Sunderland vs. Chelsea : 24 May 2026.

“World champions but.”

I wonder if this colloquial phrase was used by any natives of the North-East as Chelsea’s visit to the Stadium of Light neared. With both teams seeking a win to finish the season on a high, and a potential Europa League place in 2026/27, I wonder if a Sunderland supporter dismissed our chances of a win against the Black Cats, only to be reprimanded by a friend who, looking at the undoubted talent in our team, and the events of last July, piped-up to remind them that Chelsea are, indeed, World Champions.

“Chelsea are rubbish, man.”

“Hadaway, they are World Champions but.”

This momentous weekend had started early. I just about managed to finish off the Tottenham blog on Thursday evening before grabbing a modicum of sleep. I was up at 3.30am and picked up Salisbury Steve at PD’s house in Frome at 5am. This was to be a bank holiday weekend, and I needed to avoid any traffic hold-ups.

I drove out to Beckington to take the A36 to Bath and then the road north and soon saw some bloody magpies, again, at the bottom of Bonnyleigh Hill. This obsession was getting silly.

Two magpies, though.

Obviously, I looked on this as a token of good luck.

We then had a little in-car discussion about black cats and debated whether it was good or bad luck for black cats to cross your path. I always thought that they were bad luck. I had always presumed that this nickname evolved when Sunderland moved out of Roker Park and needed to discard their “Roker Men” moniker and chose “Black Cats” as a new nickname, since the team would bring bad luck on other teams. However, it all seemed too contrived for my liking.

Anyway, we would be venturing into the land of Newcastle magpies and Sunderland black cats, and it would hopefully be a weekend to relax with mates, and to unwind a little. This has been a struggle of a season.

For the first few hours, The Chuckle Bus was awash with laughs and giggles, stories and tales, but everything then settled down. The passengers occasionally drifted off. I drove on.

Rather than the usual and monotonous drive up the M1 and A1, I fancied a change and hoped PD and Steve would too; I stayed on the M5 and then hit the M6 all the way to Carlisle. This enabled me to stop off at Tebay, my favourite services in the UK, where I indulged in a full breakfast that gloriously included haggis, black pudding and bubble. The scenery was indeed spectacular with the mountains of the Lake District visible to the west.

Then, the A69 east and into Newcastle, where the three of us were staying at a house that was close to St. James’ Park. On the drive in, we stopped at “The Denton” and then “The Fox & Hounds” to soak up the time until the digs’ check-in time of 2pm was reached.

After a quick change and freshen up, we embarked on a six-pub tour of Gateshead, mirroring the smaller crawl that we did just over a year ago.

“The Lock & Quay” on the river with amazing views of the bridges, but also a boorish rugby team from Bristol on tour.

“Axis” in the railway quarter at the top of the hill, and we just about coped with some difficult craft lagers.

“Microbar” close by, a return visit, and a lovely chat with Alan, a Gateshead supporter who had flown down to Bristol to see “The Heed’s” game at Yeovil over the winter.

“Station East”, another return visit, and we spent some time here, where we met two young Sunderland supporters, Kai and Rachel, and listened to a seventy-seven-year-old musician belt out some cracking songs. We were joined at this pub by Dave who is a regular at virtually all Chelsea games and has not missed a home game since 1994.

Kai told us a true shaggy dog story about a friend who raced greyhounds. This dog was a flier and showed great promise. Before its first race, though, the nefarious owner wanted to play tricks. So, he fed the dog Mars bars, which the dog lapped up, to dampen its speed so that the odds would drift for a second race.

This trick didn’t work.

It won.

The owner was confused but obviously pleased that the dog performed so well despite being penalized. So, they let the dog eat normal food, put lots of money on it, but it finished last.

So, they were confused what to do.

In the third race, out came the Mars bars, and the dog won again.

By now, the dog had earned the nickname “The Mars Bar Kid” and although Kai’s story continued, by now we were howling so much that we weren’t paying much attention.

“Another Budvar please, barman.”

Both youngsters were in their mid-twenties and so had not seen Sunderland play in Europe. Kai virtually pleaded with me to let Sunderland win on the Sunday. It’s hard to believe that a club with the magnitude of Sunderland had only previously enjoyed one season in Europe as a reward for their 1-0 FA Cup win in 1973 against Leeds United.

I was digging in though; I have never wanted to see Chelsea lose a game, and I wasn’t going to start here. I was looking for a win on Sunday, no doubts. There was talk of us having a year off from Europe to re-set and refresh, but so many of us love the European away trips.

“The Central” was close by, another return visit, and this time we made it to the rooftop terrace. Alas the view was not of the river and Newcastle, but of the rail tracks and Gateshead.

“The Grey Nag’s Head” was our final call, another return visit from last year, and I cannot deny nor confirm that a rendition of “Rotterdam (Or Anywhere)” by a female pub singer was hijacked by the four of us.

It had been a splendid night.

On the Saturday morning, we rested well.

But there were old friends to meet, and hopefully new places to hit.

At about 2pm, the three of us started off at “The Slug & Lettuce” on the quayside, a favourite for many years, and we had a bite to eat, our first food since Tebay. Here we were joined by Jimmy the Greek, Ian and Ian’s son Bobby.  

After a few hours, we made our way to “The Bridge Tavern” which sits right under the span of the Tyne Bridge. We had not visited this one for a few years. It was here that Jimmy spoke about his one game for England schoolboys. We really liked this pub, dark and quiet. However, our peace would not last too long; we were joined at our table by a bevy of local Geordie women on a sixtieth birthday pub crawl.

Then, next door to “Akenside Traders”, a very familiar bar in the epicentre of the quayside, but it was surprisingly quiet for a change. By now our entourage was roaring with laughter virtually every time one of us spoke. Good times.

Next, over the road to “The Crown Posada” at around 7.30pm, the evening racing on. This is a classic Tyneside bar, narrow but with a high ceiling, leather seats and gorgeous stained-glass windows. We were joined here by Karl, originally from London, but now living on Tyneside. His local was the first bar we frequented on the Friday, out in the west of the city.

At around 8pm, we walked a few yards up the hill to “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, a big favourite and packed with locals and visitors alike. Here, the final two friends joined us. Johnny Twelve and Jenny Dozen flew in from California and soon entered the spirit of the night. This was Jenny’s first visit to the Loony Toon. As I posted on Facebook –

‘Seeing my mates sing along to “Dancing Queen” takes my love for them to another level. Howay.’

We decided to hit one last location before calling it a night and caught an Uber up the steep hill to “Stack” on Pilgrim Street. This cavernous bar was a perfect location for us to continue drinking and singing to one dodgy song after the other.

At about midnight, we called it a night, and we made our way back to our respective residences.

The last matchday of season 2025/26 soon arrived.

The six of us hurriedly met up at “The Beehive” on the Bigg Market in Newcastle at around 11.30am. Thankfully I was nursing only the slightest of hangovers and was able to slowly drink a pint of “Cruzcampo” but I knew that this would not be a day of excess.

There had been two consecutive days and nights “on the ale” in Gateshead and Newcastle on Friday and Saturday, and with a long drive home for me on the Monday, Sunday was all about seeing out the football season without too much alcohol. In fact, that tasty pint in “The Beehive” would be my only drink that day, save for a couple of “Diet Cokes” that don’t really count.

We took a train from Newcastle Central but we didn’t land in Sunderland until around 1.30pm. As we headed up Fawcett Street, I heard a familiar voice.

“We must stop meeting like this.”

It was Stuart, from Kilmersdon, the village so close to my village of Mells in Somerset. I had bumped into him outside Anfield, and at Fulham Broadway, in the past few weeks. And here he was again. We looked up and saw some other friends at a table outside a cheap and cheerful café. If this was Sunderland’s pavement society, then so be it. We said “hello” to Maureen, Gerry, Paul and Scott, took a quick look at the menus, and decided to head inside for a bite to eat.

On our last visit to Sunderland on a cold midweek night in December 2016, we had found a lovely pub near the city centre called “The Dun Cow” where we spent many hours among friends. The intention always was to visit this lovely Victorian establishment on this trip, the last game of the 2025/26 season, before heading over the new Keel Crossing, a pedestrianised bridge that traverses the River Wear. It was to be a little combination of both old and new.

Sadly, we ran out of time to do either.

“The Dun Cow” would have to wait until next season.

“Wendy’s Place” was our new base camp.

This would be my fifth visit to the Stadium of Light. Sadly, I never made it to Roker Park; a fact that saddens me.

The first match was in December 1999 when a Kevin Phillips hat-trick helped defeat us 1-4. Then, another “last game of the season” match in May 2009 when we won 3-2. This was an important match for me since it represented the first time in my life that I had attended all thirty-eight league games. In May 2016, ironically after the “Battle of Stamford Bridge” game with Tottenham the previous midweek, just like on this occasion, but we lost 2-3. Then, in December 2016, under Antonio Conte, a narrow 1-0 win and when a stupendous save from Thibaut Courtois extended our run of wins.

I wolfed down some brunch at “Wendy’s Place” and we then stepped out into the sunshine. The Stadium of Light was only a fifteen-minute walk away. We spotted the dark blue slither of the North Sea just a short distance to the east. The former site of Roker Park was close by.

A kind local took a team photo.

We strode over the green Wearmouth Bridge, and the Keel Bridge looked impressive to our left.

Both Ian and I spotted the very stylised “Welcome to Sunderland” signage on the south stand. As far as I could remember, this is a new feature, and the font reminded me of the typeface used on the cover of ‘sixties football programmes. I liked it a lot.

I took a few photos, then clasped my pub camera in my palm, hiding it from the steward, and was in at 3.15pm. The flights of stairs almost wiped me out, but I made it to the top tier intact. My seat was in the second row, and I slumped in my seat. For some reason, it felt like the toils of a long season had left me low on energy. I usually stand at away games, but on this occasion, I knew I would be watching from a seated position.

I soon spotted that the Chelsea players were oddly doing their pre-match shuttles at the other end of the stadium. Had they had enough of us? Were they hiding from potential scorn?

For this very last match of the season, Calum McFarlane chose this team, and I again spent the opening minutes attempting to ascertain the formation. The word in the top tier was of three at the back.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – Caicedo – Fernandez – Cucurella

Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Before the entrance of the teams, not many seats in the Chelsea section were unused, and this pleased me. Red and white mosaics were held up, and in the single-tiered stand to my left, a couple of cats’ eyes peeked through a sea of black mosaics. A variety of songs were played through the PA that included “I can’t help falling in love with you” by Elvis Presley and the place erupted.

“Wise man say…”

“Dance of the nights” by Sergei Prokofiev also got an airing. It was stirring stuff. The place was rocking. European football was up for grabs, and the locals were infected by a fever.

The game kicked off with us in blue / blue / white attacking the other end. I moved down a row to sit in the front next to Lance and was happy I could sit.

“Must be getting old.”

Lance was impressed with the tumultuous noise.

“Imagine if Stamford Bridge was like this each game”

I was happy that I had correctly identified the formation, although in the first portion of the game, Gusto appeared to move inside to give solidity to the midfield.

There was noise from our section, but I was feeling adrift and found it hard to get motivated to sing too. This annoyed me.

Cole Palmer was set up by Pedro Neto, but his slow drive was easily saved. The home team came at us, and a feature of the first fifteen minutes was a succession of long throw-ins aimed at our six-yard box from the Sunderland left. By hook or by crook, we survived each ball that was launched, despite knock-ons and bobbles, and limbs stretched at awkward angles. A couple of shots flew at the Chelsea goal. Robert Sanchez saved one after a rapid break up our left flank, Enzo blocked the other. On sixteen minutes, there was a Marc Cucurella error near his touchline, but Levi Colwill reacted quickly, covered and booted the ball away for a corner.

Just after, a low ball fizzed around our box but Sunderland were just unable to get a touch.

Phew.

Nilson Angulo, whoever he is, let fly with a rasper from outside the box. The home team were on top, and Chelsea weren’t in it.

On twenty-five minutes, with the Chelsea support quietening, the ball reached Trai Hume after a long punt and a headed knock-on. The Sunderland player calmly despatched a fine strike low into the corner of Sanchez’ goal using the outside of his boot. This goal came as no real surprise. I stared sternly at the floor for ages, not wanting to look up and see the Sunderland players celebrating nor the home fans going doo lally.

There was a VAR check for offside, but the goal stood.

Sunderland still pushed on, and we looked so tired and anaemic in possession. It honestly looked like we were the first professional team in the world to practice walking football in a normal game.

“Move for each other!”

The teams traded a couple of late chances – a Joao Pedro header drifted limply wide – and at the break I barked out “disappointing Chelsea.”

And it had been deeply disappointing.

To make matters worse, we heard that Tottenham were 1-0 up at home to Everton.

Fackinell.

Sunderland started the second half with a frenzy of attacking intent; they were on fire. Brian Brobbey, who had been their main threat, slammed a shot at goal but the outstretched leg of Sanchez came to our rescue as it often has this season.  However, in the very next attack the ball was played in from Enzo Le Fee to Brobbey, whose mishit shot across the face of the goal found the unfortunate Gusto, whose wild swipe resulted in the ball crashing unceremoniously into the goal.

We were 0-2 down and our hopes of European football were looking so slim.

McFarlane’s response was to replace Hato with Reece James and to move the troops into a more familiar “four at the back” shape.

On fifty-six minutes, bizarrely, we were back in it. Neto shimmied and poked the ball square to Palmer, some twenty-five yards out, and our talisman took aim with a low strike. To my complete surprise, and everyone else’s no doubt, the ball crept in at the near post after the ‘keeper Robin Roefs could only divert the ball in.

My reaction surprised me too. There was no half-hearted cheer here; my guttural roar was full-blooded and – call me silly – I was happy that this was my reaction. I loved that after 1,557 Chelsea games, in a tiring end-of-season match, a simple goal could illicit this response from me.

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Was the comeback on? We all hoped so.

Well, Chelsea being Chelsea, sadly the self-destruct button is never too far away. I have to be honest; I did not clearly see the foul by Wesley Fofana on Wilson Isidor on sixty-two minutes. But this was a second yellow on the day, so off he went, to much barracking from the travelling Chelsea support. It is clearly that of all of Chelsea’s current players, Fofana is one of the least liked for footballing and non-footballing reasons.

While McFarlane restructured things by bringing on Trevoh Chalobah for Neto, I immediately thought back to that game at the same venue ten years ago in May 2016 – the last but one away match of that season – and how John Terry was sent off in the second half of that game.

Against a backdrop of negative noise from the Chelsea support – boos, swearing, catcalls, abuse – bizarrely we seemed to play a tad better with just ten men.

But the level of vitriol annoyed me at best and disgusted me at worse. Everyone has been frustrated with our “levels” this season, but I had to wonder if some within our support enjoy abusing players more than they do supporting them.

Within a few yards of where I sat, I heard venomous abuse at individual players from one side of me, while on the other a hyperventilating supporter dished out “you fucking cunt” on many occasions to one player, while standing alongside his daughter who could have been no more than nine.

This stirred up some hideous reactions inside me; sometimes my fellow supporters just make me feel like giving all of this up.

To repeat, for the millionth time :

“Managers manage. Players play. Supporters support.”

Good times and bad.

I am not sure if we picked on individual players in that lacklustre season of 2015/16, but I suspect not. In fairness, we were league champions the previous year and I think reputations of players were respected. But that was a shocking season too. There was certainly a memory of the phrase of players “downing tools” under Jose Mourinho in the depths of that winter, and it seems that phrase is uttered with annoying regularity these days too.

This day at Sunderland came on the back of the altercations I had with fellow fans at Everton and at a recent home game too. It’s been a sobering and sombre period.

Out on the pitch, there was a mesmerizing balletic turn from Palmer, who I thought never stopped trying, and an equally beguiling run deep into the Sunderland box. Alas, a cross was blocked.

On eighty-five minutes, two substitutions were made.

Liam Delap for Moises Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Malo Gusto.

Two minutes after, the two substitutes combined as Acheampong set up Delap, but the shot was blocked. Then, deep into extra-time, fine hold-up play from the much-maligned Delap, but after doing the hard part, once he turned to pass back to a teammate, he could only find a Sunderland player.

Ugh.

There was a massive ten minutes of injury time, but despite a few attacks at the goal down below, I was not confident of us obtaining a probably undeserved equaliser.

I had commented to Lance that it felt like the season had finished on Tuesday night against Tottenham.

And perhaps it had.

This was a tired performance from us, and – I hate to say it – a tired performance from me too. There were shouts from me but not with the same regularity as at most away games. Maybe the season had finally taken its toll.

With the final whistle close, I spotted Ian and Bobby heading for the exit. I thought it wise to follow them. I felt guilty about leaving before the end of a game but as I reached the concourse, the final whistle blew.

There would be no UEFA competition for us next season.

We all met up outside, and with the moon visible high in the sky way above the stadium, we caught the train back to Newcastle while the locals – the Wearsiders, the Mackems, the Roker Men, the Black Cats, whatever they call themselves – celebrated the win and a cherished European place.

There was a final pint in “The Mile Castle” near the main train station and it took our total to sixteen pubs in the three days. I have to say that the nights out on Friday and Saturday were too of the funniest, and most joyous, and most relaxing back-to-back nights I can remember.

We met up with a few more faces. On the drive up on Friday, I had mentioned to the lads if a friend of ours – Nick – had the record of seeing Chelsea Football Club more times than anyone else in history. He has been a regular since the early ‘fifties. Luckily, we bumped into him and his son Robbie in this pub, so I was able to ask him his thoughts on this. He wasn’t so sure. He said he missed a fair few in the ‘eighties and mentioned a few others that might well hold the record, the late Ron Hockings being one of them. Our mutual friend Allie was around 90 games shy of Nick’s current total of around 2,500. Of course, Cathy must be in contention too.

On a personal note, I was happy to record my fourth straight season of not missing a single Chelsea league game; 152/152.

My total number of matches attended this season was down on last season, however, when I reached the never to be beaten 100. This season I have seen Chelsea 52 times and Frome Town 23 times; a total of 75.

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

Talking of which, a word of heartfelt thanks to the many friends and acquaintances who continue to dip into this blog and keep the numbers relatively healthy. Although total views are down on 2025, I have already witnessed 13,538 visitors in the first five months of this year compared to 24,129 in the whole of last year.

This of labour love costs me around £300 per year to keep it going, but I see no reason why I can’t keep adding to the current total of over 2.25 million words. It’s only the equivalent of a pint each week.

More numbers.

I often heard that 2025/26 was our worst season in recent memory, but these numbers would suggest not.

CHELSEA 2015/16

Won 12

Drew 14

Lost 12

50 Points.

CHELSEA 2025/26

Won 14

Drew 10

Lost 14

52 Points.

But it has been a mad season, eh? It has tested many of us, but many of us still find it hard to stop going.

I think it could easily be summed up by this simple phrase.

“World champions, but.”

Right, I am off to buy some Mars bars in case Xabi Alonso’s new team needs an added kick.

See you in August.