenal supporter, and whose main claim to fame was that he was, rather fortuitously, at the last-ever game at Highbury in 2006. My friends Leigh and Ben, from England, called in for the last few beers. We could hardly believe it when Jeff said he wanted us to win on Sunday.
“Mate, there’s no Arsenal fan back home that wants us to win the final.”
“I know, but I’m an American.”
Yes, it was still a conundrum alright.
I had enjoyed this relaxing amble around Manhattan, with two bars in Chelsea, but as far as pub crawls go, this was all very sedate. I was back inside the apartment at midnight.
Friday was to be busier. I was up early and was soon on my way to meet my friend Stacey at the “Tick Tock Diner” outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I have to say that of all of Manhattan’s fine sights, there is no nothing worse than seeing the arse end of the Port Authority as you approach it on foot from the west.
No surprises, I devoured a mighty fine breakfast at this lovely diner which I last visited with Stacey, to my reckoning, almost thirty years ago.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
The agenda for this morning’s activities was set as soon as my return visit to New York took shape. Back in June, we wanted to drop in to the International Centre of Photography, but it was closed until 19 June. We took a subway and then spent an enjoyable ninety minutes inside its interior. It was, amazingly, very quiet. At times it felt like we were the only visitors. We are both keen photographers and so this was just right. The main exhibit was by Edward Burtynsky, who takes magnificent photographs of the many various landscapes that he visits. I loved the scale and the clarity, and the composition of many of his photos.
Sadly, and much to my annoyance, the FIFA World Club Cup kept getting in my way. It seemed that, without warning, FIFA had removed tickets in the top tier from friends’ Apps, and in doing so had caused widespread panic. My ticket, in the lower level, remained. While at the photography museum, I had to spend many a moment messaging various friends.
Meanwhile, I heard on the grapevine that either FIFA or Chelsea – or both – had been contacting US Supporters Groups to offer free – yes, free – tickets to the game on Sunday.
On the one hand, I was happy for those that had not yet been able to secure tickets.
On the other hand, I was fuming that I had forked out $358 for mine.
So, in a nutshell, it appeared that in a move to make the lower tier as full as possible, FIFA were moving people down from the top tier – but without telling them first – and were offering up free tickets too.
Fackinell.
I had arranged to meet another old friend Lynda near Ground Zero, so said my “goodbyes” to Stacey. I hadn’t seen Stacey for almost ten years and had then saw her twice in three weeks.
I first met Lynda in 2010 when she came over to Stamford Bridge for a game and we have stayed friends ever since. When Chelsea played New York Red Bulls in 2015 I stayed one night with Stacey and her husband Bill in Flemington, New Jersey and then spent two nights with Lynda and her partner Tee in River Edge, New Jersey.
The night before the game in Newark in 2015, there had been another get-together at “Legends”.
It was Tuesday afternoon – around 5pm – and we sped over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Our excitement was palpable; we would soon be meeting up with many friends in a bar under the shadow of the Empire State Building, but there was an added – and wondrous – twist. Not only would former players Bobby Tambling, Mario Melchiot and Paul Canoville be making an appearance, but arrangements had been made – hush hush and all that – for Frank Lampard to make an appearance too.
What excitement.
My friend Roma, with her friend Peggy, from Tennessee arrived at about 6.30pm. Roma is a familiar figure in these Tales and has been a fantastic friend over the past twenty-six years. Roma has attended games at every one of Chelsea’s previous eight US tours (she is “one up” on me, since I missed the 2013 tour), and was doing all three of this summer’s games. However, when I calmly informed her that her hero Frank Lampard would be in the bar later in the evening, her reaction was lovely. To say she was excited would be an understatement. She almost began crying with joy. Bless her.
What a lovely time we all had. In addition to being able to reconnect with many good Chelsea friends, including the usual suspects from the UK, we were treated to an hour or so of valuable insights into the four guest’s views on various subjects. Munich often dominated the questions. Frank was very gracious and answered each question carefully and with wit and sincerity. I loved the way that he listened attentively to the other players. Near the start, the New York crowd began singing :
“We want our Frankie back, we want our Frankie back.”
Frank smiled and responded :
“I’ll be back.”
Lynda and I chatted at a restaurant next to the Hudson River for an hour or so, and it was lovely to see her again. Lynda was a keen footballer when she was younger, and I was reminded of the time when Chelsea and PSG first met in New York.
No, dear reader, it wasn’t the game on 22 July 2012 at Yankee Stadium.
Oh no.
The day before, on the Saturday, the various supporters’ groups within the US had arranged a six-a-side tournament involving supporters from across the US, but there was also, as a finale, a game between the supporters of Chelsea and Paris St. Germain.
It was one of my greatest honours to be named as the captain of the Chelsea team that day, and I include some words and pictures.
As the fans’ tournament, involving four teams of Chelsea fans from throughout the US, was coming to an end, I was as nervous as I have been for years. I had been chosen to captain the Chelsea team to play in the Friendship Cup game against Paris St. Germain.
When I had heard this news a few weeks back, I was very humbled, certainly very proud, but the over-riding feeling was of fear. I hadn’t played for two months, and I was genuinely concerned that I may pull a muscle, or jar my once troublesome right knee, or give away a penalty, or run out of gas after five minutes or just look out of my depth. This is typical of my times in various school football teams over thirty years ago when I would tend to be shackled by fear and a lack of confidence in my ability on the pitch.
Once the game began, my fears subsided, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We lead 3-1 at the break but soon allowed PSG to scramble some goals. At 4-4, I managed to squeeze in a goal and my heart exploded. Could we hang on? In the end, PSG went 8-6 up and my disappointment was real.
Lynda played in the Chelsea team, along with my long-time friends Steph,Pablo and Mike, too. The game was refereed by Paul Canoville and Frank Sinclair. Watching upstairs in the gallery was Ron Harris. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him after and tell him, with a twinkle in my eye, that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal. And yet he had seen me score for Chelsea after just twenty minutes.
Lynda, and Tee, and their two children Tori and Kai, had attended the Fluminense game on the Tuesday, but were off on a family trip to the coast at the weekend. We said our “goodbyes” and hoped to see each other in London again soon.
This was a busy day, and I caught the subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, and beyond. I was off to see the New York Yankees play the Chicago Cubs in an inter-league game in the South Bronx. Dom’s mate Terence had bought some tickets for this game and, luckily, had a spare. We were to meet, as always, at “Stan’s.”
I arrived at 4.30pm, perfect. I had arranged to meet up with Scott, Paul and Gerry and they were stood drinking at one end of the bar. The three of them had been based in Philly for the entire tournament apart from the last day or two. They were with a chap, Martin, who I had only seen for the first time on Tuesday afternoon at the Fluminense game. This surprised me since he lives in Sherborne in Dorset, just twenty-five miles away.
It was lovely to see some Chelsea faces in “Stan’s”, following on from my visit with Glenn, Steve and Mike in June.
“A “Rolling Rock” please, mate.”
Dom, Terence and three other lads arrived, and we had a grand time. Scott and Gerry became fans of baseball around ten years ago while seeing Chelsea in the US, and Scott is a Cubs fan. This was his first visit to Yankee Stadium. “Stan’s” sits right opposite where the original Yankee Stadium stood – the first version from 1923 to 1973, the second from 1976 to 2008 – and of course I regaled them with the fact that Ray Wilkins made his England debut “across the road” in 1976.
I got talking to Martin about baseball and Chelsea in equal measure. He has visited tons of baseball stadia over the past fifteen years or so. I mentioned how my love of the game has sadly diminished since around 2008.
I mentioned that the game against PSG on Sunday would be one hundredth live game of the current season, and I trotted out the numbers.
“54 Chelsea games, 42 Frome Town games, 3 games in Rio de Janeiro and 1 game at Lewes when we played Brighton in the FA Cup.”
Martin smiled and replied, “I went to that game, too.”
Fackinell.
Seeing a few Chelsea supporters in “Stan’s” took me back to that PSG game in 2012. I had stayed in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a week, then came down to New York for the game at Yankee Stadium, meeting up with tons of good friends in the bars of Manhattan and then the stadium.
First up, “Legends.”
Despite the game against PSG not starting until 7pm, I had arrived at Legends bang on midday and awaited the arrival of friends. I soon bumped into Tom, a fellow Chelsea home-and-away season ticket holder, who was revelling in his first ever visit to the US. His comment to me struck a chord.
“This is the most surreal experience I’ve had, Chris. This pub is full of Chelsea, but I don’t know anyone.”
Of course, to Tom, this was akin to supporting Chelsea in a parallel universe. I think he was amazed at the fanaticism from these people who he didn’t personally know. For Tom, it must have been unnerving. This scenario is so different to our experiences in the UK and Europe where the close-knit nature of the Chelsea travelling support has produced hundreds of friendships. In Wigan, in Wolverhampton, in Milan, in Munich, there are faces that are known. On this afternoon in the heart of Manhattan, fans kept entering the pub, with nobody leaving. I wondered if it would collapse with the volume of people in both bars. Thanks to my previous travels to the US with Chelsea, wherever I looked, I managed to spot a few familiar faces. I was sat at the bar, chatting with Scott from DC, his brother David from Athens, Phil from Iowa, Mark from England, Andy from California, Stephen from New Orleans. The blue of Chelsea was everywhere. Down below in the basement, a gaggle of around twenty-five PSG fans were singing, but their chants were being drowned by the boisterous chants of the Chelsea fans.
It dawned on me that the Chelsea fans that I would be encountering were not just English ex-pats or not just Americans of English extraction, but Americans with ancestors from every part of the world. Just the previous week in Portsmouth NH, I had met a young lad who had seen me wearing a pair of Chelsea shorts and had declared himself a massive Chelsea fan. His birthplace? Turkey. I asked him if he was a fan of Galatasaray, of Besiktas or of Fenerbahce, but he said that Chelsea was his team. This frankly amazed me. It confirmed that Chelsea has truly gone global.
The simple truth in 2012 is that people like Tom and me, plus the loyal 5,000 who make up our core support at home and away games in the UK and Europe are in the massive minority amongst our support base. For our millions of fans worldwide, the typical scenario is just what Tom had witnessed at first hand in NYC; a pub in a foreign land, bristling with new Chelsea fans, fanatical for success.
From “Legends” in 2012 to “Stan’s” in 2025…
We left “Stan’s” and moved further north along River Avenue and into “The Dugout” bar. Time was moving on and I seemed to be the only one who was keeping an eye on the clock. First-pitch was at 7.05pm, and with a logistical precision that I would be proud, despite missing the “Star Spangled Banner”, Dom and Terence finally sorted out their QR codes and ushered us in. We arrived in our seats in the front row of the top deck just before the final out of the bottom of the first inning.
That will do for me.
I even saw the end of the famous “roll-call” from the fanatics in the Bleachers, an echo of The Shed back in the ‘seventies.
Our seats, six of us in a row, were magnificent and only around fifteen yards from where we were sat against the Angels in June.
It was lovely to be back again.
At the PSG game in 2012, we were in the lower tier.
“The hardcore of the Chelsea support – maybe 2,000 in total – were spread out along the first base side, like different battalions of confederate soldiers at Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburg, ready to storm the Yankee lines.
Down in the corner, behind home plate, were the massed ranks of Captain Mike and his neat ranks of soldiers from New York. Next in line were the battalion from Philadelphia and the small yet organised crew from Ohio. Next in line were the wild and rowdy foot soldiers of Captain Beth and the infamously named CIA company. On the far-right flank stood the massed ranks of the Connecticut Blues who were mustered under the command of Captain Steve.”
In that game, Paris St. Germain went ahead in the first but Lucas Piazon – remember him, he only appeared on foreign tours – equalised in the second half.
So, the two games in Manhattan and the Bronx in 2012 had not given us a win.
Chelsea 6 Paris St. Germain 8.
Chelsea 1 Paris. St. Germain 1.
I wondered how the third game across the river on Sunday would end up.
The baseball game played out before me, and it was a fine night to be a Yankee fan. Cody Bellinger hit three home runs as the home team walloped the Cubs 11-0. It was my sixtieth major league baseball game, my 41st Yankee game, my 32nd Yankee home game and my biggest Yankee victory.
Two-thirds of the way into the game, we walked down to the centre-field Bleachers, the very first-time that I had watched a game from the Bleachers in either Yankee Stadium.
After, we decamped to “The Dugout” and then “Stan’s” before heading back to Manhattan.
It had been a fine night in the South Bronx.
On the Saturday, after the beers of the Friday night, I succumbed to another lie-in. I met up with Dom and Terence at the nearby “Jasper’s” on 9th Avenue just as the women’s final at Wimbledon, being shown on the TV, was nearing completion. There was a bar snack and I then caught a cab to the Guggenheim Museum. Although the temperature outside wasn’t too oppressive I just couldn’t face the walk up through Central Park. This was my second ever visit to this museum, and I loved it. It’s a remarkable building, and there was the usual array of fine paintings inside.
In the evening, we reconvened at “Legends” once more, and – as to be expected – the place was packed, although surprisingly maybe not to 2012 levels. I think there are quantifiable reasons for this. The 2012 summer tour was announced in good time and gave many supporters the chance to plan and attend, unlike the knock-out format of this competition. Also, I still sensed an innate reluctance to support this “money grab” of an extra FIFA tournament from many Chelsea supporters in the US.
And I can understand that.
But here we were, in Manhattan on a Sunday night and it felt like a gathering of the clans. Outside I chatted to Lorraine and Colin from Toronto and Pete from St. Petersburg In Florida. Ex-footballer Troy Deeney was flitting about in his role for “Talk Sport” and inside I spotted a few from the UK that had just arrived including Big John, who sits in front of me in The Sleepy Hollow, and Kev from the “South Gloucestershire Lot”.
There was an insipid Q&A with Claude Makelele, but it annoyed me that there were so many people chatting that I found it difficult to hear what the great man was saying.
It was quieter when Frank held court in 2015.
After fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal questions, I decided to go downstairs to the “Football Factory” for some respite and some beers. Here, I spent a fantastic time talking with Alex, who has so many funny stories up his considerably long sleeves, but there was also great fun seeing folk that I had not seen for ages. Most importantly of all, it seemed that everyone who needed tickets for the final, had them. Fantastic.
It’s funny, my modus operandi for the Saturday night was “don’t have too many beers, don’t want a hangover on Sunday.”
Well, I failed.
Many beers were sunk at “Legends” and I even had to time to slope off to “O’Donohue’s” near Times Square where I met up with a gaggle of lads from the UK who had arrived to join some chaps who had been out in the US for a while.
I met up with Neil, newly arrived via Rome, with Big Rich, plus Tommo, Tombsy and a few more.
At 2am, I made it home.
Sunday arrived, and I was only nursing the very slightest of hangovers. By the time I had left the apartment at 9.45am, it had disappeared. I took the subway down to meet up with Kathryn and Tim from DC, near “Macy’s” to catch the PATH train to Hoboken at 10.30am. Outside Penn Station, at the exact spot where Glenn and I had posed for photos in the drizzle in June on our first few minutes in Manhattan, I took a photo of Cole Palmer on an electronic billboard with the Empire State Building in the background.
What an image.
It wasn’t like this in 1989 when I only met one other Chelsea fan in almost ten months in North America.
I could hardly believe it all.
The plan was to get over to “Mulligan’s” again for a brief pre-match gargle and then heading out to the parking lots that surround MetLife to meet up with the New York Blues for a tailgate.
Delays with the trains meant that we only arrived at “Mulligan’s” at around 11.30am. But the usual crowd were inside again, and it was excellent to bump into Kristen and Andrew from Columbus, Ohio, and Adam from Texas, but also Ian, Kevin – who sits a few feet away from me in “The Sleepy” – and Becky, who had experienced a nightmare trip out via Istanbul.
Dom and Terence were with Alon at the bar, everyone together. With a couple of “Peronis” inside me, I was buoyed, and a bit more confident about the game. I was able to relax when the QR code for the game suddenly appeared on the FIFA App.
We needed to get moving, so Kathryn ordered a large uber to take Kristen, Andrew, Tim, herself and myself over to the stadium. As we tried to enter a main road, a police car blocked our entrance, and we waited for ages as the traffic on the main road cleared and a cavalcade of cars drove ahead of a coach carrying the Paris St. Germain team. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers in the coach.
We were dropped off near Parking Lot D at around 1pm; just right. I spent just over an hour here, drinking with some friends from all over the north-east of the US. It was a pleasure to see Sid and Danny from Connecticut, Tim from Philly and Steve from Staten Island especially. The weather was hot, but the beers were cold. It was a perfect mix. There wasn’t much talk about the game. Deep down, I was still concerned about us getting hammered. The New York Blues had provided a great array of beers and food. I gulped down a hot dog; just enough to stave off hunger pains, my only food so far during the day.
The younger element was getting involved with some singing, but I left them to it. My days as a willing cheerleader on these occasions are in the past now.
With about three-quarters of an hour to go before the 3pm kick-off, I made my way towards the stadium. We heard the buzz of three helicopters circling overhead, and with news that the President of the United States was to attend the game, many match-goers looked towards the heavens. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers of the helicopters.
I was making good time, and I knew exactly where to aim for; the Chelsea end was now at the northern end of the stadium, opposite from Tuesday.
The security check and the QR scan was easy. I was in.
I spotted my mate Callum with a few of his mates from London, and I took a photo of them with their St. George’s flag. They had come over for the final, though Callum was at the two Philly games too.
Time was moving on, but I wasn’t rushed. This was just right. I got to my seat location at around 2.40pm. I was in a great location, around half-way back in the lower tier, just to the right of the goal frames. There were clouds overhead, and it didn’t feel too uncomfortable.
Then, what a small world…I suddenly realised that Rich, the guy that I had lambasted at the Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013, was stood right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and we virtually collapsed with laughter. I was in front of him in 2013, he was now in front of me in 2025.
Fackinell.
Pretty soon, the pre-match kicked in. First up, a set of musicians – dressed in the gold and black of the tournament – and mainly drummers as far as I could tell, and yellow plumes of smoke. Were they a college marching band? I immediately entertained memories of the “Marching Mizou”, from the University of Missouri, who were also dressed in gold and black, at Stamford Bridge against Derby County in 1975.
Next, a singer appeared out of nowhere, gold lamé suit, silver hair.
I turned to the two local lads to my right.
“Who’s that prick?”
“Robbie Williams.”
“Bloody hell, I was right.”
I had fleeting images of seeing him at Stamford Bridge in 1995, and his album cover that featured the Matthew Harding Stand that came out a few years after.
The boy from Burslem belted out a song that I had not heard before.
“Aim high, fly by, destiny’s in front of you. It’s a beautiful game and the dream is coming true.”
One of the lads to my right, both dressed in Chelsea paraphernalia, asked me for my prediction, and I had to be honest. I looked him in the eye and said “we’ll lose 0-2.”
This obviously took him back, and I said what I needed to say. We chatted a little about his Chelsea story and he said that the memorable 3-2 at Goodison in 2006, all three goals being belters, was a key moment in him becoming Chelsea.
By now, my senses were being pummelled visually and audibly. Not only was the sky full of plumes of smoke, but the PA guy was booming out over the speakers. This idiot wasn’t just talking loudly either; he was shouting, and the PA was turned up to eleven.
“Let’s see who are the loudest fans!!!”
I turned to the bloke to the right.
“None of us are as loud as you, you prick.”
It was all too much. The noise was deafening.
Next up, the American national anthem was played out and there were immediate boos. The natives squinted over to the left to see if they could see the president.
Awesome.
With all this hullabaloo, it was somewhat difficult to come to terms with what I was part of here. I looked around and it seemed that the stadium was virtually sold out. There was a knot of PSG fans grouped together in the lower tier opposite, though it was later pointed out to me by Callum that their ultras had been forced to evacuate their prime seats behind the goal by some law enforcement agents.
Things were happening so quickly now. The players walked on to the pitch, and were introduced one-by-one, how crap.
Our team surely picked itself.
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Enzo – Palmer
Joao Pedro
At last, Chelsea in blue, the first time for me in this competition. The Paris kit, all white, included an image of the Eiffel Tower.
I turned around and spotted Karen and Feisal, whose wedding I photographed back in 2021, just a few yards away. They looked confident. I wasn’t so sure.
Next, Michael Buffer and his ridiculous “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” bollocks. He had appeared at Stamford Bridge a few years back, and I was impressed then as I was now.
Next, a countdown to the kick-off.
I snapped as Enzo played the ball back to a teammate and the FIFA Club World Cup Final 2025 began.
It was surreal, it was mad, it was preposterous. Thirty-two teams had entered this inaugural expanded competition, and I bet hardly any Chelsea supporters expected us to get to the final. Yet here we bloody were.
And you know what, we began incredibly well. We seemed to be first to the loose ball, fitter and faster than the lauded opposition, and soon started to construct fine moves that stretched PSG in all areas of the pitch.
After five minutes, it was virtually all us, and I was so happy. Moises Caicedo took my eye at first, robbing players of the ball, and moving it on intelligently. But very soon it was obvious that Cole Palmer, being afforded more space than usual, was “on it” and the Chelsea supporters all around me sensed this.
After just seven minutes, a lovely passage of play featuring a few players moving the ball down our left resulted in Joao Pedro setting up Palmer right on the penalty box line. His shot was clean, curving slightly, and only just missed the left-hand post. Many thought it was in.
“A sighter” I chirped.
The guy to my right was still asking if I thought it would be a 0-2 defeat, and I smiled.
With Pedro Neto running back to provide valuable cover for Marc Cucurella, with Enzo Fernandez probing away with neat passes, and with Caicedo taking on the role of enforcer with aplomb, we were on top.
But PSG threatened on a couple of occasions. There was a great block from Cucurella, and a great save from Sanchez.
After a quarter of an hour, I leaned forward and spoke to Rich.
“Great game of football.”
On twenty-two minutes, a sublime kick out from Sanchez was aimed at Malo Gusto. The tracking defender Nuno Mendes was confused by the proximity of Gusto and took his eyes off the flight of the ball. With a degree of luck, the ball bounced on his head but released the raiding Gusto. He travelled into the box and set himself to shoot by coming inside. The shot was blocked, but Gusto received it back and calmly played it into the vacant Palmer. He seemed to immediately relax, and stroked the ball in, past the dive of Gianluigi Donnarumma.
The Chelsea section went wild.
There were bodies being pushed all around me and I lost myself.
I screamed.
I shouted.
I yelled.
“FUCKING GET IN YOU BASTARD.”
Bloody hell mother, we were 1-0 up.
Fackinell.
Rich’s face was a picture.
It seemed that I was indeed right about Palmer’s “sighter” a quarter of an hour earlier.
It was all Chelsea now, and PSG looked tired. Was our extra day of rest really that important?
During a break in play, I popped over to say hello to a gaggle of lads from England to my right. None of us could believe what we were witnessing.
We continued to impress. Many attacks came down the right, with Gusto in fine form. On the half-hour mark, a long pass out of defence from Levi Colwill – how unlike us, maybe Enzo Maresca has been reading my notes – released Palmer. He took the ball under his control with ease and advanced, sliding in from an inside-right channel, across the box, using the dummy run from Joao Pedro as a distraction, sending two defenders the wrong way, moving into a central position, then there was one extra touch. At that exact moment, I just knew that this extra touch had bamboozled Donnarumma’s timings. I just knew that he would score. From virtually the same place as eight minutes earlier, he rolled the ball in.
YES.
We were two up.
This time there were double fist pumps – downwards – from me as I stood bewildered amongst the exultant throng, very much aware that others were losing it.
This was mad.
The rest of that first-half was a blur. Chelsea were bossing it, and the world was a beautiful place. There were honest shouts of “Come On Chelsea” permeating throughout our section and I even forgave the locals for yelling that loathsome “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” nonsense.
Additionally, I realised that I now loved the way that the word “wanker” has permeated into US football culture.
We weren’t finished yet.
On forty-three minutes, we watched as a pass out of defence from Trevoh Chalobah found Palmer, ten yards inside his own half but ridiculously unmarked. I brought my camera up and watched him advance. Just outside the box, he split the space between two ball-watching defenders and passed to Joao Pedro who had made the finest of runs behind. As our new forward clipped the ball over the Paris ‘keeper, I snapped. I saw the ball clear Donnarumma and caress the netting.
Good God.
I simply stood still, silent, my arms outstretched, pointing heavenly, like some sort of homage to Cristo Redentor.
We were three-up.
I had this thought. Didn’t everyone?
“They can’t catch us now.”
At half-time, I contacted my mate Jaro who was watching with his whole family a few sections along. He came over to see me and we could hardly talk to each other.
This was unbelievable.
Up above us, on a stage so ridiculously high, a few acts sang, and the half-time show was rounded off by Coldplay.
“Cause you’re a sky, cause you’re a sky full of stars.”
I was more pleased to see Jaro than I was Chris Martin.
But with the sky above the MetLife, now clear of clouds, filled with fireworks and smoke, this only exaggerated the sense of incredulity in my eyes, and I am sure others too.
That first-half, let’s not kid ourselves here, was up there with the very best I have ever seen us play. It had everything.
I am shuddering now just at the memory of that moment.
I always talk about the first half when we beat Everton 5-0 in 2016 as being sensational, but Everton are no PSG. I remember the first-half against Barcelona in 2000. I remember other games, too many, perhaps, to list.
But at the MetLife on Sunday 13 July 2025, was that first-half the best?
I think it has to be.
The break lasted forever or seemed to. I think someone timed it as twenty-five minutes. That’s not football. It’s wrong for players to be kept waiting. Muscles tighten. Injuries are more likely. Stop that shite, FIFA.
But what a twenty-five minutes, though. If only all half-time breaks could be as joyful.
And I was convinced there would be no Chelsea Piers 2012-style second-half recovery from this PSG team either.
Not surprisingly, PSG started on the front foot in the initial moments of the second half. On fifty-one minutes, they worked the ball through, and a low cross was poked goalwards by Ousmane Dembele, but Sanchez reacted magnificently well to push the ball around his far post.
“Strong wrists there, Rich.”
Sanchez saved again, and although PSG enjoyed more of the ball, we were able to keep calm and limit them to few chances.
Off the pitch, I liked the noise that we were making in the stands. PSG, by contrast, over the course of the whole game, had made least noise compared to Flamengo, Tunis and Fluminense.
On sixty-one minutes, Andrey Santos replaced a tiring Enzo.
On sixty-eight minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.
Very soon after coming on, Delap was set free by Santos and advanced forcefully. At one stage he seemed to be running right at me. He did everything right, moving his defenders, and unleashed a cracking shot that really deserved a goal, only for Donnarumma to pull off a fine save to his left. The same player then cut in from wide but was unable to finish.
On seventy-eight minutes, two more changes.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for James.
Christopher Nkunku for Pedro Neto.
I didn’t see the incident on eighty-three minutes, but Cucurella hit the deck, clutching his head. VAR was called in to action and Joao Neves had pulled Cucurella’s curly locks.
A red card was issued.
In the closing moments, we all loved Cole Palmer taking the piss in the corner away to our left in front of the Chelsea support. If Palmer was – quite rightly – the man of the match, we all soon agreed that Robert Sanchez, enjoying the game of his life, was next best.
As the clock ticked down, we all relaxed a little and began celebrating.
The gate was announced as 81,118.
And that, dear reader, was just about it.
At the final whistle, a shout of relief.
Then, with the players in blue running towards us and celebrating, “Blue Is The Colour” rang out and I almost lost it. My bottom lip was going at one stage.
“Pull yourself together, Chris, mate.”
I recorded this moment on my phone and have shared it here.
“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”
I am not a fan of the ubiquitous use of “Freed From Desire” at virtually all football stadia these days and I am glad we no longer play it at Chelsea at the conclusion of our games but I did love the way that the players, Enzo especially, were cavorting at the end while the supporters were singing along to it.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na”
Fackinell.
On a very surreal day, things became odder still. As we all know, the President of the United States took a greater role in the presentation of medals and the trophy than anyone could have expected.
I’ll leave it there.
I loved the way that Reece James was able to lift the golden trophy to the heavens a second time, and not long after my bottom lip started behaving even more embarrassingly.
But these were joyous times.
I kept thinking to myself.
“32 teams.”
“32 teams and we fucking won it.”
And I thought back to my comment to Glenn in Philadelphia when Pedro Neto put us 1-0 up against Flamengo :
“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”
When I left the stadium, a good hour after the end of the game, I was alone, and very tired, and very dazed. I honestly could not believe what I had just witnessed. Originally, I had this notion of getting back to Hoboken and taking an evening ferry across the Hudson, with the setting sun reflecting off the skyscrapers of Manhattan. It would be a fitting climax to my one hundred games season; the World Cup metaphorically placed in my back pocket.
But I was so tired and just wanted to rest. My feet were on fire, after standing for hours. I made my way towards the lines for trains and coaches to take us free of charge back to Secaucus Junction.
In the line, I saw a very familiar face. Allie is from Reading, and I see him everywhere with Chelsea. He had the intention of attending some group phase games but decided against it. Imagine my joy when we clocked each other.
“Can’t miss a final, Chris.”
We stopped for the inevitable photo.
I took the bus to Secaucus, and I was just happy to sit for twenty minutes and take the weight off my feet.
I took the train back to Penn Station, and I snapped a photo of the Chelsea players celebrating the win on the same billboard that had depicted Cole Palmer in the morning. Now, Reece James’ celebratory roar beamed out beneath the New York skyline.
Those photos provide nice bookends to the day.
I ended up having some food, all alone, near Penn Station, and I just wanted to get back to the apartment. I was so tired that I didn’t even think to call in at “Legends” to see if anyone was around. I had heard that the Empire State Building was to be illuminated in blue in honour of Chelsea Football Club, 2025 World Champions, but this magical moment was to take place from 10pm until 11pm.
And I took a cab home at 9.15pm.
Although I was truly knackered, it saddens me that I just couldn’t hang on for one final hour and one final photograph.
Seeing the Empire State Building illuminated in Chelsea blue would have been a magical moment and a killer photograph, the perfect ending to a monumental season.
Sigh.
However, should we qualify for the next World Cup in 2029, which is expected to take place in Rio de Janeiro – where my longest ever season began last July – I wonder if Christ the Redeemer will be illuminated in royal blue after the final.
Because we never win these trophies just once, do we?
The 2024/25 football season began for me on Saturday 29 June when I flew out to Rio de Janeiro and saw three matches in that incredible city. The second game took place on the evening of my 59th birthday on Saturday 6 July with an entertaining and noisy game between Flamengo and Cuiba at the Maracana Stadium. Almost twelve months later, my second-from-last game of this season would also feature Flamengo, but this time I would be crossing the Atlantic Ocean to see them play Chelsea in Philadelphia.
This is damned close to “completing the circle” and it’s good enough for me.
I am used to trips across the Atlantic. In September 1989 I visited North America for the very first time. I travelled over to New York with my college mate Ian and embarked on a ten-month odyssey of North America, which famously included a nine-hundred-mile cycle ride down the East Coast. Since then, my love for Chelsea Football Club and of travel, and of baseball and of Americana, kept calling me back.
But then, for some time, my love for the US waned. My last pre-season trip with Chelsea was in 2016 – Ann Arbor and Minneapolis – and I was not tempted by recent ones, especially when the club decided to play a bit-part role in the reality TV show that is Wrexham Football Club, not once but twice.
Modern football, eh?
We became World Club Champions against Palmeiras in 2022 – in lieu of 2021 – but then Gianni Infantino and the money-makers at FIFA decided to expand this competition to include a massive thirty-two teams and to stage a new version of the FIFA Club World Cup in the US.
And lo, I was conflicted.
Was I in favour of this competition?
Honestly, no.
More games, more expense, a new competition, FIFA personified.
Would I go? I was not sure.
But my mind went to work on this. If I was to go, it would be my twentieth trip to the US, and a perfect way to celebrate my 60th birthday a few weeks after. The 2024/25 season would be a long and demanding season for me, for various reasons, but I knew for some time that it would almost certainly end with a trip to the United States for the latest incarnation of the Intercontinental Cup.
Soon into the planning stages, my old Chelsea mate Glenn showed an interest in going too, and it would be a lovely addition to the pre-season games we saw in Beijing in 2017 and then Perth in 2018.
The fixtures were announced with one game in Atlanta and two in Philadelphia. This pleased me no end. I didn’t fancy Atlanta as I had visited it a few times before, including two Atlanta Braves games in 1996 and 2002, but also en route to visit my friend Roma and her family in the Great Smoky Mountains a few times.
Two games in Philly would be more than perfect. I have a huge personal attachment to this city. My great great grandparents lived in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century for five years before returning to Somerset, and I visited the city in 2010 with my eighty-year-old mother, who often said that she wanted to see where her relatives had resided all those years ago. At the time of our visit in 2010, we only knew a few facts about our relatives; that they had been shipwrecked on the voyage to Philadelphia in Newfoundland and that they returned to England not too long after.
To see my team play in a city where my family had lived in the 1850s pleased me no end.
I made the decision to add New York to our trip, since I figured that it would be a mortal sin for Glenn not to see one of the greatest cities in the world with me.
Flights were booked. Match tickets were purchased. The accommodation took a while to sort out. But we were on our way.
Phackinell.
New York.
After months of preparation and anticipation, I picked up Glenn at his house in Harris ( ! ) Close in Frome at 4am on Saturday 14 July. Glenn’s only other trip to the US was to Florida in 1992. He went with a mate of ours, Chippy, who was the Liverpool fan from Frome that I saw in the Annie Road seats on my first visit to Anfield in 1985, but I digress!
He was excited, I was excited, ah the joy of foreign travel.
At 6.30am, I was parked up at my mate Ian’s house in Stanwell, so close to Heathrow T5. Ironically, prior to my trip to Rio a year earlier, I had booked a “JustPark” spot in Stanwell, and then walked to a bus stop to take me to T5 and the bus stop was just fifty yards from his house.
The 1230 flight to JFK departed a few minutes late, but the pilot knew of a short cut, and we landed in Queens ahead of schedule.
A little light rain welcomed us to New York, but our trip into the city could not have been easier or cheaper.
AirTrain to Jamaica, Long Island Rail Road to Penn Station.
$8.
Cheap as French fries.
Now then, dear reader, let’s delve back into Chelsea’s history.
In June 2001, I visited New York to see the New York Yankees play five games of baseball, but to also meet up with my friend Roma from North Carolina. I had an unforgettable week. On the last day together, we found ourselves in the main forecourt of Penn Station, which is a deeply unlovable subterranean hellhole right below Madison Square Garden. On that morning, I ’phoned Glenn who had been calling in to check on my dear mother while I was away. And it was during that ‘phone-call that Glenn told me that we had signed Frank Lampard and Emanuel Petit. So, a little bit of my Chelsea history took place right in the middle of Manhattan.
And here we were, walking past that very spot.
There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this moment on a wall nearby.
Up at street level, I took a photo of Glenn with a misty Empire State Building in the background, and my heart was buzzing and bouncing. An hour later, we had located our apartment on East 14th Street, near Union Square, and were making our way to my favourite bar in Manhattan, “McSorley’s”, and our walk took us past the hotel on St. Mark’s Place where Roma and I had stayed in 2001.
At “McSorley’s” the New York Fairytale began in earnest.
Here are some highlights…
McSorley’s.
This was my fourth visit. In 1997, Ian – my college mate who was with me in 1989 – returned to New York with me to watch the first-ever “Subway Series” between the Yankees and the Mets, and we visited this grand old pub for the first-time with our friend Stacey, who we met in Florida nearing the end of our cycle ride in 1989. In 2001, I visited it with Roma on our first night together. In 2015, I met up with my friend Steve from Philly prior to a Mets game. Steve’s grandparents were married in the Ukranian church opposite. Steve loves it that the bar is officially on Shevchenko Place.
With Glenn, we stayed around an hour and a half and drank their light and dark beers – the only choices – which are always served in two half-pints. The place was heaving, full of happy tourists. We were given free crackers, cheese and onion, and some lads from Portland bought us two rounds of our beers. It was a perfect start to our trip.
Jack Demsey’s.
Unbeknown to Glenn, I had contacted some great friends in New York to stage a little “surprise party” for him underneath the Empire State Building in a fantastic bar, “Jack Demsey’s”, on West 33rd Street. The “meet” was at 6pm, and by 7pm around a dozen friends had accumulated together, and a fantastic night followed. The bar was full of Palmeiras fans, and there were a few Fluminense fans floating about too. The usual watering hole for the New York Blues – “Legends” – had been block-booked by Fluminense for five whole days. Both teams from Brazil were playing two games in New Jersey. Every time that we saw a Fluminense fan, we sang “Thiago Silva.” The volume of Brazilian fans in the city shocked me but I loved the buzz of seeing so many fans enjoying life.
Later, my friend Dom took us to a rooftop bar right underneath the Empire State Building and another one too, and we caught a late cab home. It had been one of the greatest nights.
Ten Miles.
On the Sunday, we slept on, but by around midday we were up. The misty and cool weather was perfect for a walk through the streets of Lower Manhattan, and it was a pleasure to be able to see Glenn’s reaction to a new city. Many people who read my rambling prose have commented how they often feel like they are living vicariously through my experiences, and it was now rewarding to see Glenn’s reactions to places that were more familiar to me, but unfamiliar to him. I had mentioned to him on the flight that I was relishing this. It was as if I was seeing New York for the very first time all over again, but through his eyes.
We craved a meal at a typical diner – booths, stools at the counter, eggs over easy, free coffee refills, rude waitresses, you know the type – but our neighbourhood was sadly lacking in these. We eventually found an Italian restaurant for a filling sandwich and then an Argentinian café, complete with Diego Maradona references, for a coffee.
Our walk took us through Little Italy, the outskirts of Chinatown, close to the Brooklyn Bridge and South Street Seaport, all the way down to Wall Street, then Battery Park and views of the Statue of Liberty. From there, we delved into “Century 21” for a little shopping, then walked north up Broadway and eventually back to our digs. In total, we walked ten miles, and the last two were as painful as hell. But it had been a magnificent first full day, and a little like the ground travelled on my first full day with Ian back in 1989.
Old Friends.
On the Monday, my friend Stacey – from 1989 and 1997, but also from visits in other years including with my mother to her house in New Jersey in 2010 – came into the city and met us for breakfast on Third Avenue. Glenn departed to take in a ferry trip to Liberty and Ellis Islands. Stacey and I did our own tour but were dismayed when we found out that the International Centre of Photography was closed until 19 June. We are both keen photographers. Instead, I suggested that we visited the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. It was fascinating. We learned of a beer parlour that was run by a German family, and then a trader who was Jewish, and it really enabled me to go back in time, to let my mind wander. I studied the migration of Europeans into North America while at college and it is a fascination of mine, enhanced through my own family’s experience in Philadelphia.
We met up with Glenn at “Jack Demsey’s” at 2.30pm to enable us to watch a far from emphatic Chelsea victory over LAFC from Atlanta. The stadium in Atlanta looked so empty and the bar in Manhattan was empty too. It dismayed me that of the dozen or so Chelsea fans at “Jack Demsey’s” many were looking at their ‘phones, eating and chatting while the game took place. The game on the TV seemed an inconvenience.
My love affair with the US began to wane once again.
I remembered an odd football-related tale from 1990. On our return to England in that year, Stacey visited Ian in London but also came down to see me in Somerset. Later they stayed with some friends in Bristol, who happened to live near Eastville, the former home of Bristol Rovers. Glenn and I had seen Chelsea lose 0-3 to Rovers at Eastville in 1980, but I had remembered that Stacey went to see some greyhound racing at Eastville on her visit in 1990.
That all three of us had visited Eastville made me chuckle.
During the game, my friend Keith popped in to see us, and on walking north after the game we witnessed an event in Times Square celebrating the premier of the “F1” movie. Glenn even spotted the Frome driver, and former World Champion from 2010, Jensen Button.
High.
On Tuesday morning, we walked a large section of The Highline, and I was reminded of my walk there in 2015. I love it. It also took me back to my first week in Manhattan in 1989 when Ian and I stayed in a very cramped hostel on West 20th Street, right under the walkway which in those days was just an abandoned train line. Since 2015, the flora and fauna has established itself and parts are in complete shade from the trees.
Again, we spotted Brazilian fans, but hardly any European fans. Not surprisingly, the South Americans were taking this tournament very seriously. Out of nowhere, I commented that as most football supporters who go to games put club over country, I wondered if in one hundred years’ time, the dominant World Cup competition would be this club version rather than the established one for countries.
Would USA 2025 be as significant as Uruguay 1930?
Something to contemplate perhaps.
Meet Me At Stan’s.
Later that day, after a walk up Fifth Avenue, we took the 4 Line to Yankee Stadium, and met up with my friends Mike and Steve, both Chelsea fans, both Yankee fans, Mike from New Jersey, Steve from Philadelphia. We met at “Stan’s Sports Bar” on River Avenue, right opposite the site of the old Yankee Stadium, home of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto and Reggie Jackson, and a place that I visited twenty-three times from 1990 to 2008. It is where Ray Wilkins made his debut during the US Bicentennial Tournament in 1976.
I was in my element, talking to the lads, reminiscing, supping “Rolling Rock”, looking forward to the baseball, but also thinking back to 1993 when my friends Paul and Nicky from Frome met me here before a game against Detroit. And to 1997 when Ian and I drank amidst shouts of “Let’s Go Yankees” and “Let’s Go Mets” in the first official series between the two teams, giving a real football-feel to the night. And to 2010 when my mother and I had a drink in “Stan’s” before a game against Baltimore. And to 2012 and 2013 when Chelsea played two games at either end of the season at the new Yankee Stadium, acting as bookends to my personal season, and “Stan’s” was the pre-match bar once again.
Game 1 : 22 July 2012 – Chelsea 2 Paris St, Germain 2
Game 57 : 25 May 2013 – Chelsea 3 Manchester City 5
I last saw Mike at the City game, and I last saw Steve at that Mets game in 2015.
I worked out that this was my thirty-third visit to “Stan’s” and this made me smile. I have known Lou, the owner, since 1993 and I also got to know the chap who runs it too. It was a joy to see Mike again. The first two beers had been on him.
Yankee Stadium.
So, here I was. I was back at Yankee Stadium again, and it felt like I had never been away. My last visit was in late July 2015 for an easy win against Baltimore Orioles. Right after that game, I drove from the multi-story car park that used to abut the old stadium, to Charlotte in North Carolina, via an overnight stop in West Virginia, for a game against PSG.
As I have said in these reports before, I much preferred the old stadium; it was cramped, atmospheric, grubby, but reeked of atmosphere and history. I loved the way that the upper decks towered over the infield and resembled jaws waiting to clamp shut. I loved it there. The new place just seems like a shopping mall. Most of my fellow Yankee friends feel the same. A little portion of my waning interest in baseball since around 2010 has undoubtedly been the fact that old Yankee Stadium is no longer there. A lesson for everyone, I think.
Build it and they will come?
Maybe not.
For this game, we had super seats in row one of the upper tier above home plate and Glenn, bless him, had gifted my seat as an early birthday present. Unfortunately it was a dire game of baseball, quite possibly the worst I have ever seen. The visiting Angels got ahead early and eventually won 4-0. But I loved it, and I loved the tales that Mike and Steve shared. Mike used to work for the Yankees as an intern in 2001 and 2002.
It was my thirty-first Yankee home game; twenty-three in the old Yankee Stadium, eight in the new stadium and my record stands at 20-11.
More importantly, Glenn absolutely loved it. And he is now a Yankee fan.
Dodge In Brooklyn.
On the Wednesday, our last full day in New York, the sun came out and we enjoyed another full day out walking and sightseeing. We took a cab to “DUMBO” ; Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. I guess “DUMB” would have been just, er, dumb.
What a great setting. With the East River laid out before us, and the skyscrapers of the financial district to our left and the midtown skyscrapers to our right, I was lost in a world of my own, with a George Gershwin song only a few heartbeats away. Even here we were surrounded by Palmeiras fans. We walked back into Manhattan, over the gorgeous Brooklyn Bridge, and I can honestly say that in the hour or so that we were in Brooklyn and on the bridge we saw around five hundred Palmeiras fans. Like in Abu Dhabi, they were everywhere.
In 1989 and 1990, Chelsea fans were nowhere to be seen. As we descended towards the City Hall, we passed the spot in May 1990 where I met the only Chelsea fan that I had seen in the ten months of me being in North America. This fact still staggers me. He was an ex-pat who was wearing a Chelsea training top. I shared this story with Glenn. As I told the tale, I could hardly believe what I was saying.
One Chelsea fan in almost ten months.
There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this too.
One Vanderbilt.
We took a subway up to the gorgeous interior of Grand Central – what a space – and while Glenn chilled out, I ascended one of the newer skyscrapers in midtown, right opposite Grand Central and the famous Met Life building. A work colleague had recently visited it and recommended it to me. I loved it. It’s roughly the same height as the Empire State Building and towers over the nearby Chrysler Building. There are three observation decks, and each one is magnificent.
The lowest one is full of mirrors which make reality a difficult concept but enhance the feeling of space and light. The middle one contains a room of constantly moving ballons, facing north and the pencil thin new builds overlooking Centeal Park, and this just made me laugh and smile. The highest one is outside, just you and Manhattan.
“Good luck, enjoy the view, don’t fall off.”
The Last Night.
My friend Dom invited us up to his apartment on West 52nd Street for some last night beers and this was a lovely and relaxing evening. We met up at around 7pm and watched as the sun set over Hoboken and The Pallisades in New Jersey, and then night fell with the skyscrapers of Manhattan a fantastic backdrop. I last saw Dom in Wroclaw. We spoke about Manhattan, Chelsea fans in the US, work, mutual friends, and it was a perfect time.
From here, we visited another rooftop bar, this time overlooking Times Square. We chatted to some ES Tunis fans, and we told them that we had seen quite a few of their supporters, too, in Manhattan, in their red and yellow stripes. We spoke about numbers of fans, and I was asked how many Chelsea fans were coming from the UK. I stalled, gulped, and embarrassingly said “about one hundred.”
Suddenly, we didn’t feel like a very big club at all.
Rio de Janeiro.
Ahead of our road trip from Manhattan to Philadelphia, here is a small recap of the only other time that I have seen Flamengo play.
“I again took a cab to the Maracana and was deposited in the same spot as on Thursday for the Fluminense vs, Internacional match, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.
Flu over Fla for me, though.
I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.
“Happy birthday young’un.”
I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.
“Deep sag.”
It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.
At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.
The second half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more. Flamengo’s support is so huge that I was soon to liken them to Liverpool’s and Manchester United’s support in the UK combined
But there was one more thrill to come.
Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of cariocas – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.
The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to me.”
Philadelphia.
And here we were, not too long before my 60th birthday, on a Flixbus from just outside Madison Square Garden to the heart of the City of Brotherly Love, or perhaps – when I visited it with my dear Mum in 2010 – The City of Motherly Love.
I love the American road, and I had driven back from The Bronx in 2010 with my mother on this exact same route that Glenn and I were now taking. In fact, it almost mirrored the bus trip that a few of us took in 2012 after the game at Yankee Stadium against PSG, travelling down to Philly for the MLS All-Star Game in nearby Chester.
That was no ordinary journey, though.
On that memorable trip, my good friend Rick – a history buff – did some research into my relatives’ history and found out the details of their crossing of the Atlantic. The City of Philadelphia steam ship left Liverpool but was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September 1854. Additionally, it was its maiden voyage, a fact that nobody knew until then. Rick found my great great grandfather’s brother listed on a passenger list, and that was good enough for me. The shipwreck was part of our family’s aural history, though the exact facts were never known.
I loved the fact that I was exposed to the intimate detail of that journey, previously only faintly written and quietly whispered in family folklore, for the very first time as I was travelling to Philadelphia over one hundred and fifty years after the crossing.
Like Benjamin and Barbara White in 1854, we were nearing Philadelphia.
We had earlier passed the town of Newark and we spotted the Red Bull stadium – I had sadly watched a Chelsea loss there in 2015 – but then pushed on past the airport, over the Delaware River and headed on into the city. We were deposited in the wonderfully named area called Northern Liberties.
It was superb to be back.
We soon arrived by Uber at our rented house in South Philly, about a mile or so from Steve’s house, at about 3pm. That evening, there was a planned meet at the “Tir Na Nog” bar in the city centre. We knew that we were in for a heavy evening with the game less than twenty-four hours away, so we chilled out for a while. Our house was magnificent, a clean and cosy, yet spacious, terraced house, just perfect.
It’s number on Pierce Street?
2025.
It seemed very appropriate.
We took an Uber to “Tir Na Nog” and we arrived bang on 7pm.
Have I ever mentioned that I work in logistics?
Phackinell.
The hours we spent in “Tir Na Nog” were super. Friends from both the UK and the US mingled and laughed and joked. I met a few Facebook acquaintances for the very first time and it was a blast.
I’d like to thank everyone who bought me a drink, or seven.
Steve from South Philly rolled in. It was here that I first met his wife Teri and their daughters Linda, Elizabeth and Cassidy in 2012. Cassidy, now fourteen, would be with Steve for the Flamengo game. All three daughters love football, and Chelsea of course.
Back in 2012, I remember that I yelled out a full “Zigger Zagger” and scared the girls to death.
No such foolish behaviour this time.
Johnny Dozen was sat, unmoved, in a corner spot the whole evening. It was as if the whole bar was built around him. He is a good mate, and after we closed out the bar at around midnight, we sloped off to “Con Murphy’s” just around the corner.
Here, we go back to 2012, the day before the game in Chester, when I visited “Con Murphy’s” with some other mates.
We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxicab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends, and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.
As he approached the bar, I started chanting
“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”
This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –
“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo. King Carlo Has Won The Double. And The Shit From The Lane. Have Won Fuck All Again. King Carlo Has Won The Double.
2, 3, 4
Carlo, Carlo, Carlo. King Carlo Has Won The Double. And The Shit From The Lane. Have Won Fuck All Again. King Carlo Has Won The Double.
2, 3, 4
Carlo, Carlo, Carlo. King Carlo Has Won The Double. And The Shit From The Lane. Have Won Fuck All Again. King Carlo Has Won The Double.”
We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser. To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.
As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.
The look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.
I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers like him all the time back in England.”
Back to 2025, and the little gang of friends that had continued drinking – Johnny Twelve, Hersham Bob, his mate Paul, Glenn, Matt and his wife Rachel – shrunk to just Johnny Twelve and little old me. We chatted to Nicole, who ran “Tir Na Nog”, and it seemed that Chelsea Football Club had not exactly held out the arm of friendship to the Chelsea signature pub in Philadelphia. No contact, no promotions, no merchandise, no nothing.
A shame.
At gone 2am, I took an Uber back to 2025. I was starving so the driver opened his boot and gave me a huge pack of zingy “Cheetos” that I devoured on the way home. There was a further stop at a convenience store for more snacks.
I made it home, but I would soon be up in the morning for the game against Flamengo.
The match against the Brazilian giants was to kick-off at 2pm, which meant that we didn’t really have too long for pre-match drinks. We had planned a little splinter group meet-up at “Oscar’s Tavern”, a cracking little dive bar. Glenn and I were starving so wolfed down a breakfast that did not touch the sides. There were a few drinks with great friends Bob, Alex and Rob from England, Dom from NYC, Alex and his girlfriend from Brooklyn, Kathyryn and Tim from DC, Josh from Minnesota, Johnny Dozen from Long Beach, Jaro and his son Alex from Virginia, his neighbour Joe and his son Luke, and Steve from his house just two miles to the south.
We caught a subway down to the stadium, the sun beating down as we exited, and headed for a quick drink at a huge and impersonal “super bar” that sits close to both the Phillies’ baseball stadium and the Eagles’ NFL stadium. The Flyers’ NHL and the 76ers’ NBA shared stadium is close-by too.
There has always been sport stadia in this part of the city, and it once housed the long-gone JFK Stadium where the US section of “Live-Aid” took place forty years ago.
I wasn’t sure of the numbers involved but as expected, Flamengo fans outnumbered us. It was lovely, though, to spot familiar faces from home and the US as we drifted in and among the crowd.
Time was moving on and there were lines at both the North and West gates. Flamengo fans were everywhere. We joined the line at the West gate. QR codes had appeared on our mobile phones earlier and I was just glad that mine hadn’t disappeared into cyberspace somewhere.
Glenn and I made our way up the various ramps to reach the M11 section, which was a middle-tier just above the large TV screen at the southern end of the stadium. As soon as we reached our row, we saw Andy from Nuneaton, a friend of thirty years.
There was all sorts of hoopla and nonsense happening on the pitch and on the PA as the kick-off approached.
The northern end was full of Flamengo red, but with odd pockets of blue at the edges. The rest of the stadium was dominated by the colour red. Down below us, the Chelsea lower tier was only a third full. The stadium capacity is 68,000 and it looked around two-thirds full.
My initial thoughts about this tournament were ringing true; too many games, tickets too expensive, we are reaching saturation point but FIFA wants more, more, more.
I had mentioned to others that my ideal format for this would have been sixteen teams, four groups of four, the winners to the semi-finals, then the final. Five games maximum.
Is the US getting tired of European teams? I remember a great game in 2009 in Baltimore between Chelsea and Milan, both teams stacked with talent, as many Chelsea as Milan fans in the crowd and a gate of 71,203. And that was a friendly.
Yet this game in Philly was no friendly, it was an official FIFA game, only Chelsea’s second-ever non-friendly match in North America, yet the Chelsea section was a third full. It seemed that, as I knew, many of our US fans had said “no thanks” to this one.
The teams were announced.
Us?
Sanchez
Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Palmer – Enzo – Neto
Delap
Or something like that. It would take me a good few minutes to notice that Cole Palmer was on the pitch, and even longer to work out his position and role.
Flamengo, now managed by one-season wonder Felipe Luis, were now without David Luiz but boasted the arrival of Jorginho, who – from one hundred yards away – resembled Phil Cool.
I think the heat was getting to me.
Our section seemed to be where most of the UK fans had decided to buy tickets, which were at the cheaper of the two price ranges, and this did not surprise me. We love a bargain in the UK. As is the case, not many of us were wearing Chelsea gear, old habits die hard. I added a muted pink Paul Smith to the array of designer schmutter on display.
On the pitch, we were in the mid-‘seventies inspired semolina white with thin central feint red and green stripes.
The game began, and we played towards the Flamengo fans to the north.
The Brazilians attacked us early, with two shots that did not trouble Robert Sanchez, whose presence between the uprights troubled us.
On five minutes, a great through-ball from Enzo Fernandez gave Liam Delap the chance to run freely at the goal, memories of him at Portman Road in December, and his strong shot tested Agustin Rossi in the Flamengo goal. I think everyone in the stadium and beyond was thrilled by that one play and we hoped for more.
It was an eagerly contested match and on thirteen minutes, after a Flamengo free-kick was cleared, Pedro Neto put pressure on a Flamengo defender. The ball cannoned between the two players, and the ball spun forward, and so did Neto. We watched from afar as he raced away. Sadly, I didn’t have my SLR with me due to restrictions on what I could bring into the stadium, and my pub camera was not called upon to record his fine finish past Rossi.
I didn’t care.
We were 1-0 up.
GET IN YOU FUCKER.
Pandemonium in South Philadelphia.
I snapped the boys celebrating, and that was enough for me.
I whispered to Glenn :
“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”
Flamengo were fluid with the ball and ran at us from all angles, but we generally kept our shape, though it did seem that the heat was hurting us. Flamengo, used to the sultry heat of Rio, were not so deterred.
A long shot from Malo Gusto that did not trouble Rossi was a very rare chance for us.
Palmer was ridiculously quiet and hardly involved.
On thirty-two minutes, there was a hydration break, sponsored by a drinks company, and you just now there will be VAR breaks with sponsors very soon. The pitch was being hydrated too, with the sprinklers on.
With half-time approaching, the typically aggressive Marc Cucurella gave away a free-kick out on the Flamengo left. A deep cross was met by Gerson and his side-footed cross-come-shot bounced high, but Levi Colwill was on the line to head away.
We breathed a hot and sweaty sigh of relief.
Our attacks had petered out by the time the first half ended but Flamengo had stayed strong.
At half-time, Glenn trotted off to get some water for us both and that cost him $15. At least they came in decent aluminium logo’d cups. Elsewhere, a lad had bought three gin and tonics and a Diet Coke and it cost him $89.
There were no changes at half-time, but shadows gave way to sun in section M11, and I was glad to be wearing my Frome Town cap.
In the second-half, Steve and his daughter Cassidy came into our section to watch the game alongside us.
Soon into the second period, with most of the play now happening up the other end of the pitch, we had a major escape, a proper “get out of jail” incident. There was a terrible mix-up between James and Chalobah, which allowed Gerson to settle and steer a shot towards the goal. Thankfully, James had managed to back-peddle and block, but we watched with our hearts in our mouths as the onrushing Gonzalo Plata appeared, ghost-like, at the far post. Incredibly, his touch took the ball wide of the post and the angle must have defeated him.
We had a rare chance when a long Sanchez punt forced Leo Pereira, pressured by Delap, to knock past the post, his ‘keeper fully committed.
On the hour, a brisk succession of passes allowed a chance for Plata but his shot was well tipped over by Sanchez. It was a fine save.
Sadly, two minutes later the game changed. Cucurella gave up space as he was faced with marking two players, and a deep cross from our left was headed back towards goal by Plata. The loose ball – shades of the earlier chance – was tucked home by Bruno Henrique.
My heart sank.
Glenn : “It was coming, wannit?”
Their players all rushed over to the north-west corner, but that area was no Sleepy Hollow. The Flamengo fans were boiling over.
I was reminded of a “Mengo” chant that I had heard continually at the Maracana last summer and now it haunted me.
Enzo Maresca made some changes.
Romeo Lavia for Enzo.
Nicolas Jackson for Delap.
In the next attack, Flamengo won a corner on their right. Another deep cross caused panic, and it was again knocked back into the same area of space by the far post. This time Danilo turned it in.
Once 1-0 up, now 2-1 down, this hurt again.
The Flamengo players raced away to the same corner, again their keeper Rossi, all in yellow, raced up field with arms outstretched and it made me squirm.
It got worse, fucking worse. I didn’t see the incident, but Jackson went in “studs up” and was shown an immediate red.
Twat.
A header – over – from Enzo was a rare chance for us to level the game.
In a forlorn attempt to stem the flow, Maresca changed things again.
Noni Madueke for Enzo.
Marc Guiu for Palmer.
The supporters in M11 were disgruntled and upset, and it got even worse.
On eight-three minutes, Flamengo burst through into our box and after a rather fortuitous bobble from a shot, Wallace Yan steadied himself and slotted the ball in, again from the same part of the box.
Again, Rossi ran forward, arms raised, and I felt ill.
The game petered out and that was that.
The gate was given as 54,019 and I struggled to believe that only 14,000 seats were empty.
More like 40,000 at most.
We slowly walked back to the subway stop and all of us reckoned that it seemed a much longer walk than before.
“Probably because we lost.”
It was only 4.30pm or so, and so we met up another exquisite dive bar (“Bring your snorkel, Glenn”) called “Bob’s & Barbara’s” which soon got us smiling again. A few beers there did the trick, and it was great to meet up and chat with my old friend Mike and his son Matthew from New York, and another Matthew from South Carolina, who is a massive fan of international football, unlike me, and was soon off to his 69th US game in Kansas, or somewhere.
“Just make sure they change ends at half-time in that one, mate.”
We spent a good amount of time there and could have stayed longer, but Steve walked Glenn and yours truly over to South Street where we devoured our first cheesesteak of the trip at “Jim’s” where we had visited in 2012.
“Steak, onions, Whiz.”
It was phantastic.
Our first match in Philly was done and dusted, but we now had to get something from Tuesday’s late game against Esperance of Tunis to ensure our safe passage into the last sixteen of this cup.
Before we hit a spate of home games at ridiculous times on ridiculous days, here was a traditional 3pm kick-off on a Saturday.
For the second time in five seasons, we were to play Morecambe in the Third Round of the FA Cup. Back in 2020/21, on Saturday 10 January, we beat The Shrimpers 4-0 at a closed Stamford Bridge. Four years and one day later, we were to meet again.
Our FA Cup run that season ended in defeat at Wembley, but the start of it seemed to be themed around the comic Eric Morecambe. We played a home game against his hometown team in the third round and then the side, Luton Town, that he developed a deep love for, eventually becoming the club president, in round four. We defeated Luton Town 3-1, but Frank Lampard was sacked the very next day.
Us against Morecambe in 2021?
Kepa
Azpilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Emerson
Gilmour – Mount
Hudson-Odoi – Havertz – Ziyech
Werner
So much has happened since, eh?
There are none left in 2025.
On the drive up to London in the morning, I said to my fellow passengers that there would be no players from the afternoon’s game who would still be playing in four years’ time.
Controversial? I am not so sure. Let’s hope I am wrong. We need some sort of continuity, or modern football becomes even more difficult to appreciate and respect.
Over to you, Chelsea.
While PD and Parky were re-acquainted with “The Eight Bells” and Ron – more FA Cup games, 64, than any other Chelsea player – and Glenn headed off to Stamford Bridge nice and early, I had some time to kill.
I had set off from Frome at 6.45am and three hours later I had arrived at my new parking spot on Charleville Road. I fancied a new routine on this cold but pristine morning in West London. I wolfed down a tasty breakfast at a new spot – “Hazel Café” – on the North End Road and then took a tube from West Kensington to Earl’s Court.
For a leisurely hour I walked south from Earls Court to Stamford Bridge, and my path took me through Brompton Cemetery, where I was keen to locate the final resting place of our club’s founder Henry Augustus “Gus” Mears, and to hopefully capture a few wintry photographs of the gravestones with the bulk of the East Stand behind. I have only walked through Brompton Cemetery once or twice before while en route to a game at Chelsea, and I remember being struck by its gothic undertones.
I fired up my ‘phone to find the exact location of the final resting place of our founder, and luckily it was just off the main walkway. Just before, I spotted the ornate art-deco tombstone of Emmeline Pankhurst, the leading light in the suffragette movement.
I made my way south.
Looming to the west, the steel roof supports of the East Stand at Stamford Bridge were almost lost in the glare from the winter sun.
The gravestone of Gus Mears is unpretentious and did not strike me as being particularly ornate or over-fussy. There are simple words to describe, in our eyes, his most formidable achievement in his thirty-eight years.
HENRY AUGUSTUS MEARS
FOUNDER OF THE CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB
He is buried with his son, Henry Frank Mears, who died in the First World War aged just nineteen.
The tombstone might be plain and understated, but the edifice which it faces more than makes up for it.
Stamford Bridge has been our home since 1905.
What memories lie within.
As I edged closer to the East Stand, I walked over to the railway-line and tried my best to take some photographs of our stadium from a never-previously photographed viewpoint. It was lovely to do so. It reinforced my love for this little piece of real estate in London SW6.
I popped into the hotel, very briefly, to chat with Ron and Glenn, but then zipped down to southern Fulham, arriving in the pub at 12.15pm. The day, thus far, had been magnificent. A cold fresh Saturday morning skirting Stamford Bridge. What could possibly be any better?
There were laughs with the usual suspects in “The Eight Bells” but the pub was a lot quieter than usual. I had spotted many Morecambe fans, in town early, and bedecked in red scarves, looking for watering holes around Stamford Bridge, and a couple had made it to our local, although with any club colours clearly hidden.
PD, Parky and I were joined by Dave, Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Leigh, Jimmy the Greek, Ian, Nick the Greek, and Nick the Greek’s good lady.
Ours, of course, was not the only FA Cup tie in London on this day. Brentford were at home to Plymouth Argyle, also at 3pm, and there was to be the Leyton Orient vs. Derby County game at 6pm.
Mark – a guy from Frome, but now living in Derby, and a Derby County fan – was off to the latter game and wanted to call in to have a chat with PD and myself before they moved over to East London. I met up with him at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town game in October, the first time that our paths had crossed since school days. However, on his way into London in a mini-bus with friends they heard that the game at Leyton Orient was called-off. However, Mark and his two Derby mates spent a nice while with us, and we chatted about all things football.
I had to laugh a while back when Mark told me that the Ram logo from the old main stand roof at the now dismantled Baseball Ground is currently in his shed. As far as stadia memorabilia goes, that must win some sort of award.
We left the three Derby lads to it and set off for the game. I was inside at 2.30pm.
During the afternoon, I chatted with Rob and Scott – friends in The Sleepy Hollow – about our plans for attending the FIFA World Club Cup in June. Rob, along with his wife Alex and his mate Rob, will be alongside Glenn and little old me in Philadelphia. I had to laugh when Scott explained how he had an even bigger nightmare buying tickets than me. The procedure via the FIFA website wasn’t too clear, nor easy. Each applicant had to set up their own account. It didn’t help my cause when I realised that I had inadvertently used Glenn’s access code for my two tickets, and so I had to gamble that my code would work for him. After a nervous ten minutes, he was in.
We were in.
See you in Philly.
The minutes ticked down and I looked at the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen.
Us against Morecambe in 2025?
Jorgensen
James – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga
Lavia
Neto – Nkunku – Felix – George
Guiu
Or something like that.
Pedro Neto was the only player retained from the game at Crystal Palace, and it surprised nobody.
I prefaced the day’s activity with a photo and a nod to Eric Morecambe on “Facebook.”
“We’re playing all the right passes, but not necessarily in the right order.”
The game began.
Well, I was tempted to call this “Tales From The Cemetery And The Morgue”.
I know it was “only” Morecambe, who were second-from-bottom of League Two, but the atmosphere at the game, throughout virtually every second of it, was bloody terrible. I felt sorry for any long-distance Chelsea supporter who was attending this as their first-ever game at Stamford Bridge.
There. I have got that out of my system.
All eyes were keenly focussed on the returning Reece James, and it was from his free-kick that Axel Disasi headed over the bar in the first two minutes. Despite the likelihood of Morecambe defending deep (1996), Parking the Bus (2004), using a low-block (2021), they surprised us with a quick counter-attack down their right that Filip Jorgensen did well to parry. There was another Morecambe attack and shot soon after.
The away fans could be heard in the far corner.
“Football in a library.”
I guess “morgue” didn’t scan.
The Chelsea chances kept materialising in a packed penalty area in front of The Shed. A shot from Joao Felix, off for a corner, then over from the resulting corner from the same player.
Another header from another corner.
A Tosin header crashed against the bar from a Pedro Neto corner.
Disasi over the bar too.
Alan and PD alongside me were getting frustrated with a lack of drive, and a lackadaisical approach, but in the defence of the players it is sometimes difficult to raise a tempo when there is simply no space to move.
It wasn’t brilliant stuff, but chances were being created.
On twenty-eight minutes, Neto attempted to turn back the ball from the goal-line, but a defender jumped up and the ball hit his arm. The referee had no choice but to point to the spot. Sadly, Christopher Nkunku’s penalty save was at an easy height for the Morecambe ‘keeper Harry Burgoyne to save. The ball ran out to Nkunku, but the ‘keeper blocked again. Burgoyne had been the star of the show thus far. For Chelsea, Felix was often involved and was piling up scoring chances. On the wings Tyrique George and Pedro Neto were industrious but without end product. Marc Guiu and Nkunku were yet to get involved.
Just after, Disasi clouted a ball from his own half towards a totally non-existent run from a non-existent Chelsea player. It had my vote for the worst pass of the season thus far.
An effort from Guiu went close. Yet another effort from Felix, but Burgoyne met it with a very fine save. There was a tidy spin from George out on the left, but Nkunku’s header flew over the bar.
On thirty-nine minutes, with the place still silent, a move broke down and the ball spun out to Tosin. There was a semi-audible whisper of “shoot” and the centre-back moved the ball on and did so. After so many misses from players further up the field, there was almost laughter in the air as his shot was deflected past the hapless Burgoyne to give us a 1-0 lead.
I looked towards Alan. I saw him pause. At the same moment, we had the exact same thought. I took off my glasses and was just about to offer them to him. Instead, he donned his own glasses.
Eric : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Ernie : “Come on my little fat hairy legs.”
We laughed.
“God, we have been together too long.”
Just after, the same scenario. Tosin on the ball, shouts to “shoot” but the long shot whizzed just past the post.
From the Morecambe fans :
“1-0 up, you still don’t sing.”
Half-time arrived and everyone was rather non-plussed. I wondered what the mood was like at half-time at our FA Cup game against Wigan Athletic, at Stamford Bridge, on Saturday 5 January 1985. During that game, which I did not attend, we had somehow contrived to let in two first-half goals to the away team – Paul Jewell, Mike Newell – but thankfully we managed to even up the score in the second half via goals from Pat Nevin and David Speedie.
Us against Wigan Athletic in 1985?
Niedzwiecki
Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Rougvie
Nevin – Spackman – Thomas
Davies – Dixon – Speedie
There would be a replay later.
The gate was just 16,220. It had been a mixed day for FA Cup crowds; 36,000 at Liverpool vs. Aston Villa, 32,000 at Manchester United vs. Bournemouth, 29,000 at Tottenham vs. Charlton Athletic, but just 11,000 at West Ham vs. Port Vale.
My 1984/85 retrospective over, we return to 2025.
At the break, the manager made three changes.
Malo Gusto for Reece James.
Marc Cucarella for Lavia.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
The introduction of Cucarella seemed to be the catalyst in a much-improved second forty-five minutes. It was his burst down below us that set up a shot for Renato Veiga after the Spaniard’s cross was cleared. Veiga’s shot was parried by Burgoyne but Nkunku was on hand to smash in the rebound.
No balloon. I guess he some respect for the opposition. Fair play. In fact, the celebration was very muted indeed. Nkunku doesn’t look the happiest camper at the moment.
The chances stacked up again. Yet another Felix effort flew over. Cucarella came inside and saw his right-footed shot hit the side netting. A Disasi header at a corner came close.
The away team had given up attacking in any form at all by now.
On seventy minutes, the ball was played inside by the improving George, and Sancho must have heard a shout from Tosin as he let the ball run through his legs.
Another “shoot!” and this time Tosin’s effort was quite magnificent, the ball curling and crashing into the net from twenty-five yards.
His run towards my waiting camera was euphoric.
Five minutes later, George played a ball square down below us and Felix took a touch and delicately aimed a slow but precise roller into the Morecambe net at the near post. His goal was well-deserved. Another muted celebration.
Two minutes later, The Sleepy Hollow was treated to more excellent build-up play below us. That man Cucarella – his energy had revitalised us – passed to Felix who danced and weaved ahead of his marker and then unleashed a curler past Burgoyne at the far post.
Beautiful.
There was a late rally from the away team with two shots on goal – one a tired roller at Jorgensen, one wildly over – but Chelsea were good value for the 5-0.
The referee, perhaps wisely, played only two seconds of injury-time.
Game over.
Into Round Four we go.
Our next smattering of league games at Stamford Bridge were finalised using a random date generator, copious amounts of acid and a British Rail train timetable from 1974.
Tuesday 15 January : Bournemouth.
Monday 20 January : Wolverhampton Wanderers.
Monday 3 February : West Ham United.
Wednesday 26 February : Southampton.
Have I ever mentioned what I think of modern football?
Last season, the Everton away game was again just before Christmas, on Sunday 10 December, and at the time it was to be our last-ever visit to the Grand Old Lady on Goodison Road. I went into that game expecting it to be so and took tons of photos to commemorate my last-ever visit. Yet, between the time of the game and the day of posting my match report, five days later, it was announced by Everton Football Club that they would be staying one more year at the revered old stadium and would move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025.
Ironically, another recent visit had the feel of a potential “last-ever” game too, the match in May 2022, when Everton were deep in the relegation mire. On that day, Frank Lampard’s Everton squeaked home 1-0 and lived to fight again.
It seems like Everton, or rather Goodison, has been messing about with my brain for a few years now. God knows what actual Everton fans have been experiencing.
I was pretty happy with the 105 photos that I posted for last season’s match and I had a feeling that I might well match this high figure on this occasion.
Goodison Park and I go back a long way, to a match that was shown on ITV “live” on Sunday 16 March 1986, but many fans of my generation first experienced Goodison on Saturday 22 December 1984 – forty years ago to the day – and it is the one game that I wish that I had seen. The visit in 2024 would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea game at Goodison, but the game on that Saturday forty years ago was arguably our best performance there in the past four decades.
At the time, I was so annoyed that I was not able to attend the game at Goodison in 1984. I had returned home the previous weekend from my college town of Stoke, and would be listening-in on the portable radio as I did a shift in my father’s menswear shop in Frome’s town centre. I occasionally helped out at Xmas time when things got a little busier. But I was so annoyed that I was back in Somerset. It would have been easy to travel up by train from Stoke to Liverpool had I still been in The Potteries.
My diary from 1984 explains “the saga” at Goodison Park, and how I “went wild” every time we scored, especially when a score of Everton 3 Chelsea 1 was corrected to 2-2. We won the game 4-3, with Gordon Davies getting a hat-trick and Colin Pates getting one. Graeme Sharp scored two for the home team and Paul Bracewell scored the other. I had predicted a gate of 24,000 so was very happy with the attendance of 29,800. I went out in Frome later that night and had way too much to drink. It was our first away win in the league in 1984/85 though. These things have to be celebrated surely. Those that went to the match in 1984 often tell the story of all sorts of missiles being launched at the tightly packed Chelsea terrace and the seats high above the goal from the home enclosure in front of the main stand; pool balls, flares, golf balls with nails. Friendly bunch, Everton.
For the game in 2024 we set off early. I collected PD and his son Scott at 6am and Parky at 6.30pm. We breakfasted at a deadly quiet Strensham between 7.30am and 8am. I was parked up at the usual Stanley Park car park at 10.30am – a £13 fee – but as we made our way north to Goodison, the wind howled, and the rain fell. In Almaty there was no wind chill and there was no dampness in the air, and I coped OK. After a minute of being exposed to the bitter chill of Stanley Park, I was shivering like a fool. The rain seemed to seep into my bones. I was reminded of Turf Moor in 2017. We came off the vast expanse of the park and walked alongside more sheltered and tree-lined roads.
While the others went off to find shelter in “The Abbey” pub on Walton Lane, I met up briefly with a photographer pal of mine, David. We had bumped into each other at last season’s game and had kept in touch ever since. He often takes photos pitch side at the four grounds in Liverpool and Manchester. He was queuing up, hiding from the rain, underneath the towering main stand that rises dramatically from the pavement on Goodison Road like no other stand in England. Only Ibrox come close in the entire UK. He was after a good “speck” – Scouse slang for “spot” – behind the Park End goal. We had planned for him to take a few photos of my pals and I during the game.
As I made my way to the pub, I spotted a former Everton player from my early years, Mike Lyons.
“Hello Mike.”
No answer.
That’s because I quickly realised it was Martin Dobson.
Fackinell.
I dodged the rain and made my way inside the pub that was surprisingly quiet. We stayed inside from 11pm to 1pm, and the small, thin, cosy pub soon became rammed. We were made welcome, though. I chatted to some Evertonians from Aberdare in South Wales who were staying over. Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and Doncaster Pail had joined us, and Ian then arrived with two random Evertonians he had met on the train and who had subsequently shared a cab together from Lime Street.
They are a lot more friendlier in 2024 than in 1984.
If anything, the inter-city rivalry between Merseyside’s blues and reds has heightened and intensified and turned nasty since 1984. I joked with Jimmy and commented that Evertonians hark on about Liverpool’s fan base now residing in Norway, and Liverpool bite back by saying that Everton’s global reach now goes as far as North Wales.
David, the photographer arrived with a programme for me, but reported that his “speck” was in front of the Gwladys Street, so no candid photos of us on this day.
Tommie and Chris – the brothers Grim, Tommie Chelsea and Chris Everton – arrived in the rain and I passed over spares. Then, I got drenched on the short walk to the ground, where I was serenaded by a “Town Called Malice” – an odd choice so far north – by a band playing in the fan park behind the impressive Dixie Dean statue.
There was time for one final, sad, circumnavigation of The Grand Old Lady.
The Winslow Hotel, where I popped in with my mate Francis for a drink before a game at Anfield in 1994, and if my fictional piece from 2012 is to be believed, where my father visited on his one visit to Goodison Park in around 1942, mid RAF training on The Wirral.
To the left, Jock spotted the frosted glass windows of a local hostelry. Without any words being exchanged, Jock quickly headed inside, his two friends left outside in his wake.
“A quick pint, Half Pint?” asked Hank to Reg. “It appears our Scottish friend is in need of liquid refreshment.”
They spotted Jock dart in the bar to the right of the main entrance of The Winslow Hotel and they quickly followed suit.
“Jock’s at the bar, Half Pint – this is a rare sight indeed. Let’s hope he doesn’t forget us.”
The cavernous bar was incredibly noisy and the three pals struggled to hear themselves be heard above the din of orders being taken, jokes being shared, vulgar belly laughs, shouts and groans. A young lad strode through the bar, bedecked in Everton favours – the blue and white standing out against the dismal colours of wartime England – and attempted to sell match programmes. He was not faring well. The locals were more intent on drinking. An elderly gent, with glasses and a pencil thin moustache, spoke engagingly to Reg about Dixie Dean, the great Everton centre-forward, who once scored 60 goals in a 42 game season.
As his knowledge of football wasn’t great, Reg wasn’t sure if this was the same Dixie Dean who had been ridiculed in the schoolboy poem of his youth –
“Dixie Dean from Aberdeen. He tried to score a goal. He missed his chance. And pee’d his paints. And now he’s on the dole.”
Talk of the imminent football match was minimal, though. It seemed that just being in an alien environment, so different from each of their hometowns, was amusement enough. Hank looked at his watch and signalled to the others to finish their drinks. Outside, the rain had started to fall. The three friends quickly rushed across to the stand and did not notice that the narrow street, darkened under the shadow of the structure, was busy with an array of match day activity; grizzly old men selling programmes, young boys selling cheap paper rosettes, wise-cracking spivs selling roasted chestnuts and cigarettes and young girls selling newspapers.
The main stand, and the elevator that I took to watch a game from the top balcony with my mate Pete in 1992 when Robert Fleck scored. The church of St. Luke the Evangelist, with its café and memorabilia shop that I visited in 2022.
The huge images of Dean, Sharp, Latchford, Royle, Young and Hickson towering over rooftops.
The Holy Trinity statue.
The pavement alongside where some local scallies had eyed me up and down on my second visit in late 1986 and sneered “that jacket is so fookin’ red” and I thought I might be in for a hiding.
Gwladys Street, where I walked with Josh and Courtney in October and where Courtney took a photo of two lads, in red and blue, playing football outside two houses with red and blue doors, a perfect image.
A turn into Bullens Road and the away end. Memories of a beautiful visit with my then girlfriend Judy’s young football-mad son James, aged just ten, his first-ever game in 1998, and then a repeat in 2006 with him, the 3-2 cracker.
The rain was bucketing down and the stewards just wanted us inside, so there was no camera search.
For one last time, I was in.
The familiar steps, the crowded concourse, the wooden floorboards of the Archibald Leitch Stand, our seats in Row B, effectively the front row.
I love Goodison. It’s obvious, right? But some hate it. I thought of them when I realised that a roof support was right in front of my seat, blocking a good deal of the pitch.
Fackinell.
I was lined up with Alan, John and Gary to my left and with Eck and Steely from Glasgow to my right. After being given a word of warning about using my SLR by both the chief steward and an over-zealous ambulance woman (!), I played cat and mouse with them all game long, and Eck was able to step in front of me to avoid me being seen. I am pretty sure I relied on Eck for this superb defensive partnership against prying eyes last season too.
Like Nesta and Cannavaro in their prime.
Eck and I found ourselves lip-syncing to “If You Know Your History”, it’s easily done.
Then, the big big moment…the sirens and “Z Cars” for one last time at Goodison.
Chills.
There is nothing better.
I have no doubt that Everton will keep this tune as a key part of their match-day routine at Bramley Moore. I am sure when it is played at the first-ever game, it will seem like the torch has been handed on.
Incidentally, the new stadium :
I love the location.
I am a little worried about parking and traffic flow.
The outside looks fantastic.
The inside seating bowl looks rather bland.
But I like the steepness of the rake of the terraces.
I like that – at the moment – the blue seats are not spoiled with sponsors names or other silliness.
How I wish that a few Leitch cross struts could be repositioned at key places on the balcony wall at the new digs.
With the kick-off time approaching, I checked our team.
Sanchez
Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Gusto
Caicedo – Enzo
Neto – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Everton were a mixture of footballers and former footballers, some familiar, some not and how on Earth is Ashley Young still playing?
Both teams wore white shorts. Brian Moore would be turning in his grave.
Everybody standing, the rain starting to get worse, the game began.
Whisper it, but a win at Goodison would send us top, if only for a few hours.
We began the livelier and attacked the deep-sitting Everton lines in front of the Gwladys Street. There was a shot, wide, from Cole Palmer, and a couple of attacking half-chances involving Nicolas Jackson and Pedro Neto.
The rain was heavier now and seemed to be aimed right at us in the Bullens Upper. I sheltered behind Eck. The wind was blustery and seemed to change direction at will. Playing conditions, although not treacherous, were difficult, and it made for periods of messy football. The Everton crowd, not exactly buoyed by the news of the latest take-over, soon quietened down.
Neto had began the game as our liveliest player on the right and, after good play by Moises Caicedo, he fed in Palmer, and there was a low cross towards Jackson, but Jordan Pickford saved well.
We played well in short spells, and from a corner, Jackson smacked the post from close range and Pickford closed angles before Malo Gusto could attack the rebound.
Everton had been very defensive and offered very little. It was so noticeable that the Everton support were cheering defensive clearances.
“God, I know everyone loves their clubs and their teams, but imagine turning up to watch this every two weeks?”
At last, an effort on our goal; someone called Orel Mangala forcing a very fine stop from Robert Sanchez. Just after, another Everton effort, and Sanchez thwarted Jack Harrison from close range.
It had been a poor first-half and was met with moans and grumbles by the Chelsea faithful at the break.
Neto had been my favourite, and we loved the audacious piece of skill when he controlled the ball by knocking it back over his shoulder to fox his marker. Caicedo was strong. Sancho had a lot of the ball but was finding it difficult to get the best of Old Man Young. Disasi touched the ball so many times it honestly felt like he was our main playmaker. We cried out for a little more urgency.
Just before the second half began, Eck, Steely and I were now lip-syncing to “True Faith” by New Order and we hoped our faith would be truly rewarded.
“That’s the price that we all pay. And the value of destiny comes to nothing. I can’t tell you where we’re going. I guess there was just no way of knowing.”
The weather was still wild. There were hints of a blue sky and sun, but only fleeting. At times the sky over the huge main stand roof took on a lavender hue. This was Goodison Park in the depths of winter, in the depths of Liverpool, in its unique setting. The wind grew stronger and the rain came again.
Football. There is something about it, in these old weather-beaten stadia, that absolutely stirs the soul.
Bizarrely, to me at least, it was Everton who created more chances of note in an increasingly worrisome second-half. On fifty minutes, a huge jolt to our confidence as Everton really should have scored. At last the home crowd made some noise that the old ground deserved.
Although Sancho looked a little more lively down below us – in an area of the Goodison Park pitch that always invokes of Eden Hazard twisting and turning – as the second-half continued, our link-up play was poor. Palmer was having a very average game, and this seemed to affect our confidence.
Some substitutions on seventy-five minutes.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
Noni Madueke for Neto.
Everton attacked down our left, and a shot from Martin Gore lookalike Jesper Lindstrom was expertly stopped by Sanchez, but the block on the follow-up effort from Tosin was exceptional.
It was at this stage that we all began thinking that we would be happy with a 0-0, a point, and consolidation of a second place finish.
There were minimal minutes added on at the end of the ninety. It was if the referee Chris Kavanagh was happy to save us any more pain.
It ended 0-0.
As the legions of home and away fans departed, I loitered with my camera and tried my best to capture a few haunting images of my final ten minutes in a stadium that I have so enjoyed visiting over the past thirty-eight years.
My final Everton vs. Chelsea record at Goodison Park :
Played : 24
Won : 8
Drew : 7
Lost : 9
For : 23
Against : 26
I took some inevitable shots of the trademark Leitch cross struts on the balcony wall, and I was reminded of when I pinned my “VINCI PER NOI” banner on this section for our last great game at Goodison, the 3-0 triumph late in 2016/17. My words illustrate the joy of that day.
At the final whistle, a triumphal roar, and then my eyes were focussed on Antonio Conte. He hugged all of the Chelsea players, and slowly walked over to join his men down below us, only a few yards away from the touchline. With just four games remaining, and our lead back to seven points, the joy among the team and supporters was palpable. Conte screamed and shouted, his eyes bulging. He jumped on the back of Thibaut Courtois. His smiles and enthusiasm were so endearing.
Altogether now – “phew.”
The songs continued as we slowly made our way out into the street. A message came through from my good friend Steve in Philadelphia –
“Chris, the image that just flashed on my screen was beautiful. A shot of a cheering Antonio Conte, cheering the away fans, with the Vinci banner in the background. Absolutely perfect shot.”
There was time for one last photo of me with the Gwladys Street in the background, and then one last shot of the exit gate in the Bullens Upper, a photo that I had taken just over twelve months earlier.
But now, it was final.
Thanks Goodison, for the memories, from Reg Axon in around 1942 and from me from 1986 to 2024.
It seemed odd to have no Chelsea midweek game after the Bournemouth match, especially since many other teams were embroiled in not only UEFA competitions but the Carabao Cup too. However, the away match at West Ham United’s London Stadium was reward enough for a barren week of football.
Although this stadium is undoubtedly my least favourite away venue – terrible sight-lines in addition to no Chelsea wins in all of my previous six visits – I was pretty positive about the day. As my working week ended on Friday, I was absolutely relishing the trip to East London. The malaise of the previous weekend had disappeared. Whisper it, but I could even sense a win. If that was to be the eventual outcome, the four of us were planning to execute a post-game victory ramble around the East End. That was enough to get me chomping at the bit for the day to start.
By some odd twist of fate, some forty years ago, Chelsea and West Ham United met in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I always remember that a chap called Baz who ran the Yeovil Supporters Club used to produce a small bi-monthly magazine, and in the pre-amble to the travel plans for this game, he subtitled it “When Two Tribes Go To War” after the huge Frankie Goes To Hollywood hit from that summer. Well, on Saturday 15 September 1984, the two tribes went to war in a game that is avidly remembered to this day, not least by me.
This would be the first time that I would see West Ham play and, while North London’s two teams had been developing a mutual hatred of each other both on and off the pitch for decades, Chelsea and West Ham had been doing the same, albeit in the Second Division, for a couple of seasons prior to 1984. Those 1979/80 and 1980/81 encounters – two Chelsea wins in the first season and two West Ham wins in the second – must have been lingering in the memories of those who were planning to attend the first match between the two clubs since a 4-0 West Ham win at Upton Park on Valentine’s Day 1981. To say that there were off-the-field scores to be settled would be a massive understatement.
I was up early for this one – some things don’t change – and I caught an early-morning train from Frome train station to Westbury with Glenn, and we then zipped up to Paddington. We made a bee-line for Stamford Bridge, arriving as early as 10am. As I was off to North Staffs Poly in a week’s time, I needed some photos for my NUS card, and so I used the photo booth at Fulham Broadway tube station. We walked down to a café at the bottom of the North End Road and for the first time in my life I sampled some pie, mash and liquor. This seemed ridiculously authentic for a nineteen-year-old lad from deepest Somerset; what a beautiful start to a top flight London derby. On walking up to the main gates at around 11am, we were aware of a large mob of casuals walking past us in the middle of the road; dressed to the nines, no colours on show, full of attitude, full of purpose. Without a doubt, we knew they were West Ham, the ICF. I remember one bloke bumped into me as he brushed past, but with the fear of their notoriety in the forefront of my mind, it was me who apologised.
After they had passed, we looked on as they ran a hundred yards or so towards the tube station and had a set-to with some newly-arrived Chelsea lads.
We waited in the East Stand forecourt as we saw another large mob of around fifty gents line up at a ticket office and attempt to buy tickets. The police had arrived by now and told them that no tickets were on sale and to disperse. The presence of a mob of away fans in the forecourt reminded me of the time in February 1977 when Millwall made an appearance, along with rushes and pushing and punches. As an eleven-year-old, this was all too exciting for words.
At one stage, the police closed the main gates, worried about a further influx of West Ham. Things were bubbling – pardon the pun – along for a while. Glenn and I got in the ground, into the relative safety of The Benches, at 12.30pm. There were some proper bruisers on parade that day, and us two teenagers were in no mood to get walloped, especially after a nasty experience at Bristol City that August.
Our capacity at the time was around 43,000 and I had predicted a gate of 32,000 the day before.
Once inside, it was clear that West Ham had brought the numbers. Our sweeping North Stand held 10,000 at the time and each of the four paddocks were swelling with numbers from an early stage.
At about 1.30pm, we noted that a mob of chaps had arrived en masse in the West Stand seats above us. For what seemed an eternity, they looked at us and we looked at them. At 2pm, they moved towards our right, towards the northern end, and punches were thrown at home fans, although the Chelsea seats were not full at all.
A slow deep song, previously unheard of, boomed out of the West Stand.
“ICF…ICF.”
I can’t deny it. It put the fear of God inside me.
They positioned themselves – maybe a hundred, maybe more – right behind us. I had been sitting in the very back row of The Benches, a few yards away. I looked at their angry faces and became concerned that they might well decide to throw some coins at us.
“Fuck that.”
Leggo, from Bedford, and I moved a few rows down.
On the other side of the pitch, about fifty West Ham showed up in Gate 13 in the East Lower but the police were soon in charge.
The game, played out in front of a very hostile atmosphere, was a cracker.
Us in 1984?
Niedzwiecki
Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie
Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas
Dixon – Speedie
West Ham fielded such stalwarts as Billy Bonds, Alvin Martin, Ray Stewart, Paul Allen and Tony Cottee. They played in all white.
It annoys me, forty years after the event that Trevor Brooking didn’t play in this match in; he had been a great player, one that I respected a little. Sadly, he had just retired at the end of the previous season, along with Kevin Keegan. Oh God, here come the memories of that bloody England vs. Spain game in 1982…I digress.
For some reason we attacked the Shed in the first-half. David Speedie was through but he was taken out by the West Ham ‘keeper Tom McAllister. The Hammers’ ‘keeper saved Colin Lee’s penalty kick, only for Lee to smack home the rebound. For some reason, the penalty had to be retaken. Bizarrely, the same thing happened again. Lee shot, McAllister saved, but Lee adeptly prodded home the rebound.
In the second-half, West Ham improved but a further goal, a lashed strike from Speedie on seventy minutes, made the game safe. With five minutes to go, Doug Rougvie was an unlikely provider of a deep cross that found an even unlikelier leap from Pat Nevin to head the ball in at the far post to give us a 3-0 win.
As this third goal went in, the West Ham mob behind us upped and left. Before we knew it, they had reappeared to our right, marching into the Shed at the Bovril Gate. A few punches were thrown at anyone within reach. It looked pretty indiscriminate. My pal Clive – who I sit alongside at Chelsea these days – took a battering after being pushed to the ground, but Chelsea soon re-grouped and chased them out.
Bizarrely, Glenn and I walked across the pitch – as did many – at the end of the game while the police tried to quell further scraps in The Shed, and we would get back on to the Fulham Road via the main gates. We made it back to Paddington intact and made the 6.05pm train to Bath, then to Westbury, then to Frome. On the way home, we chatted to two Bristol Rovers hooligans who had been lured to the bright lights of London for the game and had been part of the huge number in the away section.
The day had been massive. The gate was given as 32,411, yet we suspected that the Chelsea chairman Ken Bates had fiddled the figures; it felt nearer 35,000, maybe 40,000.
This had been a huge win for us. However, on the day, both Glenn and I always felt that West Ham had certainly made a big impression off the pitch – the buggers were certainly organised, their forte, their strong point – though in the ensuing years, Chelsea have always mocked the fact that they showed up way too early when the West Stand was full of normal fans.
That night, around the pubs of Frome, I bumped into a West Ham fan from school who, on hearing of the day’s events, summed it all up.
“The ICF did their job, then.”
I glumly nodded.
On this Saturday, just over forty years later, it was all about the football now. Hooliganism has almost disappeared from the national game, and it’s the actions of those on the pitch that are the focus of our attentions in 2024, though I am always aware of the symbiotic relationship between supporters and players.
Without supporters, we always say, football – and maybe footballers – are nothing.
After getting up early – 5.30am – I collected PD and Glenn at 7am. I drove past Frome train station, where our trip began in 1984 and onto collect Parky at 7.30am. We soon McBreakfasted at Melksham and we were on our way. While Glenn read my Bournemouth blog – that I had only finished the previous night – on his ‘phone, I updated the others on my December travel plans for Kazakhstan; out via Istanbul, home via Baku, and four nights in Almaty. I can’t wait. On the drive to London, the weather was miserable; full of dark clouds and rain. Thankfully, as we approached London it all brightened up considerably.
I was parked-up at Barons Court at 10.15am and, after our usual changes at Westminster and Canary Wharf, we reached Pudding Mill Lane station at 11.20am.
It’s a short walk to the London Stadium from here, and one which we are all familiar with. Unlike last season – just over a year ago – we were at the ground with tons of time to spare. Four foreign West Ham fans, all wearing various West Ham shirts, breezed past me. I detected accents from the southern US states. As they passed me, I spotted that one chap had “Lampard 26” emblazoned on his jersey.
My brain short-circuited.
“Lampard. Not our Frank surely? They hate him here. Maybe a reference to his father. But number 26?”
This just didn’t compute.
Security Check One : in.
Security Check Two : in, albeit after couple of dicey moments as the guy checked my camera.
I looked up and saw that “Lampard” was just ahead of me. I couldn’t resist a little chat.
“Hi mate. I have to ask why you have Lampard on your shirt?”
“He’s a legend, isn’t he? Like his father!”
I had no words.
Security Check Three : in.
But then a sniffer dog seemed interested in my camera bag. I was asked to accompany a bloke into a small tent where my camera bag, my wallet and my ‘phone were examined. I stood silent, bemused.
“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”
“No.”
I almost expected them to ask if I’d like some.
We chatted to some pals in the large concourse; about the only thing they got right at this horrible stadium. PD and Parky were in the lower tier, I was towards the front of the upper tier, and Glenn was with Clive further back. For the first time, our tickets were sent via email and had to be repositioned inside an app on our ‘phones. It worked OK for me, but as Glenn was using a mate’s ticket, there was an uncertain period a few days ago when it appeared that the ticket – or rather a QR code – belligerently refused to appear on Glenn’s ‘phone. Eventually it was sorted.
With time to spare, I walked to the very top of the upper tier of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand just to see for myself how awful the view is from the rear.
It is, as I suspected, horrific.
The sun was out, blue skies overhead, still positive vibes. I was stood alongside John and Gary in the third row of the upper deck.
Us in 2024?
Sanchez
Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana
Enzo – Caicedo
Sancho – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
I had heard of a few of the opposing players, but not all of them. It’s a sure sign of my waning interest in top level football outside of the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club. After fifty years of going to games, it’s no bloody wonder my brain can’t take much more.
I hear this comment from so many people of my generation : “Teams from my youth roll off my tongue so easily but I really struggle to name many opposing players these days.”
As always at this stadium, we attacked the other end – The Bobby Moore Stand – in the first-half. The home team created the first chance of the game in the opening few minutes, but Roberto Sanchez saved well from Mohammed Kudos, whoever he is.
Then, a lightning break for ourselves. A free-kick was taken early. Chelsea – the cream shirts looking cleaner and whiter in the sun than last week – switched the ball from Jadon Sancho to Nicolas Jackson who sped away in the inside-left channel. He advanced and slotted the ball home, between the keeper Areola’s legs, and we were 1-0 up. He sped away, full of glee, and the home fans looked on despondently.
Snigger.
However, I was reminded of the times that we had gone ahead in this fixture only to concede goals later.
The home team came at us and created a chance for Crysencio Summerville, whoever he is, but we were full of ideas too. A forceful run from Jackson allowed a ball in to Cole Palmer who sadly stroked the ball just past the frame of the goal.
There was much to admire about our play and the home fans were beautifully quiet.
On eighteen minutes, the ball was played by Enzo Fernandez to Moises Caicedo in the middle of the pitch. He immediately saw the breaking Jackson and his pass was weighted to perfection. This was another Jackson versus Areola moment, though central this time, and our young striker clipped the ball past the ‘keeper with the outside of his right foot, thankfully captured on film by yours truly.
Get in.
A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.
A slide.
You beauty.
We were 2-0 up early.
As soon as had I picked up PD at 7am, I was confident we would win on this occasion. Should we do so, we were going to combine a post-match visit to a traditional pie and mash shop and then, probably, a first-ever visit to an infamous East End boozer “The Blind Beggar” where Ronnie Kray shot and murdered George Cornell, of the rival Richardson firm, back in 1966.
Were we safe? Maybe.
Chelsea continued to play well – especially strong through the middle – but the home team had a lot more possession during the final twenty minutes of the first period. I noted that Palmer was strangely quiet, often losing possession cheaply, and how deep he appeared to come for the ball. Often it felt like he was alongside Enzo and Caicedo in a three. I remembered Moises’ Chelsea debut at the same stadium last season, and what a shocker it was. He has progressed so well since and is one of our most admired players of late.
The home team weren’t especially good, but carved open a couple of chances. Jarrod Bowen fired over. A cool finish from Kudos was quickly flagged for offside. Our defence looked on top, but there were still a few jarring mistakes to keep us worried.
We eked out chances too. Sancho linked well with Jackson, but a shot was blocked, while Madueke ran and ran but failed deliver an end product. A lively first-half ended with another fine save from Sanchez.
There were plenty of Chelsea smiles at the break in the vast away end.
I was still sat, fiddling with my camera case, when Chelsea broke early into the second-half. The ball was pushed into the path of Palmer by the advancing Jackson. I hastily pulled the camera up to my eyes and shot. Then Palmer shot. The effort flew in off the near post as I rose to my feet.
Beautiful.
3-0.
Safe now.
I began thinking again of some pie and mash.
The goal signalled the end of whatever noise there was from the home areas. Joe Cole, commentating on the game in an open area to our left, was heavily serenaded. The West Ham crowd must hate that he is now revered as Chelsea and not West Ham, just like another person that we know and love.
Despite some half chances for the home side, the game really was over.
Time for some changes.
Pedro Neto for Sancho.
Axel Disasi for Colwill.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
Joao Felix for Palmer.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.
There was a fantastic crunching tackle from Marc Cucarella on some West Ham player or another that – although resulting in a booking – resulted in a big cheer from the away contingent. It showed, in one moment, the desire in the team. I also loved all of the blocks – players putting their bodies on the line and other clichés – that again showed a desire and commitment that is not always visible.
At last, after six previous visits to the London Stadium, I had at last seen a Chelsea victory on a lucky seventh visit. Our home games often seem nervy affairs at the moment, don’t they? Can we play all our games away from home please? Three out of three in the league now.
Alas, no.
We now play four home games in a row in three competitions.
Barrow.
Brighton & Hove Albion.
Gent.
Nottingham Forest.
Our next away game – Liverpool on Sunday 20 October – seems ages away.
With many of the home fans leaving early, there was virtually no wait at Pudding Mill Lane station after the game. We caught the Docklands Light Railway train to All Saints and soon located “Maureen’s Pie & Mash”, tucked away in a small ‘sixties shopping precinct in Poplar.
Last season, before the corresponding fixture, we called in at the more famous “Manze’s” on London Bridge Road, but I think the pies on offer at “Maureen’s” were even better. Last season, I decided to call the West Ham blog “Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1” but on this day it was a case of “West Ham 0, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 3.”
Who should walk in as we were sitting down to our plates of pie, mash and liquor but our friend Dane who sits just in front of me at Chelsea. He often visits this haven of traditional London fare. What a small world.
None of us were keen to head home, so we caught another train from Poplar to Shadwell, then another one to Whitechapel. The sun was still shining high in the sky and we walked through the bustling street market – all of human life was there – until we reached “The Blind Beggar” pub on a wide pavement at a junction. We were able to relax, despite being the football supporter equivalents of the South London-based Richardsons visiting the heartland of West Ham’s East End support. Glenn had visited this infamous pub years ago – which was once owned by Bobby Moore of all people – and knew where to show me the bullet hole in a picture frame on the wall that was, allegedly, the one that killed Cornell after passing straight through him.
Gulp.
I had to smirk when “Smooth Operator” by Sade – featured in the first blog of this season, Rio de Janeiro, 1984 and all that – was played while we supped on ales. I also laughed at the chalkboard advertising “shots” for sale.
We crossed the road for a pint in a second pub, “The White Hart”, in Bethnal Green now, and we enjoyed a few moments as we reviewed the day’s game, while admiring the considerable scenery, cough, cough.
With no rush to return home, we then decided to head into the city. Alas, we heard that there had been a “jumper” on the line near Earls Court so we would have to return to Barons Court by other means.
We visited five more pubs during a lovey evening ramble around Blackfriars and Fleet Street. The only downer was hearing that Frome Town had been walloped 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville.
“The Blackfriar.”
This narrow pub was packed so we stood outside with the sun reflecting off the towering superstructures on the other side of the River Thames.
“The Albion.”
We saw bits of an entertaining 0-0 game on the big screen between Crystal Palace and Manchester United. Then, outside, the astonishing sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit and magnificent.
“Punch Tavern.”
The first of three pubs on historic Fleet Street and the realisation that this was quickly turning into one of our greatest London away days
“The Old Bell.”
A cramped pub, full of character, a cosy room and recollections of school days, football days and hopes for a reasonable season ahead.
“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”
This pub was rebuilt after the Great Fire Of London in 1666 and I knew that it is one of London’s most famous pubs. I had known of its existence for years but it was a dream to stumble across it on this most magical of pub crawls. The place was swarming with tourists, full of beer, full of wine, full of chat, but thankfully none of them were wearing a Frank Lampard West Ham shirt.
At around 9.15pm, we caught an Uber to take us back to Barons Court and our waiting car. This in itself was a magical trip for us out-of-towners. We drove past The Strand Palace Hotel, where my parents honeymooned in 1957, past Trafalgar Square – a blurred photo of Nelson’s Column – and along Piccadilly, past Hyde Park Corner, into Knightsbridge, past the Natural History Museum, past Harrods, past The Famous Three Kings on the North End Road.
We stopped at Heston for a light snack, then I drove west to Wiltshire and Somerset.
A month or so ago I mentioned that Ron Hockings, one of our greatest ever supporters, celebrated his 1,400th first team Chelsea game with our away match at Craven Cottage in April 1983. At the time, as a seventeen-year-old from Somerset, I could only dream of such ridiculous numbers of attendance. While Ron was clocking up game number 1,400, I was yet to break thirty matches. In those days, I would go to around four games each season.
But years pass, right?
Lo and behold, our last game of the 2022/23 season would be my 1,400th Chelsea game too. As I reviewed the letter from Ron in the programme from forty years ago, I was reassured that he counted first-team friendlies in his total. As do I.
It gave my total a certain cachet of authenticity.
“Bloody hell, I am not travelling to Kuala Lumpur with Chelsea without including it in my total.”
I like it that Ron celebrated 1,400 in 1982/83, a season that I have been detailing during this campaign. And here I am celebrating 1,400 forty years later. I am not sure that I ever spoke to Ron. I may have “nodded” a hello on a few occasions, but you used to see Ron everywhere. Like Peter Kemp and Alan Bruce, they would appear wherever Chelsea were playing. I have dipped into his book “100 Years Of The Blues” to help me add to my own memories of that season and I owe him a huge pile of gratitude. From 1947 to 2006, Ron went to a grand total of 2,703 Chelsea games, a ludicrous amount. He passed away around fifteen years ago, but his books will live forever.
With a lovely touch of symmetry, game number 1,400 would be against Newcastle United, as was my very first game in 1974.
16 March 1974 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.
29 May 2023 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.
Perfect.
And while we are on the subject of numbers and milestones, my attendance at the game on 29 May would allow me to complete my third – and only my third – ever-present league campaign of Chelsea matches.
2008/09 : 38/38
2015/16 : 38/38
2022/23 : 38/38
As my friend Ian would point out, a pattern has emerged here. Is my need to attend all the league games a seven-year itch? Is my next ever-present season due in 2029/30 when I will be – gulp – sixty-four? No, it’s just a product of being able, or not, to get to as many as I can. There is no plan.
I can’t really explain all this. But ever since that first game almost fifty years ago, I just love going to Chelsea matches. At the start, it was all about the players. Seeing my heroes play. Then, over time, I fell in love with the routine of attending games, the camaraderie, the laughs. Now, that is more important than the football.
“Which is just as bloody well after this season” I hear you all joking.
Well, I’ve seen worse, as my chronicles of 1982/83 prove.
This season hasn’t been the worst in our history, but at times it has felt the most disjointed, disappointing, under-achieving and – crucially – the least enjoyable.
It’s a shame that this accolade is bestowed by myself on 2023/24, my fiftieth consecutive season of match-going support for the club.
We can’t really class that as an honour can we?
The pre-match routine for the final game of this tortuous season followed the usual lines. Once I had walked down to Stamford Bridge with Ron – he played in Game #1 of course – it was lovely that my friend Kathryn and I managed to sort out a photo that would include four players from the 1982/83 season; Colin Pates, Paul Canoville, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers, plus Rodders thrown in for good measure. Kathryn and I then decamped to “The Eight Bells” via a stop at “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and we spent a decent hour or so with the two Glenns, Salisbury Steve and the Kent Lot.
The pub was bouncing with laughs and giggles; an outsider would find it hard to believe that we had all been following such a poor team over the past ten long months.
Inside “The Eight Bells”, there was a poignant moment for a few of us too. The Chelsea match-going family had recently been saddened by the death of a friend, Ian Oliver, who we had last seen in “The Eight Bells” before a game at Chelsea around six weeks ago. Ian was one of those chaps that you always bumped into at Chelsea, usually in “The Goose” but other pubs too. His was a face that I recognised from decades ago. And Ian was one of those rare Chelsea fans that lived locally, in Fulham, along with just a handful of other fans in my circle. I am pretty sure that his sister worked at “Chubby’s Grill” on match days, a hot dog van that was part of the furniture for years. Ian had recently gone to the gym and I commented to him during that last time in the pub that he had lost some weight and was looking good, bless him.
Ian – “Elvis” – will undoubtedly be missed by all of his Chelsea friends.
Rest In Peace.
As we left the pub, two female away fans sauntered past and one of them noisily remarked :
“Oh, youse have had a shite season, eh?”
“No need for that, is there?” I replied.
Indeed, there was a noisy bunch of Newcastle United fans, who had been drinking in Putney and close to our pub in Fulham, alongside us on the tube journey up to Fulham Broadway. A few were in fancy dress. There had been a few boats containing away fans alighting at Putney and I got the feeling that this was the happiest that the Geordies had been at a game at Chelsea since the days of Kevin Keegan as their manager.
To be fair, Eddie Howe has had a fine season up on Tyneside and all of us look forward to visiting the area again next season, as always a favourite away destination.
Elsewhere, three teams were fighting off relegation; two of Everton, Leeds United and Leicester City would join Southampton in a final relegation place by the end of the afternoon. I know that many wanted Everton to go, but not me. From a purely selfish reason, I wanted to be able to plan, visit and appreciate one last away day at Goodison Park at some stage in 2023/24 before they decamp to their new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock in 2024. It has been my favourite away ground for ages. I hoped for a win for them at home to Bournemouth.
On the Saturday, we had learned that Luton Town would be joining Burnley and Sheffield United in the top flight, though I wanted Coventry City to prevail. With Luton Town, Sheffield United and Burnley in the top flight, 2023/24 was beginning to resemble 1974/75, and this sent a shiver down my spine.
I was inside Stamford Bridge with plenty of time to spare. There was a small eulogy, with a photo, of Ian Oliver in the match programme.
Before the game, trophies were handed out to Lewis Hall – Academy Player Of The Year – Conor Gallagher – Goal Of The Season, Crystal Palace away – and Thiago Silva – Player Of The Year.
Frank presented Silva with his award. Surely this was a unanimous decision. The man ought to have won it last season too.
There had been Chelsea chat on the way up to London in the car. A lot of it centered upon Frank Lampard. I remember how happy he was on his return to the club, smiling at Cobham, full of delight. Looking back, it is clear that the club that he was forced to leave in early 2021 is not the same beast that it is now. Everything seems to have changed for the worst. There is no continuity now, that “Chelsea DNA” seems to have evaporated, we are a club in disarray. With hindsight, Frank’s gamble hasn’t paid off. I wonder how difficult it will now be for him, should he really feel the need, to get back into football management after this second spell with his beloved Chelsea.
That said, it has really disappointed me that so many in the Chelsea fan base, and – alas – even in my band of match day acquaintances have almost gleefully mocked Frank Lampard in recent weeks using language that I really found hard to stomach.
No respect.
Before the game, we were reminded that the day would probably mark another “farewell” to a Chelsea great. Since signing in 2012, Cesar Azpilicueta has played over 450 games for Chelsea and I always say he is “Mister 7/10”. His legs have gone recently but nobody can doubt his spirit. Before the players appeared on the pitch, a banner with mosaics honoured Dave – I still call him Dave, you might have noticed – in The Shed.
Franks final starting eleven?
Kepa
Dave – Silva – Chalobah – Hall
Enzo – Loftus-Cheek – Gallagher
Madueke – Havertz – Sterling
Newcastle were in white shorts, and I remembered that they wore these in a 6-0 Chelsea win in 1980, but I doubted a repeat.
“Grabbing at straws, there, Chris.”
The Sleepy Hollow was ready; the Buchmann Brothers Alan and Gary – sons of lovely Joe – Glenn, Clive, Alan and little old me. Clive had treated us to hot chocolates once again before the game.
This has often felt like the longest ever season, what with the horrible World Cup break in November and December, though the COVID hit season three years ago went on even longer. It seemed like this one was never going to end, and there was a slightly surreal to the game with both teams having not a great deal to play for.
Here we go then, Chelsea…game one thousand, four hundred.
No pressure.
The travelling Toon Army were in good voice as their team edged the opening exchanges. A white flare was set off in front of their fans; that fog from the Tyne was drifting long distances. Kepa did well to save at his near post after Aleksander Isak found space in the penalty area.
In an open first few minutes, it was the away team who looked the likelier to score. Indeed, we looked stretched after ten minutes when Allan Saint-Maximin was released on their left, amid acres of space, with Dave sadly nowhere near the wide man. It was if Dave had forgotten that he was the wide defender in the back four. The ball was played outside to Elliot Anderson who drilled a low cross into that infamous “corridor of uncertainty” for Anthony Gordon, hopelessly unmarked, to pounce.
Back in 1974, Ian Hutchinson gave us a 1-0 lead on ten minutes. In 2023, the start was sadly reversed.
On fourteen minutes, a Thiago Silva effort seemed to be creeping in at the far post but Martin Dubravka clumsily pushed it out for a corner. We were clawing our way back into the game. We enjoyed some pressure with Noni Madueke looking lively at times. A deflected shot from his volley soared just over. The corners mounted up.
On twenty-seven minutes, a free-kick was awarded in a deep but central position. Everyone was expecting a cross towards the far stick, but Enzo was switched on and drilled a ball into the path of Raheem Sterling in the inside-right channel who cut in past his marker and unleashed a goal-bound shot that was deflected in by Kieran Trippier.
Phew.
Just after, Stamford Bridge was united with a stadium-wide chant for the first time.
I looked around and, despite our rotten – by our standards – season, there were not many empty seats in the stadium. This has to be a good sign. This augurs well for the future.
Madueke, a teasing threat down the right, then went close but a defender blocked his shot.
Just before the half-time whistle, the two ‘keepers made two fine saves. The first came from an awful, unchallenged break from Saint-Maximin who set up fan favourite Miguel Almiron, with Lewis Hall out of position, but Kepa stood up and palmed a weak effort away. Then, Dubravka clawed away an effort from Sterling, after a pin-point cross from Hall, and the follow-up was hacked away too.
As first-halves went it was “fair to middling.”
I mentioned to Ian, who sits a few rows in front, that supporting Chelsea this season has been like watching a tribute act, a poor one at that, to a once great band.
The intermission came to an end and one last forty-five minutes remained.
Wesley Fofana replaced Trevoh Chalobah.
The game continued and the first part of the second-half was neither dull nor entertaining. With Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, I was hoping for some action down below us. Elsewhere, it was advantage Leicester City, winning at home to West Ham United but I fully expected Everton to nab a winner. Leeds were losing at home to Tottenham and were dead and buried.
We were having the majority of the ball now, but were unable to do much with it. The game was in danger of fizzling out.
A Madueke effort, after a shimmy inside, curled high over the framework of the goal.
We heard that Everton had scored.
On the hour, some substitutions.
Carney Chukwuemeka for Loftus-Cheek.
There was a slow walk to the touch-line from Ruben, and he applauded the fans who were applauding him. Undoubtedly, this was his final game in Chelsea blue. I first saw Ruben, aged just seventeen, at a friendly in New York against Manchester City in May 2013 and he has been on the periphery of our first team ever since. We have waited in vain for his early promise to blossom – his injury in a superfluous friendly in Boston in 2019 was cruel in the extreme – and it is hard to believe that he has played ten times for England. His play confused me and often irritated me. I longed for him to show more urgency in his play and in himself. He will move on, but I don’t think he will improve in the next five years; a shame.
Joao Felix for Kai Havertz.
Havertz’ play irritates me too, but that’s another story.
On sixty-four minutes, an over hit cross luckily found Hall, but he in turn over hit the shot.
Good work from Carney and Hall set up a chance, close in, for Sterling but he blasted wildly over.
I was convinced that we’d win this.
“COME ON CHELS.”
An old favourite was aired, which I adapted to my own styling.
“Fabregas is magic.
He wears a magic hat.
He could’ve signed for Arsenal.
But he said ‘no, fuck that’.
He passes with his left foot.
He passes with his right.
And when we win the league again.
I’ll be ninety-seven.”
On seventy minutes, Mateo Kovacic replaced Conor Gallagher.
We still dominated possession.
There were Shots from Felix and Enzo but these did not really threaten Dubravka.
One excellent move lit up the final part of the game. A high ball by Enzo out to Hall was delightfully flicked on to Madueke, who hunted down a defender and passed back to Carney, who in turn set up Sterling. His shot was destined to be going in, I thought, but was deflected wide. I stood up and scowled at everyone behind me.
There was a VAR review for a possible handball but nothing was given.
A cross from Maduele and a slide from Felix; just wide. A shimmying run from Madueke – he has had a good few games – but a weak shot signalled his last participation. He was replaced by the forgotten man Christian Pulisic, who struck poorly at Dubravka. Our chances were coming thick and fast now, as if the painful season-long constipation in front of goal had been suddenly relieved by a powerful laxative. A Felix free-kick flew wide.
A beautiful move then saw a perfect cross from Hall pick out the jump from Felix. His body contorted wonderfully to allow a fine header, but the effort flew just over.
It was a surprising end to our season; and yet, not.
Tons of chances; no goal scorer.
Right at the death, a loud and resounding chant of “Super Frank” enveloped the whole stadium. We couldn’t say goodbye to him properly in 2014 nor 2021 with a proper “Franksgiving” send-off, so this was better, though far from ideal in lieu of the unconvincing end to his second spell as manager.
The game ended 1-1.
Elsewhere, Everton stayed up.
I suspected that Frank would be happy about that.
We had spoken about the risk of a “lap of honour” on the way up in the car. Usually, at the end of far more successful seasons, players disappear and then come back on to the pitch. My view was that it would be better for the players to stay on the pitch at the final whistle, because if they went off for even five minutes, not many Chelsea fans would be left.
They played it right, just like I had hoped for.
The Newcastle team went over to thank their fans, then the Chelsea squad walked slowly in front of The Shed End and Parkyville specifically – where Kathryn was spotted ten seats away from Parky – before slowly marching towards us in the Matthew Harding.
“Azpilicueta. We’ll just call you Dave.”
Bizarrely, I only focused on Frank – in a navy tracksuit – quite late on. My eyes must have been on others, and his final farewell was relatively subdued. There were no smiles on Frank’s face, nor did I expect any. This had been a tough two months at the end of a tough season and a tough fifteen months for Chelsea Football Club.
N’Golo Kante and Mason Mount were reduced to throwing small footballs into the crowd; I wondered if we would see these two players next season. N’Golo has been wonderful for us since 2016, but we are all concerned about his recent injuries. But oh what a player, what a person, and what a smile. Mason has endured a frustrating time since Porto. I will not be surprised if he decides to move on. Let’s see what happens.
The season has ended, and it has been such a tough watch. Looking back, the highlights were undoubtedly the three Champions League trips to Milan, via Turin, to Salzburg, via Nurnburg, and to Dortmund, via Brussels. I really enjoyed them. Outside of those, there has been little, and not even a win against Tottenham. Yes, it has been that bad. The football itself, from day one at Goodison, has been dire and I have found it difficult to get emotionally close to any of our players.
I admire Thiago Silva though. I like Enzo. I am thankful for Dave’s service. I worry about Reece. Let’s get a striker and we’ll see what develops.
I took my time leaving the Matthew Harding. Outside, I took one final photo of other fans walking down the last flight of steps, now adorned with “CFC”, and I am using it now as a closing photo, and end point, for this season.
I will pair it up with the very first photo that I took this season, previously unshared anywhere, and I repeat here the story that I told way back in August
“I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.
Snap.
On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.
Splat.
The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.
The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.
One photo taken and carnage.”
I should have known, then, that this was going to be a tough old season.
From Goodison Park, and Bramley Moore Dock, to Stamford Bridge – from first to last.
One final word. I have enjoyed recapturing the feelings that I had for Chelsea in 1982/83 throughout this campaign. It has been a ten-month dip into my youth. I have re-read diaries, checked old programmes, researched on-line and devoured Ron Hockings’ books. To be honest, it’s almost as if I knew that this current season was going to be – er – “troublesome” and that I needed a historical counterbalance to the turmoil of 2022/23.
“Was 2022/23 bad? Oh yes. But you should have lived through 1982/83.”
One thing made me smart though. I noticed that in my diaries, I usually referred to Chelsea as “they” which really surprised me. I am always chastising Chelsea fans for referring to Chelsea as “they” and “them” rather than “we” and “us” for reasons that I hope are clear.
We are one of the same.
Yet, forty years ago, I too was referring to Chelsea as a separate entity. Fear not, I am sure that this was soon to change. After all, 1983/84 was just around the corner, and that was my team.
Yet another crazy Chelsea season was nearing completion. There were five games left; three away, two home. The next match was Bournemouth away, the easiest of trips for me.
With PD resting at home and out of action until the new season, we called in a last minute replacement. Mark, from nearby Westbury, was able to pick up a spare ticket and would join Parky – recovering after his own hospital appointment this week – and little old me as I made my way from Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset, via the slightest of incursions into Hampshire.
I left home just after 7.30am. I knew that a few fans had already travelled down on Friday to make a weekend of it. I collected Parky at 8am and I picked Mark up in the Market Place in Westbury at 8.25am.
This brought back memories from almost forty years ago. The first time that I ever met Mark was on a trip up to London to see Chelsea play Leeds United in April 1984 when we went up in the same car. The driver was Mark’s mate Gary, but he has not been seen for years. Also in the car was PD and Glenn who obviously still go. Thirty-nine years later, four out of five ain’t bad, is it? We beat Leeds 5-0 that day and on the way back to Frome, we stopped off at the Market Place in Westbury and enjoyed an evening pint in “The Crown”.
My route from Westbury was simple enough; down the A350 to Warminster and then down the A36 to Salisbury, then the A338 – via a brief stretch on the A331 – to Bournemouth. As the crow flies, from my house, it is an hour and a half. With my two pick-ups, it took me two hours and ten minutes.
I had not seen Mark since the away game in Milan, so we had a good old catching-up session while I ate up the miles. We agreed on lots of things.
“Why hasn’t Badiashile featured at all? He was calm and efficient in his starts. Since then, nothing.”
“Can’t understand what Frank sees in Sterling. Hope he doesn’t start today.”
“Mudryk is a raw talent and needs game time.”
“In a four, no reason why Chalobah can’t play right back.”
“I like Enzo, though.”
For some reason, I fancied us to win at Bournemouth. I told everyone that I met before the game that “we surely can’t lose all our matches this season?” Although I was never sucked into believing that we had a bona fide relegation fight on our hands, we knew that a win would make us mathematically safe.
In fact, deep down, I suspected that those in our support that were genuinely worried about relegation had not really understood the complexities involved in a relegation struggle. I also think that some of our newer fans were almost revelling in a mock concern about this alleged relegation fight to help them get some “sufferance” brownie points among their peers.
For those who have been reading about 1982/83 this season…now then…THAT was a relegation fight.
I dropped Parky and Marky off outside “The Moon In The Square” and joined them a few minutes later. We breakfasted like kings while many in the pub sat watching the royal coronation on TV.
We met up with a few friends and the time soon passed.
At 1.30pm, we drove the ten minutes out to the Vitality Stadium, spotting a few Chelsea fans along the way. I squeezed my car into the allotted “JustPark” space on Holdenhurst Road and made my way towards the away end. It was ironic that while we have enjoyed many fine days out in Bournemouth since 2016, from October to April, here we were in May and there was drizzle in the air.
I stood alongside Gal, John and Al in the fifth row.
Just before the teams appeared, the noisy and overly-enthusiastic PA announcer pleaded for each of the individual four stands in turn to make “noise for the boys” and my eyes continually rolled.
The teams stood at the centre-circle and “God Save The King” was sung with gusto by all.
As the players lined up in readiness of the kick-off – we attacked our “end” in the first-half, not usually the case here – I absolutely loved Frank’s choice of a starting line-up.
I checked position by position. It was the team that I would have picked in a 4/3/3.
Kepa
Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell
Kante – Enzo – Gallagher
Mudryk – Havertz – Madueke
Did Frank read the comments in my Arsenal blog?
I relaxed knowing that Raheem and Pierre-Emerick were not involved.
The drizzle had mostly petered out but the floodlights were still on. I noticed a surprising number of empty seats in the home areas. Sadly, a fair few were not filled behind me in our section. I find it inconceivable that one of the top fifteen clubs in Europe can’t fill all 1,200 tickets for an away game just one hundred miles away.
It was an open start to the game. The home team – ouch, those nasty zig-zag stripes – created a couple of tasty chances, but Kepa spread himself at his near post to save our blushes while another flashed past a post.
There were a couple of positive chants in support of Frank in those first few minutes.
“Super, Super Frank…”
“Scored two hundred…”
My man Noni Madueke had settled in well on the right flank, twisting and turning, running past defenders, a threat. On just nine minutes, from that right flank, Trevoh Chalobah touched the ball to N’Golo Kante who had time to cross. Conor Galagher moved towards its flight glanced it in at the far post past the marvellously named Neto.
GETINYOUBASTARD.
I just couldn’t bring myself to sing along to the “we are staying up” chants, nor could the young lad next to me. I get the desire for self-deprecation.
But.
Just.
Not.
Right.
Now.
Enzo set up Chalobah but Neto saved well. We looked neat on the ball, with Enzo looking to play in whoever he could whenever he could. Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Dominic Solanke and Ryan Christie set up Matias Vina who ghosted past defenders and, as he set himself up for a shot, I absolutely feared the worst. His lofted curler was perfectly placed beyond the reach of Kepa.
The game was tied 1-1.
I liked the way that Madueke feared nobody as he attacked down the right. His shots on goal showed confidence even if his shot selection and execution were awry. Down our left, seemingly within touching distance, a growing relationship between Gallagher and Mudryk was starting to flourish. The Ukrainian is certainly fast.
I glimpsed into the future at the potential of our very own “M & M” boys – “Mad/Mud” anyone? – causing havoc down the wings, the days of Arjen Robben and Damien Duff reincarnated perhaps, if not the days of Peter Rhoades-Brown and Phil Driver.
Ah, 1983.
Forty years ago, on Friday 6 May, I had an uneventful day at school but the twin nightmares of “A Levels” and a probable relegation were lying heavily on my mind. The very next day – Saturday 7 May 1983 – Chelsea were to visit Bolton Wanderers, one point and one place above Chelsea, in a pure “relegation six pointer”, and my diary noted that if we lost I felt that we would surely be relegated.
Despite seeing the game against Bournemouth being advertised by a few people, who really should have known better, as a “relegation six pointer”, this game wasn’t. It really wasn’t.
We were decent enough in that first-half and at the break I was quietly confident that my pre-game prediction of a Chelsea win would prevail. Kante was producing another 8/10 performance and while he is in the midfield, and Thiago Silva is in defence, we have a chance.
We lost our way a little at the start of the second-half, however, and while Bournemouth created a few chances, we slowed.
I turned to Gal : “Havertz always wants to take one touch too many, doesn’t he?”
This was a strange game now. There were patches of quality; we loved a magical twist out on the touchline from Madueke that made his marker look foolish. This had us all purring. But these were matched by moments of farce; an optimistic volley from Kante went high and so wide that the ball didn’t even leave the pitch.
The pro-Frank songs continued. However, on sixty-three minutes, he had us scratching our heads.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kante.
He was our best player. There was no midweek game to worry about. Was he carrying a knock?
Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.
Oh bloody hell, Raheem…you again?
In the away section, things were getting a little testy. A chant for Roman Abramovich was loud, and an undoubted reaction to the substitutions that seemed to exemplify the current, failing, regime. A chant about the current owner was more forthright.
“Boehly – you’re a cunt.”
There were punches exchanged between two Chelsea fans a few seats behind me.
Christie blasted over. A superb sliding tackle on Solanke by Silva inside the penalty area went to VAR, but there was no foul. Havertz took an extra touch as he broke in on goal from an angle and the moment was lost.
The game rumbled on, with the mood seeming to change inside the away section every few minutes. Ben Chilwell pulled up on the far side and we feared the worst. Dave replaced him. At the same time, Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.
The appearance of Hakeem didn’t thrill me, or many, with much joy, but he hugged the near touchline and looked to cause trouble with that tip-tapping style of his.
Vina was clean in on goal to my left, but Kepa made an absolutely brilliant shot, his arm outstretched, strong wrists, magnificent. A Ziyech cross found the head of Havertz, but the effort was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, a corner was headed back across the face of the goal but Dango Ouattara headed over from virtually underneath the bar.
At this stage, it seemed we had lost the momentum and that a Bournemouth goal would be the typical, obvious, sad conclusion.
“Why did I think we’d fucking win this?”
On eighty-two minutes, Sterling and Ziyech stood over the ball at a free-kick on the right hand side of their defensive third. Ziyech floated an in swinging curler towards the penalty spot. The cross had everything. It always looked like it might trouble the defence and ‘keeper. The trajectory, pace and dip were all to perfection. A few Chelsea players rose and the leg of my boy Badiashile flicked the ball past Neto.
The net rippled beautifully.
YES!
His joyous run and slide was lovely to see, his smile wide.
We were back in front.
Phew.
Another substitution, just after, Joao Felix for Havertz.
“How long to go, Gal?”
“Six minutes.”
“Let’s hang on.”
The Chelsea crowd were rocking now.
“We’re gonna have a party, when Arsenal fuck it up.”
On ninety minutes, a beautiful run by under-fire Sterling set up Felix who calmly slotted the ball low past Neto.
I screamed my joy at this one. The game was safe.
AFCB 1 CFC 3.
What a beautiful sight.
These were good times now at The Vitality.
“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”
One win doesn’t make a season, but this bugger was a long time coming. After six consecutive losses, at last three points for Chelsea, and for Frank.
After the game, the players walked over to reciprocate our applause for them. We were happy. They were grateful.
Back in the car, we realised that we had risen to eleventh place.
I made a very quick exit out, and dropped Salisbury Steve off on the way back. I was home by 7.30pm.
Easy.
Next up, two-time European Champions Chelsea take on two-time European Champions Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge.
Towards the end of my match report for the recent home game with Real Madrid, I mentioned a comment that Alan had made.
“Fans these days wouldn’t have coped losing 3-0 at Burnley in 1983.”
Let’s hop back forty years, eh?
The immediate aftermath of our 0-2 loss at home to Newcastle United was that a sit-in on the Stamford Bridge pitch involving three-hundred supporters had taken place. I only found out about this once I had returned home. With Charlton Athletic beating Oldham Athletic on the following day, Chelsea were plunged even deeper into the mire. We were fifth from bottom of the Second Division, but with just five points separating the bottom eleven teams, not including Burnley who were adrift right at the very bottom.
There were just five league games left.
Our next game? Burnley away. My thoughts before the game were surely along the lines of “if we can’t get at least a point there, we are in a mess.”
During the week, at a mate’s eighteenth birthday party, I missed an “open goal” chance to get back into Rachel’s affections, and on the Saturday I needed Chelsea to cheer me up. On St. George’s Day 1983, my spirits took a further hit.
We shipped three goals in front of 7,393 at Turf Moor, and we slipped unceremoniously into the relegation zone. Northern Ireland’s hero from the 1982 World Cup Billy Hamilton scored two and Terry Donovan nabbed the other.
My diary was all doom and gloom.
“The problem is that we have been playing so badly recently that I can’t see us beating anyone.”
Sound familiar?
To round off this look at events from forty years ago, Brentford spent 1982/83 in the Third Division, and on the same day that we lost at Burnley, the Bees won 7-1 at Exeter City in front of 2,759. During that season, three former Chelsea players made appearances for them; Graham Wilkins with twenty-eight games, Ron Harris with fourteen games and Peter Borota with three pre-season games. They finished that season in ninth place with an average gate of 6,184.
Ron Harris played all of his 871 games for just Chelsea and Brentford.
2023 is calling…
With no Chelsea match at the weekend, I took advantage of the gap in our schedule and drove down to Tavistock in deepest Devon for Frome Town’s last league game of the season. Despite an under-par season, a recent run of very fine performances had put the team with an outside chance of sneaking into the last remaining play-off spot. In an entertaining game, Frome lost 4-3 and thus our hopes of the play-offs were extinguished. So, my local team’s season is over. It was my busiest ever; eleven home games, nine away. I can’t say the football has been too enjoyable, but I absolutely adore the connection with my home town. Here’s to 2023/24.
It was another early shift for me on Wednesday 26 April before our local derby with Brentford. I was up at 4.45am, and I headed to London at 2.15pm. None of us in the car were optimistic for a Chelsea win. Remembering the 1-4 loss at home to Brentford just over a year previously, we all knew that this would be a tough fixture.
Irrespective of the short term and long term future of our club, I just wanted us to win for Frank. I remember the joy on his face when he took charge a few weeks ago, and just wanted us to get a win to take some of the heat off him.
I also wanted a win for my own sanity.
But as the kick-off time approached, I was not hopeful at all.
I was parked up at 4.30pm. PD, Parky and I popped into the Italian eatery next to The Goose again, then decamped into the pub to meet up with a few friends from afar. Pals from Jacksonville were in town – the returning Cindy, Jennifer and Brian plus the Chelsea virgin Mckenzie – and Johnny Twelve Teams was with a few mates from Los Angeles.
Pride of place, though, went to our friend John from Ohio – with his wife Nichole on a delayed honeymoon – who was visiting England for the first time since 2009. While John studied at Reading University for a few months, we took him under our wing. His first ever game at Stamford Bridge was sitting next to Lovejoy in the East Lower as Frank Lampard scored a last minute winner against Stoke City. Memorably, the recently departed Lovejoy slept through virtually the entire game, his predilection for red wine having a devastating effect.
We tried to work out how many games John attended back in 2009. Apart from Stoke, there were home games with Middlesbrough and Juventus plus an away game at Anfield. I last saw John in Ann Arbor for the Real Madrid friendly in 2016. It was a joy to see him again. I managed to get tickets for Nichole and John in the West Lower, the same ones used by two sets of Stateside friends already this season. I met a couple from Raleigh – Shel and Tiffany – for the first time and despite them sharing my loathing of the upcoming game against Wrexham in their home state, I completely forgave them for attending the game at Chapel Hill as the stadium is just fifteen minutes from their house. Fair play.
Clive was unable to attend this one, and I eventually managed to sell his season ticket to a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend.
Tomasz was originally from Lodz in Poland and now lives in West London, not far from Brentford in fact. In his home city, he supported Widzew Lodz but is known as “Chelsea” and I liked that. I quickly contacted my mate Jaro in Virginia, originally from near Warsaw. It quickly transpired that they shared a mutual friend.
Small world this football lark.
I knew that there would be gaps-a-plenty on this evening of mid-table football. I was inside at about 7.30pm and the Bridge was indeed taking a while to fill up. The team didn’t raise much of a smile.
Kepa
Fofana – Silva – Chalobah
Azplicueta – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell
Kante – Gallagher
Sterling
Or something like that.
If I was an expert on tactics and formations I would be able to rip this starting eleven to shreds, but I am a mere supporter so I won’t.
In the MHU, I was part of a flat four.
Chris – Tomasz – Alan – PD
The game began with tons of visible blue seats dotted around the stadium.
Brentford, in a rather fetching simple kit – unchanged from last season, top marks – began the brighter and made a few early forays into our defensive ranks. It took a long wait until the thirteenth minute for our first real attack of note. We broke well, and Ben Chilwell found himself in a high position on our left, and I had spotted Raheem Sterling intelligently peeling away from his marker into space at the far post. Alas, the cross to him was poor and a defender cleared.
On nineteen minutes, with N’Golo Kante playing in a very forward position, he lost his man with a beautiful feint. It was almost Hazard-esque, a beautiful dip and shimmy. Soon after a shot from the same man was deflected over. His play would be the highlight of a pretty dire first-half.
A Thiago Silva header was easily saved by David Raya.
Midway through that pedestrian first period, Chilwell took two similar corners down in Parkyville. They both failed to clear the first man. With each one, the groans of disbelief were fully audible.
“Our corners have no zip, no curve, no dip, no pace.”
They just flop into the six-yard box.
I spoke to Budgie in the row in front :
“I am no golfer but they remind me of when a ball ends up in the rough and a golfer just chips it out safely back onto the fairway.”
Fackinell.
On the half-hour mark, a good move involving a burst from Kante found Enzo in an advanced position but his curler was saved by Raya and it went over for a corner. There were ironic cheers when Chilwell, on more corner duties, managed to get the ball into the six-yard box.
A Sterling curler went high and wide. Soon after the same player just couldn’t reach an early free-kick zipped in by Enzo.
I spotted that Frank was sitting on the bench, instead of cajoling his troops from a standing position. This saddened me. This wasn’t going the way that many of us had hoped. At the time of Frank’s rehiring, there was a split among our support about the decision; from memory there were more for than against.
On thirty-six minutes, a rare Brentford attack resulted in a corner down below me. Sadly, my camera caught the moment that the ball was lofted in, with a melee of players jumping. This seemed to be in slow motion. The ball hit Dave’s thigh and flew past Kepa.
Chelsea 0 Brentford 1.
Our confidence was hit. The otherwise impressive Kante, the one positive, wildly over hit a cross from the right and the crowd experienced an “et tu Brute?”
The Brentford fans had changed their previous anthem about Fulham to a new one…
“Chelsea get battered everywhere they go.”
Next, a cross from Dave was over hit.
There were a few unappetising and lazy shots from us from distance.
Then a first. With half-time approaching, Albert, sitting in the row in front, pointed out to me that the bloke next to him was watching the Manchester City vs. Arsenal game on his mobile ‘phone.
Fuck sake.
There were boos at the half-time whistle.
Ugh…that’s not for me.
There was a quick chat with JD at the break :
“Pochettino? We will be lucky to entice anyone to this shit show right now.”
There were changes at the start of the second-half.
Off : Conor and Dave.
On : Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang and Mykhailo Mudryk.
It eventually dawned on me that we had shape-shifted to a 4/3/3.
Aubameyang has been a bust at Chelsea, for whatever reason, but for those first opening moments of the new half, it felt good to have a presence, a target, loitering around up front. The crowd reacted nicely to an upturn in our performance. Even Sterling seemed to be more energised, more active, though an upgrade on his first-half showing would not have been difficult to achieve.
A Chalobah cross eventually found Kante, but his shot was another wasteful one, zipping well wide of the far post.
Eight minutes into the second-half, a neat Aubameyang twist and turn but a shot straight at the Brentford ‘keeper. Just after, a fine pass from Thiago Silva found Sterling at the far post. His header found the leap of Aubameyang but his header from close in, under pressure from Raya, was always ending up above the bar.
“Carefree” boomed resiliently out from the Matthew Harding. I was grateful for this as I always am. Too many times we sit in silence. The bloke in front had put his mobile ‘phone away too.
On fifty-eight minutes, a free-kick from Mudryk was glanced wide by Silva. The Ukrainian was showing signs of promise and positive intent even though it appeared that his shoe-laces were tied together; very often his first-touch was wayward and he needed to work hard to keep possession. That fine debut at Anfield seems distant, eh?
A decent pass through the middle found Aubameyang but his shot was ridiculously weak. At that exact moment in time he looked the player that our managers had witnessed, presumably, at Cobham for so long this season.
On seventy-one minutes, a break down Brentford’s left was thwarted by a sliding tackle from Sterling who had tracked back – hold the back page – and he was roundly applauded for it.
The game continued but time was running out. Kante had tired from his fine show in the first-half. Enzo was having a quiet one; one of his worst in Chelsea blue.
Alas, on seventy-seven minutes, camera ready, I photographed the substitute Bryan Mbeumo and Mads Roerslev running unhindered down our left-flank. I had spotted two Brentford players free at the back post, but Mbeumo had no intention to pass. He cut inside – “butter, meet hot knife” – and slammed the ball high past Kepa. I saw it clearly. It was a hot knife to my heart. It was, unbelievably, the visitors’ only shot on goal during the entire game.
Fackinell.
More spectators left.
More substitutions.
Noni Madueke for Sterling.
Joao Felix for Enzo.
A wild errant pass from Kovacic caused the mass tipping of seats and an even greater exodus.
Brentford : “Frankie Lampard we want you to stay.”
Chelsea : “Frankie Lampard, he’s won more than you.”
The game drifted away, as did more and more of the support.
In a tale of two Franks, the Brentford manager had prevailed. This was a game that we clearly should have won. Yet again, we lack someone to finish. It hurts writing this every bloody week.
Stoney-faced, I sloped out and met up with a few of the overseas visitors at the Peter Osgood statue. I apologised to Nichole and John for such a rotten performance. The days of Frank Lampard as a player – so memorable for John – seem so distant. John was pragmatic though.
“Nah, it was all about seeing you and Parky.”
Bless.
I met up with the Jacksonville group and the couple from North Carolina. We didn’t know quite what to say about the performance.
But plenty did.
There was much wailing.
It dawned on me that a sizeable amount of our core support seems to have seamlessly morphed from level-headed types who acknowledged our rather underwhelming trophy haul in our first one hundred years and revelled in the joy of each new trophy into consistently annoyed individuals who demand continuous improvement.
That’s quite an achievement.
I was one of the thousands that has experienced a less successful time in our history, personified by this season long look at 1982/83, and I am eternally grateful for the perspective that this have given me in these relatively troubled times. However, many other teams – too many to mention, in fact most other teams – have experienced much less than us since 1983, certainly since 1997. That’s not to say all of these defeats don’t hurt.
And they hurt in 1983 too.
There will be lean spells. It’s only natural. This season is the worst since many a year. Alas there is no quick fix here. We need to get to the end of this season – unbelievably there is still another month of it left – and then the owners need to act. Or maybe before. There are rumours that Mauricio Pochettino is on the cusp of signing.
Our next game is at Arsenal and it is sadly likely that I will be writing a similar rallying-cry at the end of that match report too.
In order to get everybody up to Chelsea in good time, I needed to work another early shift. The alarm was set for 4.30am. This would be another long day following The Great Unpredictables
It’s odd the things that go through people’s minds first thing in the morning, eh? I had barely been fully awake a minute or two, but as I started to clean my teeth, my mind was already focussed on the game with Real Madrid. And, for the first time ever – probably – I pondered the “Real” part of their name. Well, it means “royal” right? I quickly came up with a buzz-phrase for the evening’s entertainment.
The Royal Blue of London versus the White of Royal Madrid.
And I was on my way. Off to work, an eight-hour shift, then a meet up with PD, Parky and Ron at just after 2pm, with thoughts of the game haunting our immediate future.
I just hoped that we wouldn’t get royally fucked.
I dropped Ron off at the bottom end of the North End Road so he could join Gary Chivers, Johnny Bumstead, Colin Pates, Kerry Dixon, Paul Canoville and David Lee in their corporate pre-match entertaining. The remaining three of us parked up and made a bee-line for “Norbros Pizzeria” – shite name, great food – which I use occasionally before mid-week games. I had booked a table for five o’clock but we were there early.
We hadn’t talked much about the imminent game. Why would we? Did anyone think we could turn it around? Not me. Not PD. Not Parky. In fact, to be brutally frank, I have rarely looked forward to a second leg at Stamford Bridge less. With our rapidly diminishing chances of partaking in UEFA competition – of any nature, even the rightly ridiculed Europa Conference – in 2023/24, this night of exotic European football seemed like it would be the last for some time.
With this in mind, I quickly termed our meal in deepest Fulham as “the last supper.”
The food was fine though; bruschetta and prawns, rice balls, chicken and mushrooms, spaghetti Bolognese and a pizza. They all managed to hit the spot, several in fact.
We popped into “The Goose” and bumped into a few faces from near and far. We then skipped down to “Simmons” to see others. The mood in both pubs was pretty sombre.
Inside the stadium, flags had been left by each seat and I knew that not many would be taking up the chance to “flag-wave” in our section. It seemed old hat in 2007, let alone now. Let the tourists in the Shed Lower and the West Lower do all that.
I briefly spoke to Oxford Frank.
“We will know we are in a bad way if Eden Hazard comes on to play during the second-half…”
The team that Frank chose didn’t seem to inspire many and I found it odd that Conor was our man supporting Kai. The midfield was certainly packed though. We had quality in some areas, not others.
If a curate’s egg was a football team…
Kepa
Chalobah – Silva – Fofana
James – Kante – Enzo – Kovavic – Cucarella
Gallagher – Havertz
An unpalatable part of the pre-game smorgasbord of images and sounds that UEFA foist upon us these days is a short segment of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Sod that.
This felt like a Champions League evening but only just. There was not the sense of occasion that was present in the air last season. And this is what the morons who were looking to foist a “closed shop” / US style Super League on us in 2021 always fail to recognise; that familiarity can breed boredom, even at the top table. For starters, there were clearly less Madridistas in The Shed than last season, down to 1,500 from 2,000 from memory. I guess Chelsea had been “ticked off” last season and the thrill of a “new ground” was not so big. However, I am sure that there were many Spaniards – and other nationalities too, my immediate boss is a Real Madrid fan from Latvia – dotted around the home areas. PD had arrived in the seats earlier than me and he commented that when the Madrid team took to the pitch for pre-match drills, a noticeable buzz came out of the Matthew Harding.
Sod that too.
We attacked the Matthew Harding in the first-half, never my preferred option. As the game got underway, it was a joy to be part of a noisier than usual crowd inside the stadium.
It was a lively start from both teams, but there was an early concern when Vinicius Junior showed Reece James the ball, then easily side-stepped him in a move of blinding speed and execution. Thankfully the cross did not hurt us. He looked a major threat in Madrid so we prayed that Reece could stay closer to him throughout this game.
Soon – almost too soon, “give the bloke a break” I chuckled to myself – the MHL were on to the visiting goalkeeper. However, Thibaut didn’t seem too bothered by the name calling.
On ten minutes, Alan opened up his packet of “lucky Maynard’s” and we chewed away. I felt like saying we might need several packets.
Soon after, a cross from James was half-cleared and the ball fell invitingly to N’Golo Kante, who rather stabbed at it and the ball bounced down and wide of Thibaut Courtois’ post. We groaned. But Stamford Bridge remained noisy. Despite a persistent cough and a thick head, I was bellowing away with the best of them.
“I’ll regret this in the morning…”
Our corners were mainly shite, though eh? One down below us from James got us all howling.
The noise kept up.
“Super Super Frank, Super Frankie Lampard.”
On twenty minutes, we gave them too much space, allowing Dani Carvajal to pass to Rodrygo who slammed a fierce shot against a post.
More song.
“Oh Tiago Silva.”
We continued to create half chances, and I was pleased with our application and drive. However, a terrible Enzo free-kick had us all wailing again. Thiago Silva then prodded a lob almost apologetically at Courtois.
We were half-way through the first-half.
“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC…”
There was a worrying burst from Vinicius but his shot was saved. Kepa then thwarted a shot from Luca Modric at his near post. I was relatively happy with our general play and the way that the noise kept up. Even Marc Cucarella was half-decent. I whispered to Clive :
“We are playing OK but this is our limit.”
With the end of the first-half approaching, Conor Gallagher made a fine run between two defenders but Enzo – new hair colour, new pink boots – over hit the ball.
On forty-two minutes, a lightning break caught us out but Karim Benzema, rather quiet thus far, overstretched and missed.
Right on half-time, a James cross found Cucarella at the far post. He took a touch, allowing Courtois to readjust. His powerful shot was miraculously saved by our former player. I turned away from the action in disgust.
Fackinell.
At the start of the game, we needed to score two goals – the bare minimum – in ninety minutes. We now needed to score two in forty-five minutes. I wasn’t hopeful. Was anyone?
There was applause for Antonio Rudiger, replacing David Alaba, at the start of the second-half. The game began again and it was a lively few minutes. I was frustrated to see Kai Havertz often appearing on the right when he was needed further inside. However, six minutes into the re-start, his fine cross caused panic in the Madrid box. It was headed out and Gallagher headed it back, but Kante’s shot was blocked by Eder Militao.
Another terrible free-kick from Reece got us all venting.
A roller from Enzo went wide.
We had a good little spell.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
A low shot from Havertz was easily saved. Oh for a cutting edge.
Then, on fifty-eight minutes, a lightning break and a failed Trevoh Chalobah slide to rob the breaking Rodrygo. He advanced and reached the goal-line before playing the ball in. Benzema fell over himself, but Vinicius was able to play the ball back to Rodrygo who had continued his run. He slotted it in easily.
We were down 0-3.
Bollocks. This was particularly annoying as we had seemed invigorated.
The half-chances continued.
A grass cutter from Gallagher at Courtois. A shot from Enzo at him again.
OH FOR A FUCKING CUTTING EDGE.
On sixty-five minutes, Real waltzed into our box but a weak shot from Benzema was easily saved. Their striker was having a quiet game.
Soon after, a plethora of substitutions.
Raheem Sterling for Enzo.
Joao Felix for Gallagher.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Cucarella.
I tried to work out who was playing where. It was a mite confused. A shot from James was blocked and we then admired a nice shimmy from Mudryk, but he skied it.
The Madrid fans were not the noisiest that have ever appeared at Stamford Bridge. Using my telephoto lens to zoom in on them all, they hardly looked the most intimidating bunch of individuals.
Despite being 0-3 down on aggregate, I loved it that virtually nobody in the home sections had left.
Proper Chelsea.
Mason Mount for Havertz.
Right after, a way-too-easy advance from Vinicius down below me resulted in a pull back towards that man Rodrygo who pushed the ball home easily.
We were down 0-4.
Now people left.
Improper Chelsea.
Alan mentioned how spoilt we have become and dropped in a reference from forty-years ago into the mix.
“Fans these days wouldn’t have coped losing 3-0 at Burnley in 1983.”
More of that later.
Our task was always going to be a supremely tough one. We had not been humiliated. To be truthful, it certainly appeared that Real had not moved out of second gear over the two legs. He is a wily old fox, that Carlo Ancelotti.
On ninety minutes, the home support still sang.
“We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.”
I took a photo of virtually the last kick of the game and shared it on Facebook.
“Over and out.”
So, 1983.
On Saturday 16 April 1983, I travelled up by National Express bus from Bath to Victoria Bus Station for the home game against Newcastle United. This would be my fourth and final game of this particular season. Amid the worry of the upcoming “A Level” exams, the day ought to have been a relaxing side-show…
Going in to the game, Chelsea were in fifteenth place, six places behind the visitors. With Kevin Keegan revitalising Newcastle, their league campaign had not lived up to the pre-season expectation. At the top of the table, QPR, Wolves and Fulham were in the three automatic places. I had hoped for a gate of 15,000 but fully expected one of around 12,000 to assemble at Stamford Bridge.
My diary tells me that – presumably to save money – I walked to and from Stamford Bridge, along the Kings Road, full of shoppers and punks. It was a lovely sunny day.
The team lined up as below –
Iles
Jones – Droy – Pates – Hutchings
Rhoades-Brown – Bumstead – Fillery – Canoville
Speedie – Lee
The visitors included some decent players; alongside Keegan were Imre Varadi, Terry McDermott, David McCreery and Chris Waddle. During the game, Keith Jones – yes, him – replaced Paul Canoville.
I remember that I wore the 1981 to 1983 replica shirt to the match.
“We started OK but when Keegan scored a penalty, it knocked the stuffing out of us. Mike Fillery was unrecognisable. Colin Lee played quite well. Keegan was the best player on the pitch; he was a bundle of energy. Newcastle played the more controlled football but we had more possession.”
After Keegan scored a first-half penalty at The Shed, Varadi made it two-nil to the visitors in the second-half. By then, the mood had deteriorated, with calls for John Neal’s resignation being heard in The Shed. One chap in front of me kept singing :
“Eddie McCreadie’s Blue & White Army.”
I also heard “One Man Went To Mow” at a game for the very first time.
At the game, I kept with my guess of 12,000. There were quite a few visitors – two pens from memory – and the East Lower was quite full, but The Shed not particularly. The actual gate was 13,466.
In the programme there was a letter from one of our greatest-ever supporters Ron Hockings, whose attendance at the Fulham away game had marked his 1,400th Chelsea game. He had seen 877 at home and 523 away. I can only imagine the awe that I must have had for such numbers as a seventeen-year-old Chelsea fan in Somerset.
Back at Victoria, the place was swarming with Brighton fans after their 2-1 win against Sheffield Wednesday at Highbury in their FA Cup semi-final. In the other semi, Manchester United had defeated Arsenal by the same score at Villa Park. Chelsea seemed well and truly down the pecking order. We could only dream of FA Cup semi-finals; our next one would still be eleven years away. On the coach trip home, I was of course pretty depressed about the state of our club. The Third Division was definitely beckoning. I was at a low ebb.
Next up – in 1983, that game at Burnley, in 2023 a home game against Brentford.
CHELSEA/esque 