Tales From A Lukewarm Start On A Hot Summer Day

Posted on August 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 17 August 2025.

Just five weeks had elapsed since the mightiest of endings to season 2024/25 in New Jersey, and now we were facing the first league game of the new campaign.

Fate had dealt us a relatively kind hand with our first four league fixtures set to take place in London. After our extensive travels and travails of the previous season, perhaps this is just what we all needed; the chance to ease ourselves back into everything.

That these four league games would still entail a total of around nine hundred miles of travel for me is hardly important. I am used to these numbers by now. Last season, though, surely set a personal record. It encompassed a perfect century of live football games, from Rio de Janeiro to Almaty and all places in between, from Newcastle to Wroclaw, from Merthyr Tydfil to Ipswich, from Liverpool to Gosport. The international segment of this amounted to 34,000 miles alone. Add in 10,500 domestic miles with Chelsea and around 2,500 with Frome Town and it all equated to around 47,000 miles.

Fackinell.

After returning from the USA, I did my best to try to relax, although if I am honest the two match reports of the games against Fluminense and Paris St. Germain hung over me like the sword of Damocles for way too long. Eventually, I managed to complete them both, and I was rewarded with my highest ever monthly viewing total; 12,000 in August thus far.

It looks like my 2024 total of 54,000 will be smashed, and I thank every one of you for this patronage. It does, believe me, make all the toil so worthwhile.

I didn’t attend the two friendlies against Bayer Leverkusen and Milan. I needed that rest. Instead, I gently eased myself into the new season with a small smattering of Frome Town games spanning a period of three weeks; a home friendly against Chippenham Town (lost 0-1), a triumphant home league opener against Tavistock (won 3-0), an away trip to the New Forest against Bashley (won 3-1) and a tight FA Cup home tie against Newquay (won 2-1).

I am hopeful that this coming season will evolve into successful campaigns for both teams that are closest to my heart. I would love to see Chelsea challenge for the top places in the league, and maybe win more silverware, and I am hopeful that my local team will return to the Southern League Premier under new and exciting ownership.

I will try not to deviate too far from the main subject matter here, but there will – I am sure – be regular mentions of Frome Town if I feel it is either interesting or relevant. Many have expressed their enjoyment in reading the pleasures that I get out of experiencing football at different ends of the spectrum, so I hope to keep that going.

Before we leap into the first match of 2025/26 – my fifty-third season of watching Chelsea – let’s take one last look at the previous campaign.

On a personal level, I loved the fact that six games featured teams from Brazil. These encounters book-ended the season for me; three in Rio in July 2024, plus three in the USA in June and July 2025.

It was an undulating season in terms of enjoyment and team performance, and tested my patience at times, but Chelsea games – trips – were always the highlight of every week.

I am sure that I am not the only one that saw a similarity between the 2011/12 and 2024/25 seasons. At the end of 2010/11, the club discarded with the services of the much-loved Carlo Ancelotti. However, just over halfway through 2011/12, we were going nowhere under Andre Vilas-Boas, and our beloved team was sleepwalking to a season of relative mediocrity. Come May, under Roberto di Matteo, we had won the FA Cup and the Champions League, and the turnaround was the stuff of legend.

Last summer, we parted company with the – perhaps – surprisingly liked Mauricio Pochettino and the untested Enzo Marseca took over. In 2024/25, again at the same point as in 2012, we were really struggling. Oh, those two games at Brighton in the same week. A real nadir. But then things changed, and by the end of the season, we had reached a top four position in the league, triumphed in the Europa Conference League and had won the Club World Cup.

In both campaigns, we did things the Chelsea way.

“Write us off at your peril.”

It was all very Chelsea-esque,

Which brings us nicely to Sunday 17 August 2025.

It was a typical start for me. I was out of the house at 6.50am, I collected PD at bang on 7am and we then motored over to pick up Lord Parky at 7.30am.

This trip was so easy. I dropped the lads off, then parked just off Lillee Road, devoured a great breakfast on the North End Road and then spent a little time around Stamford Bridge.

It was around 11am when I entered the West Stand forecourt, but to my surprise and annoyance, I was asked by two stewards to show them my ticket at this early hour. I fancied a little verbal jousting and made out that I wasn’t going to the game but instead wanted to visit the megastore. This absolutely flummoxed them. In fact, one of them suggested that I should return on a non-match day.

I told them that I had plenty of money to spend in the megastore and wondered what Chelsea FC would think of such a suggestion.

With that, more embarrassed shuffling from them, and I could hardly bare to watch. I flashed my QR code at them and went on my way but told them to talk to their supervisor about contingency plans for those visitors that might want to visit the store but not be so lucky to have match tickets.

This is just another example of how the club is trying to squeeze as much fun out of the match day experience as possible.

Ticket checks three hours before kick-off, bag checks, no left luggage options, no cameras, the imminent anxiety of disappearing QR codes, the difficulty in passing tickets on, “don’t do this, don’t do that”. It all chips away at the sense of fun that used to exist in SW6.

I spotted the new signage on the West Stand that depicted us as World Champions. I also spotted an echo of the never-liked Chelsea Collection club crest from 1986 to 2005 being used on one of the large panels and it immediately struck me as messy.

I bumped into Donna and Colby, and we decided to peek inside the revamped ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway tube station that was opened up as a bar during the summer by Wetherspoons and renamed “Walham Green.” It was already busy, and under the glass of the ceiling, it resembled a greenhouse, and we soon felt uncomfortably hot. We soon decided against having a drink, and left, but not before I bumped into Allie once again, who I last saw leaving MetLife after the final.

In the end, I spent an enjoyable hour in “The Eight Bells” – shocker – with Even from Norway, Dave, Salisbury Steve, Parky, PD, Ian, Jimmy and Paul. Dave had shared a train carriage with non-other than Kerry Dixon on the way down from Luton and was full of glee.

In all honesty it did not feel like we had been away. All the familiar faces. All the usual laughs. It’s a great boozer.

However, I was rather anxious about the new digital ticket procedure, and despite the QR code already appearing on my Chelsea App, I was keen to get to HQ early in case there was teething trouble. Considering this I left twenty minutes before the others.

I wandered past the first barrage of ticket checkers out by the Fulham Road at just before 1pm. So far, so good. Then a mate sidled up to me to say that many QR codes had suddenly disappeared from phones and supporters were now lining up at the ticket office to get them resent.

Fackinell.

With that, as I walked past the Ossie Statue, it took me fifteen swipes to get my bloody phone to open, irrespective of any issue with QR codes. Maybe my phone could sense my anxiety. Were my palms more sweaty than usual?

I hate modern technology.

I walked a few more paces, tapped on the “my tickets” icon on the phone and I was overcome with worry when I was directed to the “Play Predictor” screen, whatever the fuck that is. So, deep joy, my deepest fear had surfaced; my QR code had fucked off to some un-navigable part of cyber-space unknown to man or beast.

However, while I stood bemused and angry, the QR code suddenly reappeared once more, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Right, let’s get in before it fucks off again.”

I ascended the steps to the MHU, the “CFC” newly painted, and glided past several small groups of supporters who seemed oddly reluctant to enter the turnstiles. It took me back to my youth when, as under-age sixth formers nervously awaiting to be served at pubs, we would wait for the eldest looking of the group to appear like a hero to get the drinks in.

I guessed that their QR codes had disappeared and were currently doing a tour of duty somewhere. I wished them well as I brushed past.

A quick scan and I was in.

Thank heavens.

It was 1pm, a full hour before kick-off.

The ground took a long time to fill, and it did feel so strange to be in so soon. I’ll admit to being relieved to be inside, but I absolutely dreaded the thought of having to get to Stamford Bridge an hour early for a while. Our next home game is at 12.30pm on a Saturday lunchtime. Do I really have to get inside for 11.30am? God forbid.

I chatted to some good friends, and flicked through the programme, which I decided to buy for a change. I wanted to read one particular page.

After last season’s 1984/85 retrospective on this site, I feel saddened to have to report that one of the lions of that era, Joey Jones, sadly passed away on 22 July. Everyone loved Joey at Chelsea in those mad days of Second Division struggles against relegation, redemption and promotion the following year and then consolidation in the topflight in three crazy seasons. His clenched-fist salute to us on the terraces was so iconic and adeptly epitomised the bond twixt players and fans of that time. Sadly, I never met Joey face to face, but we were “Facebook” friends before my old account was hacked in 2024, and several good friends at Chelsea became really friendly with him in those times. I include the piece in the programme here.

Joey Jones.

Once a red. Always a blue. RIP.

The place slowly filled. There was a new addition to the pre-match selection of Chelsea-centric songs. At 1.45pm, “Our House” by Madness filled the Stamford Bridge air.

There had been the promise of an “unveiling” before kick-off, but this amounted to nothing more than two banners being exposed on the brick walls behind The Shed.

To the left, the Millwall lion from 1986, and to the right “World Champions.”

I know which I preferred.

I was saddened to see two unknown tourists sitting in front of me. These seats belonged to dear Albert, who passed away last Spring, and his brother Paul. We were hoping that Paul would renew this season, but we guessed that he hadn’t.

Oh boys, we will miss you both.

The minutes ticked by.

“Blue Is The Colour” was played, galvanising us all.

As the teams appeared, the right-hand side of The Shed got going with their flag-waving, and a lovely gold on blue “Champions Of The World” banner was draped majestically over the balcony, just above Parkyville.

What with the gold of that, plus the gold of the other CWC signs, how nice of Crystal Palace to complement all of this with a gold kit that seemed to perfectly match the pantone reference of the gold banners above The Shed.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Acheampong – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Pedro Neto – Palmer – Gittens

Joao Pedro

As for the visitors, there were a few familiar names in their team, with Marc Guehi, Eberechi Eze and Jean-Philippe Mateta possibly the targets for other teams. I’ve no cross to bear with Palace to be honest, Peter Taylor 1976 aside. I was happy that they beat Manchester City in last season’s FA Cup Final. They have never really been rivals or even quasi rivals in the way that Fulham and QPR see themselves.

The Stripey Nigels, bless ‘em.

At 2pm, the game began.

We attacked The Shed, they attacked the Matthew Harding.

We began brightly enough with new boy Joao Pedro looking lively and the initial action was towards The Shed. Very soon into the game, a near post header by Marc Cucurella from a corner was goal bound but was headed away by a Palace defender.

We then drifted a little and the away team slowly got it together. We were treated to a smart Robert Sanchez save, a grab at the near post.

On twelve minutes, a free kick was awarded to Palace centrally in the “D”, and I noted what seemed to be a clear gap in the centre of the wall. I guessed that this was the strategy for such kicks, leaving the ’keeper with clear vision in the middle of the goal.

I raised my pub camera to my eyes – the SLR is resting at home for now until I can smuggle it in undercover – and took a shot of Eze slamming the ball straight and hard and true, and seemingly right over the head of goalkeeper Sanchez.

Oh bollocks.

Well so much for the wall.

They celebrated away, all gold kits shining in the sun, and we all groaned.

Then, God knows why, VAR was called into action, and I foolishly presumed that it was for the initial foul, which even I thought was rather far-fetched. Nobody in the stadium really had a clue why the goal was then cancelled, but there was eventually a reason given; something along the lines of “wearing a loud shirt in a built-up area” or some such nonsense.

Anyway, I didn’t join in with the cheering, why would I?

On eighteen minutes we were treated to another Sanchez save.

In the stands, everything was quiet.

It took me a full twenty-five minutes for me to utter my first song or chant and the 1985 me would have been very dismayed indeed.

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

On the half-hour, an effort from seemingly right under the bar ended up right over the bar, by whom I forget.

There was some ‘eighties side chatter between Clive and myself about Keith Jones and Mike Fillery, and it seems ridiculous to say that I can still remember how both of those players moved around the pitch. Jones was a workaholic runner, whereas Fillery slowly glided past players.

For a moment, I was lost in time.

We loved how Josh Acheampong made two thunderous tackles, back-to-back, and as is usually the case here in England, if not in more refined parts of the football world, this resulted in a loud and guttural reaction, at last, from the home support.

To the tune of “Amazing Grace”, Stamford Bridge rallied.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

There were half-chances from a smattering of players, but Dean Henderson was not really troubled in the Palace goal. With the loveliest piece of skill of the entire half, Cole Palmer took a ball down from the air with consummate ease, but his shot was blocked. From the rebound, Cucurella blazed over.

It was 0-0 at the break. It had been a disappointing first forty-five minutes of the new campaign.

“It’s hot out there, mind,” said PD.

“Bloody hell, you are mellowing, mate.”

Clive chuckled.

PD’s usual response to any sub-standard performance by any Chelsea player is to decorate the air with as many words detailing female genitalia as possible, so this was indeed a surprise.

“I think it’s the tablets” I whispered to Clive.

The second half began and play resumed.

On fifty-four minutes, a substitution. Debutant Jamie Gittens had not really impressed too much, and he was replaced by another new kid on the block, Estevao Willian. With almost his first involvement, there was a jinking run down the right from the kid from Palmeiras and a cross that was just slightly too high for Pedro Neto to reach. With the substitution, Neto had switched wings to allow Estevao his preferred right-wing berth.

We loved the way that Estevao tried his utmost to wrestle the ball away from a Palace player on that far side, showing real determination to win the ball.

“That’s street football for you right there” proclaimed Clive.

“You’re right, mate. Not exactly Mike Fillery, is it?”

There was a trio of chances initiated by the industry of Pedro Neto down below us. A corner was headed over by Joao Pedro. Then a cross that Palmer met, but the resultant shot was blocked. Then, Neto to Palmer and a lob towards Estevao. He delayed slightly and his touch took the ball away from him. His hurried shot went high and wide.

Three more substitutions.

74 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

79 minutes : Andrey Santos for Enzo.

79 minutes : Malo Gusto for Reece James.

Enzo had been quiet, and we hardly noticed him, a worry.

Chelsea dominated the second half, as they had done the first, but Palace are no fools and defended resolutely by reducing the space for us to use. They never stopped closing us down. On eighty minutes, a shot from Eze was thundered in from distance and Sanchez pushed it over.

Delap had a half-chance in the final minute after a strong and forceful run, and then two identikit corners from Estevao on the far side were slung in towards the near post. The first one almost snuck in; the second one was headed away easily. Late on, in injury time, Santos smashed a ball over the bar and that was that.

From our viewing position in the MHU, in the shade, and with a little air, we had no real idea of how hot it had been for the players. However, as I walked out into the mid-afternoon sun, I was shocked at how blisteringly hot it was. I felt for Pedro Neto, who had stayed on the pitch for ninety minutes, and had given his absolute all, and I was immediately in awe of his performance.

PD was right. It had been hot out there.

Was this the real reason for our rather sluggish performance during this season opener, or had the extension of the last campaign left the players tired and lethargic?

Maybe against West Ham United, away on the following Friday, we would find out further.

JOEY JONES : REST IN PEACE

Tales From A Date With Thiago Silva

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fluminense : 8 July 2025.

In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :

“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”

First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.

Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.

I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.

However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.

And it’s quite a story.

This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.

“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”

Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.

We kept in contact at various times over that season.

Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.

As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.

“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”

Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.

To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”

I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.

Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.

Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.

A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.

I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.

On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.

We were euphoric.

Of course, I had to take a photograph.

It’s what I do, right?

As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.

My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.

However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.

“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”

This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.

In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.

Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.

I think we were both amazed at our memories.

I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.

Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.

Fantastic.

With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.

I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.

It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.

Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.

This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.

But here we were.

The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.

Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.

As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.

Just imagine that.

Sssshhh.

During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.

I refreshed the flight options.

Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.

For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.

Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.

I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.

I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.

That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.

It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.

Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.

Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.

On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.

After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.

I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.

I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.

In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.

On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.

And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.

Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.

There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.

Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.

My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.

“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”

I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.

“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”

And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.

The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.

I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.

It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.

Phew.

There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.

I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.

To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.

Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.

My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”

“Take a jumbo cross the water.

Like to see America.”

On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.

I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.

The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.

Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.

A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.

Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.

“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”

“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”

Fackinell.

The pints of Peroni were going down well.

We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.

I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.

Sigh.

The team news came through.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.

“No pressure, mate.”

Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.

Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.

It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.

Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.

I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.

At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.

I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.

“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”

At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I was in. I could relax. Maybe.

Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.

Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.

The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.

There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.

The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.

I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.

“Will New Jersey do, mate?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.

The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.

We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.

On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.

What a screamer.

And how we screamed.

GET IN!

What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.

Blur on the PA.

“Woo hoo!”

I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.

Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.

On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.

I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”

But I sang alone.

I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.

Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.

“Oh…shite.”

Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.

Phew.

On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.

Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.

At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.

I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.

I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.

In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.

On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.

Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.

Ecstasy in New Jersey.

There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.

The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.

On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.

Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.

Twenty minutes remained.

Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.

We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.

I whispered to Leigh :

“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”

On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.

Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.

Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.

The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.

On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.

Two very late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.

The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.

From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.

As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.

I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.

What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.

As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.

I yelled out.

“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”

He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.

What a funny, crazy, small world.

I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.

This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.

We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.

It had been another long day, but one of the greats.

And yes, my gamble had paid off.

I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.

BADGERS HILL, FROME.

LARANJEIRAS, RIO DE JANEIRO.

MARACANA, RIO DE JANEIRO.

METLIFE STADIUM, NEW JERSEY.

Tales From North And South America

Posted on June 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Flamengo : 20 June 2025.

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 59^th 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 60^th 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 14^th 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 33^rd 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 60^th 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 69^th 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.

And that, my friends, is another story.

NEW YORK 2025

RIO DE JANEIRO 2024

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : A NIGHT WITH FRIENDS

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : CHELSEA VS. FLAMENGO

Tales From Another Chelsea Win

Posted on April 27, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 26 April 2025.

This is a game that I might not have attended.

Had Frome Town needed points against AFC Totton for survival in Step Three of the non-league pyramid, there was a chance that I would be missing this Chelsea match. However, my hometown team’s presence in the Southern League Premier South was extinguished on Easter Saturday after the briefest of one season stays and so I was not required to make that heart-wrenching decision.

Chelsea won again.

It was a phrase that I hoped to be reporting after the game.

What of this day, then?

We didn’t really appreciate the 12.30pm kick-off as it would mean that the pre-match would be ridiculously squeezed into a ninety-minute period before 11.30am. Everton, revitalised under the returning David Moyes, would prove a difficult nut to crack, but after a little run of four unbeaten games, there was hope that Chelsea would prevail. Suddenly, a top five or six or seven finish was looking likely, despite my recent protestation of us finishing eighth.

I was up at 5.45am. I always aim to get to PD’s house in Frome bang on 7am and I am annoyed if I am even a minute late. I left my house at 6.43am. I still had to fuel up, but I shot over to Nunney Catch to do so and pulled up at his house in Frome at 6.59am.

Result.

After the game, the instruction from PD was to get him back to Frome as soon as possible so he could then drive down to a night of merriment in Burnham-on-Sea where he owns a static caravan.

“Should be back by 6pm, mate.”

To get to London as soon as possible, we ate our McBreakfast on the hoof to save precious minutes. We noted heavier-than-usual traffic going into the city at 9am. This was a very busy weekend in the capital; not only were Chelsea at home, but both FA Cup semi-finals were scheduled, the Eubank vs. Benn fight was taking place at Tottenham on Saturday night and the London Marathon was on the Sunday. However, I dropped the lads off on the Fulham High Street at around 9.45am. So far, so good.

I drove up from Fulham into Hammersmith and parked on Charleville Road once again, and then quickly walked to West Kensington to catch a tube down to Putney Bridge. I walked into “The Eight Bells” at 10.25am, aware that I had probably lost my usual seat at the table with Salisbury Steve, Lord Parky, P-Diddy and Jimmy the Greek.

Not to worry. I walked over to chat to two lads who I had invited along to the packed pub for their first-ever Chelsea pre-match. I have known Philip, from Baltimore, as a Chelsea mate on Facebook for a few years, and he was perched at a high table with his good friend Douglas. We chatted for the best part of an hour about all things Chelsea first and foremost, all things Baltimore, all things Philadelphia – ahead of the two games in June – and all things sport. We have a few mutual friends and so that is always nice.

The two lads loved the cosy intimacy of the pub, and we were able to regale each other of our Chelsea stories.

Phil became a Chelsea supporter right after the 1997 FA Cup Final triumph, and this resonated with me since I became hooked while at my village school around the time of the 1970 FA Cup win. I told them of how my fanaticism at an early age was remarkably intense. I told the story of me, at the age of five or six, receiving a Liverpool duffel bag from my paternal grandfather and being mortified that he had not realised my Chelsea fascination. I remember the annoyance of both parents too. Phil had a ticket for the Shed Lower during the 2019/20 season but never attended because of COVID. This would be his second Chelsea game in London, however, after the Palace semi-final in 2023. This was a game that I, ironically, did not attend as I was not allowed in with my SLR camera.

Douglas was out in Ghana in around 2006 when he became fascinated with that area’s love of Chelsea, via Michael Essien, his favourite Chelsea player, and so he soon chose us as his club. This would be his first-ever Chelsea game in the UK, though he might have seen us play a game in the US.

It was horrible to hear that both had to resort to expensive tickets in West View instead of watching their first-ever Chelsea games at HQ in the more traditional strongholds of the MHL or The Shed.

It seemed that there were coincidences throughout our chit-chat. Phil and I found out that we follow the same NHL team, the Vancouver Canucks (me very loosely), and that Douglas and I share the same birthday.

However, despite the three of us getting along so well, I did warn them.

“If we lose today, you’re not fucking coming back.”

They set off early, and then the rest of us headed up to Stamford Bridge around twenty minutes later.

I stood at the CFCUK stall for a few moments with a few acquaintances, good loyal and friendly Chelsea supporters all, as Kerry Dixon walked by. He wasn’t feeling too bright so was off home after a little spell with the hospitality team. He spotted a few faces and approached us.

“Ah, this is the hierarchy, is it?”

“More like the lowerarchy, Kerry” I replied.

With that, I took a few photos of the bustling scene outside the ground, hid my SLR, and entered via my usual “lucky turnstile.”

I was in at just gone midday.

On this occasion, Alan was up in Barrow following his Bromley in their last away game of this successful first season in the Football League. He had sold his ticket on the exchange to a lad from Latvia, proudly wearing a Chelsea trackie-top, and his sister was momentarily in my seat. Her ticket was towards the top of the stand. We moved things around and Clive took the spare seat in front so they could sit together. I sat next to PD who was eventually in Alan’s seat.

PD was the spectator-equivalent of an inverted full-back.

Rob told me that he was off to see Walton & Hersham directly after our game, another “double-header” successfully navigated. His team are, of course, in the Southern League Premier South, just like Frome for this season.

It was another cracking day in London. I looked over at the three-thousand Everton fans and wondered if this visit would end up following a well-worn pattern.

Everton’s last league win at Stamford Bridge was on 26 November 1994.

Should we win, again, today, it would be the thirtieth consecutive year of being unbeaten against them.

“No pressure, Chelsea.”

The teams entered the pitch.

No flames but flags in The Shed.

Us?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fenandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I posted on Facebook : “I’m playing right-back next week.”

The game began and I wondered where on earth the inspiration for Everton’s horrible dark grey and yellow kit originated.

Right then, we attacked The Shed.

In possession, we became a back three of Cucurella, Colwill and Our Trev moving over to the right, with Moises Caicedo joining up with Enzo and Lavia in the middle, and God Help Everton.

Joking apart, we began well and apart from an Everton free kick in the first few minutes it was all Chelsea for the first twenty minutes. Apart from a noisy flurry at the start from Everton, their support soon quietened down and they hardly sung a note.

On nine minute, a great early ball from Levi Colwill found Cole Palmer in an advanced role but he could not direct a shot on goal. I love us mixing it up occasionally, to keep the opposing defence on their toes. Pedro Neto was staying wide, and I loved it. On thirteen minutes, a positive run from Noni Madueke into a good position but Jordan Pickford was able to save at full stretch, the ball tipped around the far post.

The noise from both sets of fans had quietened by now.

We dominated possession and tried to open up the Everton defence. Virtually all their grey-shirted players were behind the ball, and space was a premium. I wondered if we were in for another hour or so of tedious chess play.

On twenty-five minutes, a free kick from the right and Pickford flapped and the clearance was poor but Marc Cucurella’s bouncing effort went just wide.

On twenty-seven minutes, Everton tried to build a rare attack, but a through ball aimed at Beto was intercepted well by Our Trev who pushed the ball to Enzo. He spotted the unmarked Jackson, left up field after an attack, and in space. The striker received the ball, turned, and with nobody coming to close him down, drilled a low shot into the goal. The dive from Pickford was in vain. To my joy, I was right behind the shot. I saw it all.

It really was a stunningly simple goal, but very well executed by the often-abused Jackson.

He ran off to celebrate and the Stamford Bridge crowd purred their approval.

Alan, in Barrow : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, in The Sleepy Hollow : “COMLD.”

And all was well with the world.

The game returned to its normal pattern, but I commented to Paul that “we have played worse than this during the season.”

It was decent stuff. Noni and Neto were causing Everton some concerns out wide, Enzo was aggressive and involved, while the returning Romeo Lavia was at his understated best, a modern day Johnny B. Cucurella was as playing to his usual high standards and Caicedo was Caicedo, probably my player of the year. However, Palmer seemed to be struggling.

I said to Paul that if someone, new to our team and watching for the first time, was told that one of our players was being heralded as one of the best young players in the world before Christmas, not many would guess it was our number twenty.

In injury-time, a header that ended up going ridiculously wide seemed like Everton’s first attack in ages, maybe since 1994.

At the break, I remembered two fantastic moments.

Firstly, the Everton player Iliman Ndiaye bamboozled his markers with incredible fleet-footed skill. The ball was touched quickly between feet, down near the touchline in front of the West Stand, and it was an impressive a piece of skullduggery that I have seen for a while.

Secondly, not so far away from that part of the pitch, the ball was played quickly out of defence to Pedro Neto and he had the defender at his mercy. He was running at pace; the defender was back-peddling and was completely unsure which way Neto would push the ball. As a former right winger, I really appreciated that moment. Neto had the defender just where he wanted him with acres of space to run into. He tapped the ball a few times, just to prolong the agony. A quick shimmy one way, the ball went the other, and it was just like me against Gary Witcombe in a house football match in early 1978 all over again.

Bliss.

At half-time, my good friend Pete – from London, then San Francisco, now Seattle, I met him in Los Angeles in 2007 – came down for a few words and we made plans to see each other in Philly in June.

The game re-started.

What looked like a rotten corner from Neto on the far side, was rescued by Madueke at the near post and he almost turned and screwed a shot in, but Pickford saved with his feet.

On fifty-three minutes, a poorly executed back pass to Pickford saw Jackson one on one but Pickford was just able to clear in time. Just after, a fine Madueke cross into the danger area, but no Chelsea player was close enough to apply the coup de grace. Then just after this, Chalobah glanced a header just wide.

On fifty-three minutes, it was time for the much-maligned Robert Sanchez to shine. Beto was played in after an errant pass out of defence by Colewill. The Everton striker shot low from an angle but, thankfully, Sanchez dropped low to his right and kept it out at full stretch.

On sixty-seven minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia.

On sixty-six minutes, Reece to right back, Moises to the base of the midfield.

Once we had the ball, “budge up.”

A shot from Idrissa Gueye was straight at Sanchez. From his throw out, Caicedo ran strong and long at the defence, with defenders snapping at his heels, but his shot was wide. From the resulting corner, Cucurella forced a save from Pickford, the ‘keeper reaching up to gather.

On seventy-seven minutes, Madueke went down after a coming together of bodies, and we all thought he was play-acting. He was motionless for a while but then returned to the action. Then, within seconds, he was running at pace at the Everton defence and forced Pickford to make another fine, sprawling save.

Pickford had to save again moments later, this time keeping out Cucurella’s header from the resulting corner.

Everton’s support was roused by an upturn in their play, and we could hear them again. To be truthful, Stamford Bridge wasn’t noisy at all during this lunch-time game. During this second-half, we seemed to be a lot more sloppy, and made a few silly errors. We begged for a calming second goal.

Jackson thought he that had scored but it was chalked off for offside by VAR, no complaints.

On seventy-eight minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Madueke on the left.

On eighty-six minutes, another fantastic save as Everton went close with a volleyed, side-footed effort from Dwight McNeil.

Two late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Jackson.

There was another fine save from Sanchez from Youssef Chermiti in the closing moments.

One last free kick from Everton, a strong leap from Reece James, the ball was headed away, and that was that.

Chelsea won again.

“It’s a bloody good job they haven’t got a striker…”

There was heavy traffic as I headed up the North End Road and made my way home. All eyes were on the clock.

Returning home, I was to learn some fantastic news regarding two Chelsea mates.

Ian, who often drinks in The Eight Bells, was at Brackley Town for the day and saw his team beat Kidderminster Harriers 5-0 to gain promotion to the National League, the much-vaunted Step One. Like me, he had a tough decision – Brackley or Chelsea – but was rewarded.

Leggo, my mate from 1984/85, was at Bedford Town and saw his home team win 2-0 against Stourbridge and gain promotion from the Southern League Central to the National League South. It is worth noting that both Bedford and Frome were promoted from Step 4 last season and while Frome have sadly returned, Bedford have moved on. It’s an incredible story. Also, the club survived a belittling take-over bid from the moneyed, yet uncredible, Real Bedford in the past week or so.

Elsewhere, Rob’s Walton & Hersham beat Swindon Supermarine 4-1, and as for Frome Town, we lost 0-4.

To complete my review of the non-league scene, I have something a lot more local.

While Frome Town lost 1-0 to Weston-super-Mare in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, my village team Mells & Vobster United won the Somerset Junior Cup Final against fierce local rivals Coleford Athletic 3-1 during the week.

Oh, and I reached Frome at 5.58pm.

Chelsea vs. Everton :

1995/96 Drew 0-0

1996/97 Drew 2-2

1997/98 Won 2-0

1998/99 Won 3-1

1999/2000 Drew 1-1

2000/01 Won 2-1

2001/02 Won 3-0

2002/03 Won 4-1

2003/04 Drew 0-0

2004/05 Won 1-0

2005/06 Won 3-0

2006/07 Drew 1-1

2007/08 Drew 1-1

2008/09 Drew 0-0

2009/10 Drew 3-3

2010/11 Drew 1-1

2011/12 Won 3-1

2012/13 Won 2-1

2013/14 Won 1-0

2014/15 Won 1-0

2015/16 Drew 3-3

2016/17 Won 5-0

2017/18 Won 2-0

2018/19 Drew 0-0

2019/20 Won 4-0

2020/21 Won 2-0

2021/22 Drew 1-1

2022/23 Drew 2-2

2023/24 Won 6-0

2024/25 Won 1-0

Tales From Chelsea At Fulham

Posted on April 22, 2025 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 20 April 2025.

We were amid a solid run of games in London. Our local derby at Craven Cottage against Fulham was our seventh league game of nine consecutive matches in the capital. So, there was something very familiar as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky early on the morning of Easter Sunday.

The mood in the car, however, was not particularly positive. I certainly thought that we would lose against our quiet neighbours. We have struggled of late, and Fulham would be no pushovers.

My Easter weekend had started poorly. On Good Friday, I watched as Frome Town played Dorchester Town, and the Dorset promotion-challengers had brought around three-hundred supporters to boost the crowd to a fine 708 at Badgers Hill. This was a fine pulsating football match, and it went 0-1 (a penalty), 1-1 (Albie Hopkins), 1-2 (a penalty) and 2-2 (Sam Teale) until former Portsmouth, Ipswich Town and Bournemouth striker Brett Pitman pounced in the eighty- ninth minute. At 2-2, our safety was still possible, but at 2-3 we feared the worst. When I snapped the second equaliser, close-in, we had all hoped that our complete comeback was on, and a remarkable survival mission was back on track.

Sadly, the following day, the results went against us and Frome Town were relegated to the Southern League South.

It was expected, but still painful.

However, one moment stuck with me as I slowly wandered back to my car after the match on Friday. Around two hundred of the away supporters had been massed in the small covered seated stand at the eastern end of the ground and so when Pitman slotted home that last minute winner, their support roared and made one incredible racket. It brought it home to me how passionate the supporters at Step 3 can be. It was, admittedly, a horrible moment but also a life-affirming moment too.

On the Monday, I dropped the lads off close to the Eight Bells and drove off to park up. Walking to the pub took ten minutes from my spot on Ringmer Avenue, I took a photo of the neat and well-maintained town houses of Fulham and posted the view onto Facebook with the title :

“Fulham. This hotbed of football.”

This was a sideswipe at Fulham, that most benign of clubs, but also a tongue-in-cheek comment about us too, since we are also based in Fulham, and are seen by outsiders as being soft Southerners with no edge, no passion and no gravitas.

Chelsea Football Club, though undoubtedly a global phenomenon now, are centered on the twin boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham, but also Kensington and Chelsea.

It’s perhaps odd for outsiders – of the club, of London, of the United Kingdom – when they realise that our club is in Fulham. I suppose we take it for granted. I differentiate it all out of necessity.

I go to Chelsea, but I drink around Fulham.

Most of the drinking spots at Chelsea are in Fulham.

We very rarely drink in Chelsea.

We sometimes drink in Hammersmith.

We very rarely drink in Kensington.

We alight at Fulham Broadway tube station.

Stamford Bridge is in Fulham.

Chelsea are policed by Fulham Police.

“You’re going home in a Fulham ambulance.”

Chelsea is a Fulham club.

To add to this state of confusion, “The Eight Bells” is deep in Fulham but is never a Fulham pub. When Chelsea plays at home, it is steadfastly a home pub, when Fulham plays at home it is an away pub.

On the last few yards of my walk to this cozy pub, the bells of All Saints Fulham could be heard, an unlikely backdrop to a few hours of drinking and banter, laughter and smiles.

Unlike at Chelsea home matches, most of the chairs were stacked away to provide more standing room for punters, since Chelsea would undoubtedly flood the three away pubs in this area close to Putney Bridge tube station.

The pre-game was excellent. The four of us were joined by two long-standing US friends, Johnny Dozen and Cesar from California, and I also met up with Joe, from Virginia, for the first time. Joe lives right next door to my big friend Jaro, and he loves the intimate atmosphere of our home pub which he had visited once before. To complete a quintet of US supporters, Frank from Philadelphia was in attendance with his daughter, a follower of this blog, and a chap that I think I conversed with before on one social media platform or another.

This was nice.

My two friends Rob and, er, Rob, were in attendance too, and so there will be eight of us meeting up in the US again in two months: Joe, Frank and his daughter, Johnny Dozen, Rob, Rob, Glenn and I.

From Phulham to Philly.

Phackinell.

While others were quaffing copious amounts of ales and lagers, I was knocking back God-knows how many pints of “Diet Coke”.

At just after 1pm, we set off for the short walk over to Fulham Palace and Bishops Park and onwards towards Craven Cottage. However, firstly I commandeered the troops for a nice photo outside the boozer.

We split up a little outside the away turnstiles and I enjoyed a few moments to myself.

Along with the closeness of the main stand on Goodison Road, this is probably my favourite piece of terra firma on our away trips.

The ornate, red-bricked façade of the main stand, the Johnny Haynes statue, the black and white paintwork depicting “Fulham Football Club” on the cottage which dates from 1780, the neat, terraced houses leading away from the stadium, the quintessential Englishness of it all.

It was all very Fulhamish.

DJ was spotted hawking “CFCUK” on Stevenage Road.

“Only a pound.”

There was wisteria on the walls of an immaculate house on the corner of Finlay Street. I took a photo of this against a backdrop of the Johnny Haynes Stand and the cottage.

I mentally dubbed Fulham “Wisteria FC.”

And wondered if we should be called “Hysteria FC.”

There always seems to be panic and drama and commotion and noise at our club. In contrast, Fulham just keep floating on.

Smuggling my SLR into Craven Cottage is my easiest away challenge, and this was no exception. On this occasion, I took my place with my Sleepy Hollow companion Clive while Glenn watched alongside Alan and Gary. We worked out that this was my first trip to Craven Cottage with Glenn since a trip in November 2004 when we thrashed the home team 4-1.

Where does the time go, eh?

I looked around. At last, the Riverside Stand is complete, bringing the total capacity up to around 28,000. It’s a decent looking stand, though I miss the view of the river. Fulham must be the only stadium where one of the stands, The Riverside, has a better logo than the club itself. After Legia’s over-simplistic “L”, I was reminded of the awful “FFC” of Fulham.

I had spoken to many before this game and virtually everyone expected a poor performance from us, and many expected a loss. I reminded a few mates of the infamous walk that Rafa Benitez was forced to do at the Brentford away game in 2013, loudly berated by our fans on four separate occasions, when the dugouts were on the opposite side of the pitch much like at Craven Cottage. I wondered, should we lose, if a toxic atmosphere would again engulf the away end and Enzo Maresca would be haunted forever by Craven Cottage.

The kick-off at 2pm came close. The teams appeared from the corner, and there were the usual flames in front of the Riverside Stand. I yawned a hundred yawns. I saw that the home fans to my left were already flapping their carboard “noise-makers” in the air.

Modern football eh?

The teams lined up.

Fulham in white / black / white.

Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

Chelsea attacked us in the Putney End and this isn’t usually the case in the first-half. It’s a bit of a misnomer this, since Putney is on the other side of the Thames. I am not sure why “the Fulham End” couldn’t suffice.

In the first ten minutes of the game, our end was full of noise, and I strained to make out the words of a new song.

Eventually, I worked it out.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Tune : “Voulez-Vous” by Abba.

Early on, there was a hearty “One Man Went To Mow” that got everyone involved, a battle song from the early to mid-‘eighties that always seemed better when we all used to sit until ten, but I guess things evolve and change.

Ah, the mid-eighties. Here we go.

Exactly forty years ago to this very day, Chelsea were playing at another away venue, but this time in the West Midlands and not West London. On Saturday 20 April, Chelsea visited The Hawthorns and beat West Bromwich Albion 1-0 with a goal from Kerry Dixon in front of just 11,196. I didn’t go to this one, but I remember Glenn went with Swan. It was another win in our recent resurgence.

In deepest Fulham, up the other end – the Hammersmith End – Fulham had a goal from Ryan Sessegnon quickly chalked off for offside.

There’s no doubt that we enjoyed most of the ball in this first quarter of the match, but good heavens it was tough to watch. Again, we found it hard to get behind the home defence. Nicolas Jackson reached the six-yard box and stumbled at a ball that was an easy grab for Bernd Leno. Crosses missed intended targets. Cole Palmer’s shot was saved. A Reece James free kick caused no problems.

In the stands, much to my annoyance, past heroes were serenaded, when the players currently on the pitch should have been prioritised.

“It’s Salomon!”

On twenty minutes, Reece James was put under pressure by two Fulham players and I immediately sensed danger. Sessegnon passed to Alex Iwobi. As he set the ball up for a shot, I spoke.

“Here we go, goal.”

And I watched the ball find the far corner.

Sometimes that sixth sense unerringly works, and it often works when other teams score. It must be a Chelsea thing. Fackinell.

The home fans made a bit of noise but nothing special. However, after their last-minute win at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day, they were now chasing their first-ever league double over us.

Encouraged by their goal, Fulham came more into the game, but Robert Sanchez was not threatened too severely.

Our play was marked by the usual slow and ponderous style of the second part of this season. Tensions rose in the away end. I didn’t see much to be happy about. Palmer looked a little lost. Not as lost as James, however, who once appeared to be positioned in left midfield. On the half-hour mark, I was screaming my displeasure at Levi Colwill who took a stupid swipe at a Fulham player from behind on the half-way line and received a booking.

“Stupidity!”

We hardly created any chances in that tepid and turgid first half. It brings me no pleasure to report that the word “turgid” is being used increasingly by Chelsea supporters this season.

Yes, Maresca was given a rough reception as he strode quickly over the pitch on the way back to the away dressing room in the corner. I was surprised that it was not more venomous.

On this first-half showing, I rated no players more than a 5/10. Reece was, quite literally, all over the place. I commented that it was, unfortunately, playing out just like I had glumly expected.

Clive and I stood, shell-shocked by it all, and we acknowledged the Fulham DJ cheeringly playing a song by Ian Dury.

“Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly.

Good golly, Miss Molly and boats.

Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet.

Jump back in the alley and nanny goats.

Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domenica camels.

All other mammals, plus equal votes.

Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willie.

Being rather silly and porridge oats.”

Oh boy.

“Reasons to be cheerful?”

I should have got back in to bed.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

As we attacked the Hammersmith End, the Hammersmith Palais, the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith flyover, our play improved slightly. However, I soon commented to Scott that “our players look as bored as we do.”

There was a shot from Palmer straight at Leno.

In front of us, a rare Fulham attack but Gusto did ever so well to stretch out and block a shot on goal. Gusto has suffered this season, and I wonder where on earth his form from the last campaign has gone. On his day, he is a cracking player.

Neto, getting more involved on the right, saw his shot stopped by Leno, who was becoming the busier ‘keeper by far.

As the second half continued, a wide variety of songs rang out from the Putney End. Initially, the “Frankie Lampard scored two hundred” annoyed me as it was a typical example of a song being sung at the wrong time. I always say this is fine when we are winning easily and we can relax and serenade older players, but not when we are losing and playing poorly. It just seems odd to me.

Songs involving Dennis Wise, John Terry, Willian and, inevitably, Salomon Kalou were aired too.

After a while, I became less irritated and just appreciated the effort that the Chelsea fans were putting in to supporting the club, if not the current team.

The past has been bottled and labelled with love, but let’s support the players on the pitch.

Our chances increased. A shot from Sancho, a save from Leno after a Cucurella shot, plus another shot from Palmer that missed the target.

On seventy-eight minutes, Tyrique George replaced the disappointing Jackson.

His song was aired again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Five minutes later, we worked the ball in from the right and it reached George just outside the box. His shot was hugely instinctive, and we watched, disbelieving, as the ball was swept into the left-hand corner. It was such a sweet finish.

Strangely, I hardly celebrated, as my first reaction was “about bloody time” but immediately after I lifted my camera and tried to snap the young scorer’s celebrations. The one photo I took was blurred, and is not worth sharing, but I soon realised that Tyrique’s celebrations matched mine.

There weren’t any.

He was just keen to get back to his own half and get going in search of the winner.

What a fantastic attitude.

All around me, arms were being pumped into the air and the Putney End was bouncing.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Neto, really involved now, forced another save from Leno.

Six minutes of extra time were signalled, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, in all blue, now. Gusto, a great addition in the second half, seemed to pull up with a hamstring problem on the far side and was replaced by Tosin, who was booed by his former fans.

In the third minute of injury time, a fantastic flowing move with quick passing worked the ball down our right flank.

Enzo to Caicedo to Enzo to Palmer to Enzo.

A square pass to Neto, free inside the box. He touched the ball and used its spin to set himself up. He turned on a sixpence and slashed the ball goalwards – just as I snapped – and the venom and velocity were just too much for Leno to cope with.

The net rippled.

The Chelsea end erupted again.

I punched the air.

I remember thinking “I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB” and then pushed my camera in between some bodies to capture the scorer’s wide smile as he ran back towards us in the Putney End.

What a terrible game, but what a magnificent final fifteen minutes.

One song dominated now.

“ONE TEAM IN FULHAM.”

Over the Easter weekend, there had been two very late goals. At Frome Town on Good Friday, it had gone against me. At Fulham on Easter Day, it had gone in my favour.

I wonder what the ecstatic mass of Chelsea supporters celebrating wildly as the Neto shot hit the back of the net looked like to the Fulham support in the Hammersmith End.

At the final whistle, there was an old school vibe to the Putney End as the team acknowledged our support, and – of course – the focus was on Tyrique, who looked so very happy.

Bless him. This was his moment, and I simply cannot begin to imagine what was going through his mind as he stood, at times a little bashful, in front of us all.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Lastly, my final photo of Frome Town this season. Chasing an equaliser, I captured this glancing header from the Town captain Sam Teale that bounced into the goal against Dorchester Town on Good Friday. Alas, it wasn’t enough to save us. I hope that Chelsea fans from all parts of the football world have enjoyed my tales of Frome’s first season back at it’s highest ever level as much as I have writing them. In a way, the sense of adventure has mirrored my recollections of Chelsea in 1984/85, when we again found ourselves back in the top division after, like Frome, a five year break.

I love the fact that Frome’s support continues to grow around the world.

Up The Fucking Dodge.

Tales From A Weak Bridge

Posted on April 16, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Ipswich Town : 13 April 2025.

After the uninspiring 0-0 draw at Brentford, Chelsea’s next match was in Poland against Legia Warsaw. With Chelsea yet to play a competitive match in this country, there was a strong chance that I would have been sorely tempted to go. However, quite some time ago I received a letter asking me to attend Jury Service in Bristol during that week. So, no plans were made. Imagine my annoyance when it transpired that I was not needed in court all of that week.

I watched the game in Warsaw on TV. That first-half was so dire, but we managed to scrape three goals from somewhere in the second period to give us a very good platform to advance into the semi-finals.

My football weekend was again double pronged. On the Saturday, I drove into the northern suburbs of Swindon for Frome Town’s away match at the superbly titled Swindon Supermarine, a team that we beat 3-0 just before Christmas, our first home win of the season. This was another “must-win” game of football for the struggling Robins, and I joined around one hundred away fans in a decent gate of 436. It was the home team’s largest attendance of the season. Alas, despite a strong first-half, Frome wilted in the second period and lost the game 1-0 to a goal from Harry Williams five minutes from time.

With just three league games left, the club are now five points from safety. The marked resurgence in our form from December to March has now withered away with five consecutive 1-0 defeats in a row. The need for a 15-20 goal marksman this season was paramount, but with such players so hard to attain, our survival looks impossible.

Sigh.

As Sunday morning arrived, it was up to Chelsea to give me a little football joy on this particular weekend.

Were we up for the task?

I wasn’t sure.

This was a 2pm kick-off, so I wasted no time in the morning. At 7am I picked up PD in Frome. On the way over to collect Parky at 7.30am, our progress was stopped for five minutes when some escaped dairy cows were herded up on the Frome by-pass. Let’s see if I can include this rather odd escapade into the rest of the narrative.

Am I up to the task?

I am not sure.

The pre-match in various parts of Fulham was typical. There was a tasty breakfast on the North End Road at “The Memory Lane Café”.

You know what is coming, right?

10 April 1985 : Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 0.

I was back home in Somerset for Easter when this game was played on a Wednesday evening. I listened along on the radio, and we were 0-0 at half-time. Alas we conceded goals to Johnny Metgod and Garry Birtles in the second period to lose 2-0. The gate was a lowly 14,666.

13 April 1985 : West Ham United 1 Chelsea 1.

I know that my friends Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock went up to London for this game, a much-anticipated return to Upton Park for the first time in over four years. I didn’t go. At this stage of the season, I was planning an Inter-Rail trip around Europe in the summer and so didn’t hit too many away games. There was, if I am honest, the threat of trouble at this game too, and I was probably put off from going for this very reason.

This game kicked-off at 11.30am to try to keep alcohol-induced rowdiness to a minimum. It still shocks me to this day that just 19,003 attended this game. David Speedie put us 1-0 up but Tony Cottee equalised. It ended 1-1.

Unbeknown to anyone at the time, an ITV film crew was at this game and would air some footage from Upton Park, and at Victoria and on the District Line, during an hour-long documentary about hooliganism, and the ICF especially.

Later that night, in a Frome night club I met up with Glenn who went through the day’s events, but the night was spoiled when we both got embroiled in an altercation with someone, team unknown.

Let’s get back to 2025.

I moved on and headed towards the area outside Stamford Bridge. I noted that the old ticket hall at Fulham Broadway Station was undergoing some changes and will be opening in June as a new “Wetherspoon” pub.

There is no punchline.

On the Fulham Road, I spotted a sign that I had not seen before.

“Weak Bridge – 330 Yards Ahead.”

It was referencing the physical bridge – Stamford Bridge – that takes the Fulham Road over the railway line, and before that, the small brook called Counter’s Creek.

Stamford Bridge, the stadium, was named after this very bridge.

I thought this was all too spooky for words. I remember when The Bridge was a strong fortress; now there are bloody road signs saying that the bridge is weak.

I spent a few moments chatting to various friends on the Fulham Road outside the tube station. I then caught a train south from Fulham Broadway. It dawned on me at Parsons Green tube station, as I spotted two young gentlemen wearing pink chinos and pink shorts get off the carriage, that the University Boat Race was taking place in this part of West London on this sunny but occasionally cold day.

I wondered to myself if any of the thousands of attendees would be asked by stewards to show them the contents of their wallets.

I guessed not.

I sat with just Parky and PD in “The Eight Bells” as all the other regulars were absent. I heard that Mike from New York – last seen in Abu Dhabi – was at the game but it looked like our paths would unfortunately not cross.

I was inside the ground with half-an-hour to go.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. The 3,000 away fans – many wearing the pink away shirt – seemed to be a riot of colour.

The team?

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

I spotted that Liam Delap was only a substitute for Ipswich Town.

After “The Liquidator”, we segued into “Blue Is The Colour” and this again set things up nicely with the Stamford Bridge purring along to the famous lyrics.

In the first attack of the game, Cole Palmer received the ball in a good position but took a while to decide what to do. The chance to take aim and strike the ball at goal came and went, and the move ended with an overhit ball to Enzo Fernandez.

I muttered to myself “a move without menace” and wondered if it would set the tone for rest of the game.

Soon after, shambolic distribution from Sanchez had the home crowd howling. As the away fans watched their team in all pink try to get into the game, they sang a song at us.

“Football in a library…”

To be fair, they had a point.

The first quarter of an hour belonged totally to Chelsea. Nicolas Jackson was set up via a good cross from Enzo but his shot was unfortunately smacked against the near post from close range. Then a flurry of chances soon followed. Enzo thumped a shot over the bar, Noni Madueke’s shot was blocked and Trevoh Chalobah’s drive was saved by the Ipswich ‘keeper Alex Palmer.

From a Madueke cross, Levi Colwill forced a fine save from Palmer in The Shed End goal and Marc Cucurella slashed a follow-up effort over the bar.

At this stage, there were little complaints from the home support, although the stadium was hardly making much noise in support of the team.

However.

On twenty-one minutes, the visitors broke and scored with their very first attack. George Hirst did well to escape being hemmed in and broke centrally. I didn’t like the way that Colwill let him run, and when the ball was pushed out to Ben Johnson, Cucurella had to divert his attention from one player to the other, from Hirst to Johnson. He just missed a blocking tackle, and we watched in horror as a cross was nimbly toe-poked into our goal by Julio Enciso.

I said to the boys “watch us go into our shell.”

However, the immediate response from the home fans was good.

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

The Ipswich fans were full of it, of course.

“Can we play you every week?”

There was, sadly, no immediate Chelsea response on the pitch and the mood in the stands deteriorated.

Into our shell we most definitely went.

A “play it out from the back” move much beloved by…er, not many…broke down and Ipswich went close.

The atmosphere blackened.

Ipswich came again just after and I thought that the ball out wide to Enciso looked offside. His cross found the leap and the head of Ben Johnson and we were 2-0 against Ipswich for the second time of the season.

Not even a VAR review could save us.

It was fractured stuff in the closing fifteen minutes of the first period. I loved a fantastic pass from Palmer, reminiscent of similar jewels before Christmas, that set up Cucurella but the move broke down.

Madueke – one of our better, more positive players – drilled a shot over the bar, the reliable Moises Caicedo shot wide, and after a beautiful dink from Enzo, Jackson’s intuitive lob was well over.

The skies were darkening over Stamford Bridge as the first period came to its conclusion.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

During the break, unsurprising moans.

Enzo Maresca made a substitution, though not one that many would have predicted. On came Malo Gusto, off went Tosin. Chalobah moved alongside Colwill in the centre.

The second half began with my friend Alex appearing next to me and demanding a selfie. I promised her that if we came back to win this one, we’d do “come back selfies” at all other games in which we were losing at half-time.

With that, down on the pitch, Madueke burst forward down the right, made the goal line, passed low, and a lunge at the ball by Cucurella forced Axel Tuanzebe to push the ball into his own net.

I laughed and turned around to see Alex’ reaction.

Smiles all round.

Barely twenty seconds of the second half had elapsed.

The vibe inside the stadium certainly improved and we were attempting to grab, at least, an equaliser.

A Pedro Neto shot was aimed right at the ‘keeper. But then Hirst had two decent chances for Ipswich. He was just wide with a shot, and then from a fantastic cross from their right, his stooping header just went past the post.

It was an open game.

Another Neto shot at the ‘keeper, and then a delicate Neto cross towards the far post that evaded everyone.

A change on sixty-seven minutes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Neto was moved over to the right and Sancho appeared down below us on the left.

The Chelsea chances continued to pile up; a Palmer effort was deflected wide, a Neto volley just over. Sancho sent in a low cross and it was touched towards goal by Enzo, but Conor Townsend managed to hoof the ball out and away from goal. Then another shot from Enzo, but another save from Palmer.

Fackinell.

On seventy-nine minutes, Palmer played a short corner to Sancho. He sized things up, and shot, and I shot too. The ball flew fast and seemed to dip before it nestled inside the far post.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Phew.

I looked around and caught Alex’ eye again.

I have stopped worrying about us obtaining a Champions League place this season. It won’t happen. I am not sure how far up – or down – the league table we will finish this year, but while there are points to be won, Chelsea have my attention.

Could we grab a winner against lowly Ipswich? This was now my focus, and it did make me squirm to realise that this would be a pretty decent achievement in the circumstances.

On eighty-five minutes, Chalobah came close with a high leap at the far post that I managed to capture on film but the ‘keeper somehow managed to block.

Somehow.

A shot from Palmer was flashed over.

With four minutes to go, the much-maligned Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

There were six minutes of time added on at the ninety-minute mark.

We kept going.

A low curler from Palmer was pushed around the post by his namesake.

The last chance of the game came from Enzo, who smashed a ball at goal but the bastard Ipswich ‘keeper again made another phenomenal stop.

It ended 2-2.

As we made our way out, the away fans were singing “We Support Our Local Team” and their players stood in front of the packed away end, as one.

I thought to myself : “fair play to them.”

Walking up towards “The Wolfpack” with my head down and pacing forlornly, I suddenly looked to my right and spotted Mike from New York. It was lovely to see him once again, an unexpected pleasure at the end of a rather disappointing and disjointed performance from the team.

This is becoming another tough season.

Despite the frustrations of the domestic campaign, there is our increasingly advanced participation in the UEFA Conference League.

However, as I drove home from London, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to attend the game against Legia Warsaw on Thursday.

And I still don’t know who won the boat race.

Tales From The Sun And The Shadows

Posted on April 12, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 6 April 2025.

During this footballing weekend, I would be seeing my fortieth Frome Town game and also my fortieth Chelsea game of this 2024/25 season.

On the Saturday, Frome Town – the Dodge, the Scarlet Runners – were up first. There was a home game at Badgers Hill against Chertsey Town, who were just above the relegation drop zone, while Frome were struggling to get out of it. There have been a whole host of “must-win games” for my hometown team of late, but this really was it; an absolute “must-win game”. We were staring into the abyss, this was the point of no return, and a whole many more drastic cliches.

I met up with a few Frome Town regulars – Sumo, Asa, Trotsky, Francis – at the nearby Frome Cricket Club, and my presence there was intended to facilitate a little good fortune. The last time I visited the Cricket Club was before the successful Play-Off Final win last season. I hoped for a similar outcome.

Trotsky is a Brentford fan and so would be at both of my games over the weekend. We had heard that Chertsey would be bringing two coaches of supporters down to Somerset and so I was hoping that we would see a similar gate to the 659 against Hungerford Town a week earlier. Once inside it was soon apparent that the gate would be considerably less. The sunny and warm weather – usually a boon – had probably enticed potential spectators elsewhere.

We began the game well, full of attacking intent, and managed to get the ball into the goal on two occasions, only for both to be called back for offside. Unfortunately, a defensive slip allowed the visitors to go 1-0 up, and Frome found it difficult to get back into the game. At half-time, I changed ends and watched the second half in front of the clubhouse. Alas, only a small smattering of half-chances were forthcoming and as the atmosphere grew quieter and quieter, the grim realisation of yet another 0-1 loss (our fourth in a row) grew nearer. The elusive goal didn’t materialise. The gate was announced as 490, a mite disappointing if I am honest.

At the final whistle, my little group of friends stood motionless, unable to move.

This one hurt.

Frome Town have four games left: two at home against Dorchester and Totton, two aways at Swindon and Plymouth. Realistically we need to win two of these four to give ourselves even the slightest hope of survival.

We live in hope.

Saturday became Sunday and it was now Chelsea’s turn.

Our game at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was our middle match in a stretch of nine consecutive league games in London. However, our run to the end of the season clearly isn’t easy. In fact, before the game with Tottenham I mentioned to a few mates that – “without being too dramatic, nor negative” – I couldn’t see where we were going to get a win in the remaining games.

And then along came Tottenham, and Tottenham were Tottenham, and it was ever thus.

The kick-off in West London was at 2pm, and I had purchased a “JustPark” space on Oliver Close (the same close as last season if not the same house) from 11am and we envisaged a little pub crawl next to the Thames once again.

There was a lie-in of sorts – I was still up for 7am – and PD was collected at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am.

On a sunny morning, we enjoyed the regular route up to London; a McBreakfast at Melksham, up onto the M4, thankfully now free of speeding restrictions east of Reading, and the familiar sights such as Windsor Castle, the planes at Heathrow, the elevated section of the M4, the Wembley Arch to the north.

Everything was going to plan until I drove close to the Brentford stadium on Lionel Road, then took a road parallel to the Thames at Kew, only to find that the only access road to Oliver Close was shut due to road enhancements on Thames Road. My two passengers exited the car and walked on to the nearest pub, “The Bull’s Head”, a few hundred yards to the east. Try as I might to access Oliver Close via another nearby road, I was defeated. Instead, I had to backtrack west, head over Kew Bridge, not once but twice, and then head back the way I had come and up onto the M4 as it became the A4. From here, I drove eastwards for a mile or so and then veered off at the next exit. From here, a mile and half west to my parking spot on Oliver Close. This detour took me around twenty-five minutes, and all because of a closure of no more than twenty-five yards on Thames Road.

I wondered if such a painfully slow approach to my final destination would be mirrored by Chelsea’s attempts to penetrate the Brentford penalty box later.

I reached “The Bull’s Head” at 11.30am. Inside, at the same window seat overlooking the river as last season, my two travel companions were sharing laughs and matchday pints with Salisbury Steve and Southgate Jimmy. I slotted in alongside them and we reminisced on the Tottenham match, while trying to muster up a little enthusiasm for the afternoon’s attraction.

We spent a good hour or so there, then dropped into our main haunt at Brentford, “The Bell & Crown”, which we were visiting for probably the fourth or fifth time. There was a relaxed mix of home and away fans at this pub, but there were no Chelsea colours on show, as is our style. The sun was out, it was getting warmer and warmer.

Bliss.

We chatted to a few mates – Rob, Cal, Cliff, Chidge, Tim – and the general vibe was undoubtedly this :

“Do we have to go to the bloody football? Can’t we just stay here?”

Time was moving on, so we made our way up to the away turnstiles which are hidden away between cramped and towering flats, giving the stadium a claustrophobic and cramped-in feel, and down a few steps. You enter the stadia way below street level.

Again, I decided against a potential row with an over-zealous steward by leaving my SLR at home, instead smuggling in my Sony pub camera inside the stadium by hiding it in the palm of my hand.

Amidst the security checks, I heard this.

“Can I see inside your wallet?”

I was taken aback.

What? What was I hearing? My wallet?

I mouthed “sure” but I was fuming. Where else in the UK would somebody be asked to show the contents of their wallet? While attending a theatre? A cinema? An agricultural show? An art gallery? A shopping mall? A library?

Fackinell.

I joked with a mate “I wish I had a nude photo of his mother inside my wallet…”

I was soon inside the packed concourse. And then something lovely happened. At Stamford Bridge on Thursday, amidst all the photos of the celebrations after the Enzo match winner, there was one fan who dominated the photos of the scene down below me in the first few rows of the MHL. A lad in a yellow Chelsea shirt – the crisp one from 2021/22 – was right next to Enzo, his face a picture of absolute ecstasy.

A friend suggested that I needed to use social media to find him.

Well, within a few seconds of entering the away concourse at Brentford, I found him. I took his email address and promised to send him a selection of images.

Fantastic.

It’s all a bit weird at Brentford. From the concourse, you must ascend a flight of stairs, even to access the lower section of the away corner. I soon found my place alongside John and Gary. We were only a few rows from the corner flag.

Oh God, the sun was bearing down on us in that lower section. Despite wearing some “Ray Bans”, I soon realised that my vantage point for this game was pretty crap, especially considering the shadows underneath the main stand on the far side of the pitch and the dazzling sun elsewhere. We were so low too. I soon decided that I wasn’t going to enjoy the view at this game.

Our team?

It was hardly our first team. It shocked me.

Gusto at right back but James at left back. No Palmer. No Jackson. It took me ages to realise that our shape had been tweaked to allow three in midfield.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – James

Fernandez – Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Nkunku – Sancho

There was a shared “Hey Jude” and the match began, with – for once – Chelsea attacking us in the first half.

Before we knew it, a chance for Christopher Nkunku from a James free kick on the right, but he arrived late at the far post and his header flew off and towards Oliver Close. It would be our only effort on goal for a while. At the other end, Brentford themselves enjoyed a couple of half-chances. Their front two of Bryan Mbeumo and Yoane Wissa were already up to no good; they needed to be watched those two.

On seven minutes, the away section boomed with a loud “One Man Went To Mow” but the play on the pitch took a while to get going.

Jadon Sancho, down below us, was urged to “skin” his marker but Gary quipped “he couldn’t skin a banana.”

What is it with wingers that won’t outpace their markers these days, one of the greatest sights in football over the years?

Oh yes, of course, stats say that balls crossed from the by-line are less likely to result in goal-scoring chances than balls slowly moved around the periphery of the penalty box ad nauseum until a half yard of space is created. I remembered my journey through Chiswick a few hours earlier as balls were passed to wide men to central defenders, to midfielders, to false nines, to inverted wingers, to hell and back.

Fucksake.

I wasn’t enjoying this at all.

The pitch was a hideous mix of bright sunshine and dark shadows, I was starting to get baked, my proper camera was at home, and Chelsea were boring me fucking rigid.

A few songs that heralded past players were sung.

“It’s Salomon!”

The home team conjured up a few half-chances as Chelsea toiled. A Sanchez error – quelle surprise – but then a great recovery as he spread himself to save from Mikkel Damsgaard. Brentford suddenly looked the livelier. Mbeumo cut inside from the right and should have done better with a shot that he screwed wide. The mood in our section deteriorated.

At one point in the first half, I could hardly believe my eyes as a Chelsea defender in the left back position – was it you Reece? – crossed a ball right across the Chelsea box, a mere five yards from the goal-line, right over the heads of attacking players to a defender on the other side of the box, himself no further than five yards from the goal-line.

Oh my God.

This was terrible to watch.

Two nearby Chelsea supporters, caught up in a prolonged and heated discussion, almost came to blows.

“Will you stop swearing?”

Really? At football? Fackinell.

We bellowed in desperation.

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

Just after, on thirty-four minutes, Noni Madueke took our advice and did so.

The Chelsea choir responded, and it was truly cringeworthy.

“We’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot – we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot.”

Just after, Madueke was clean through – one on one – but was cleanly tackled.

Brentford, from a corner, had a header cleared and it looked like we were hanging on. The frustration on the terraces grew. Many players were picked out for comment, with Nkunku and Sancho the most likely to be chastened. In the middle, by comparison, Moises Caicedo shone like a beacon.

Late on, a James free kick, but a Tosin header was glanced wide with the entire goal at his mercy.

That Madueke effort, I think, was indeed our only shot on target.

Meanwhile, also in West London, Fulham were surprisingly gubbing Liverpool 3-1 at half-time.

Way back in 1985, West London was my focus again.

Exactly forty years ago, on Saturday 6 April 1985, Chelsea played West London neighbours – and Hammersmith & Fulham neighbours – Queens Park Rangers in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I remember this day well. I met up with Glenn in Frome and we got a lift with two lads from Radstock – Terry and Swan – who then drove us to a spot on the A303 where Terry parked his car in a lay-by. We then caught the Yeovil Supporters Coach up to London from there. I visited the now long-gone “The George” pub at the corner of Fulham Road and the North End Road for the very first time. For a few short years – until 1988 – it would become my first Chelsea “local”.

After the hooliganism at the Sunderland game, the West Stand Benches were closed for a few weeks (and the famous concrete slabs were installed) and so we watched in The Shed. Pre-match, I chatted to Alan and Paul, we saw Leggo and Mark, and Dave came down to chat to us too.

All of these lads still go to Chelsea to this day.

I love that.

This was a poor game, and an especially poor first-half. The QPR team, playing in those Dennis the Menace red and black hooped shirts, included three former Chelsea players; Gary Chivers, Steve Wicks and Mike Fillery. Thankfully Kerry Dixon broke down the right at the Shed End in the seventieth minute and cooly finished to give us a slender 1-0 lead. We had to rely on a splendid Eddie Niedzwiecki save, late-on, to secure the three points. The gate was 20,340 but I expected less. As can be seen in the photos, QPR only partially filled two of the four pens in the away end. Their following was no more than 2,000.

By contrast, our away numbers at Loftus Road were embarrassingly more, year after year.

Back to 2025, and changes at the start of the second period.

Enzo Maresca’s odd choice of resting Nicolas Jackson for Thursday’s game in Poland – presumably – lasted just forty-five minutes. He replaced the dismal Nkunku.

Soon into the second period, the move of the match. I loved the way that a runner – Sancho I think – raced outside and took his man out of the picture, allowing Gusto to push on inside. A neat pass, then, to Dewsbury-Hall who found Jackson with a perfect long ball. However, Nico shot just wide.

A corner and a headed chance for Trevoh Chalobah went wide.

It was so difficult to see what on Earth was happening in the dark shadows at the other end. The sun was still beating down. I felt my skin buzzing. This was an uncomfortable watch.

You will note that there are no photographs featured from the second half of this game. In fact, I took very few of the whole match. Maybe the Frome ones compensate a little.

I approved of the Kante song being adapted for Caicedo.

“Moises will win you the ball…”

On the hour, two more widely applauded substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Dewsbury-Hall.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

So much for resting them for Thursday.

These two additions soon combined; Palmer to Neto, a curler palmed away by Mark Flekken in the Bees’ goal. Then, a minute later, another Neto shot at Flekken. James headed at the Brentford ‘keeper from a Neto corner, the ball at a comfortable height for a reflex save. Palmer curled an effort just wide of the post.

After a dire first-half, we were at least creating a few chances.

More Chelsea half-chances, and then a Brentford break. A decent save from Sanchez but offside anyway.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella for James.

Who would be playing on Thursday? It was far from clear.

Just after, from a Chelsea corner, another rapid Brentford break, right through the middle of our defence. Mbeumo lead the charge and passed outside to Wissa. I think we all feared the worst here. Thankfully, the much-maligned Sanchez stuck out a strong arm to parry. It was a fantastic save.

Brentford then enjoyed two clear goalscoring chances.

Keane Lewis-Potter, who sounds like he should be more suited to rain-affected cricket matches, set up Sepp Van Den Berg who attacked the ball inside the six-yard box, but his header miraculously bounced down and over the bar.

Then another near-miss as Wissa headed over.

The game was coming to life in its final minutes.

In the dying moments, up the other end, two late Chelsea chances. Enzo created space but thumped his shot wide. In the last move of the game, and indeed the last kick of the game, Palmer twisted and turned, took aim, but his curling effort floated just over the bar.

From my position, it appeared to be going in.

I was getting ready to jump for joy.

It didn’t. I didn’t.

It ended 0-0.

Miraculously, we ended the day in fourth place, and I can’t explain it.

Can anyone?

40 : FTFC

40 : CFC

40 : 1985

Tales From The Famous Chelsea

Posted on April 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 April 2025.

I am always the same. While sitting at my desk at work from 6am to 2pm, I was occasionally worried about the evening’s key Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur match. No other fixture gets to me in quite the same fashion. No other game makes me as agitated.

I guess that it is all because of “The Run”; the run of fixtures at Stamford Bridge since late 1990 that has seen Chelsea only lose once against “that lot” from N17 in thirty-four home league games. Throw in an unbeaten five cup games at home and it comes to one defeat in thirty-nine matches.

It’s an unbelievable show of dominance of one topflight team over another. I have stated before that this must be the most one-sided record between two teams in any main league’s topflight over a thirty-five-year period.

Long may it continue, eh?

It had been eighteen ridiculously long days since our last game, a scratchy 1-0 win at home to Leicester City, and it felt great to be heading back along the M4 once again. It felt especially nice to have PD back alongside me after missing the last two games.

In that gap of eighteen games, my football obsession was satiated by attending five Frome Town matches.

Paulton Rovers vs. Frome Town : 18 March.

First up was a Somerset Premier Cup semi-final at nearby Paulton Rovers. This was a relatively easy 3-1 win in a fast and physical game against a team now two divisions below us after playing at the same level last season.

Basingstoke Town vs. Frome Town : 22 March.

I went with my mate Glenn to the league game at Basingstoke and met up with my Chelsea pal Leigh, from Basingstoke, in a local pub beforehand. On nearing Basingstoke, I admitted to Glenn that “I am glad I am seeing Frome play today and not Chelsea” and it felt like a seminal moment. It wasn’t a great game, but a James Ollis goal gave us a vital three points in our bid for survival.

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town : 25 March.

Next up, was a run of three home league games. Unfortunately, the first of these was a very poor match in which last season’s bitter rivals Wimborne Town beat us 1-0. The, however, gate was a creditable 531.

Frome Town vs. Hungerford Town : 29 March.

A very decent crowd of 659 saw us lose 1-0 again, against Hungerford Town, in a game that was of slightly better quality than against Wimborne but our lack of firepower in front of the goal was again very telling. We were still mired in a relegation place.

Frome Town vs. Weston-super-Mare : 2 April.

Some respite came in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, against National League South outfit Weston-super-Mare. Our opponents played a young team, but despite several chances to score, we succumbed to yet another 1-0 loss. Our lack of goals has plagued us all season.

Talking of other games, we return to 1984/85, and the briefest of mentions of the next match in my forty-year retrospective. On Saturday 30 March 1985, Chelsea travelled to Roker Park for a league game against Sunderland. I didn’t travel to this, and I don’t think many Chelsea did. The gate was a miserly 13,489. This came not long after them defeating us in the Milk Cup semi-finals and I don’t think it exactly captured the imagination of the Chelsea support. It also came six days after Sunderland lost 1-0 to Norwich City in the final so I don’t think it captured the imagination of the home support either. However, we came away from the game with a nice 2-0 win with goals from Kerry Dixon and a Micky Thomas penalty.

After grabbing a tasty bite to eat at a café – “222” – on the North End Road, I flew down to “The Eight Bells” where I chatted with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Ian inside the pub and my fellow Sleepy Hollow companion Clive – a first visit for him to our local – and his mate John on the tables outside.

During the day I had found out that the Fulham team changed in this pub when the team used to play at a local patch of land now occupied by Raneleigh Gardens. This would have been between 1886 and 1888. There’s football history everywhere in SW6 if you know where to look.

From this particular part of Fulham, we caught a tube up to the Broadway, and I was inside the stadium at 7.30pm.

The team?

We were so glad that both Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson had returned.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I chuckled as the “Dug Out Club Wankers” were drenched by the pitch sprinklers as they made their ceremonial walk across the centre of the pitch before the game.

It was if George Anstiss was having one last laugh from above.

“Get orf my bleedin’ pitch.”

Nearing kick-off, we were treated to a bizarre song to warm us all up and get us in the mood for football.

“You Shook Me All Night Long” by ACDC.

Answers on a fucking postcard.

That ain’t Chelsea, it ain’t even football.

Thankfully, we were soon back to the much more suitable “London Calling” by The Clash.

Then the dimming of the lights, but thankfully no flames in front of the East Stand. As the teams appeared, The Shed was a riot of colour. In the top tier, many flags were waved, while a large banner was draped from the balcony.

THE FAMOUS CHELSEA

Back in the ‘eighties, The Shed used to bellow “we are the famous, the famous Chelsea” but that seems to have died a death since then. The Geordies, however, still chant something similar to this day.

My mate Rob had appeared next to me just as the huge banner was beginning to be displayed and had sagely commented :

“You watch it unravel.”

I wondered if this might prove to be a worrying metaphor for, perhaps, the game ahead.

Meanwhile, down in the Matthew Harding Lower a huge – new – crowd surfer flag depicted The Rising Sun and Gus Mears.

This was a nice homage at both ends of the stadium for “CFC 120” as the club has termed it.

There was a change from the usual “Liquidator” by the Harry J All Stars with a perfectly timed incision of “Blue Is The Colour” into the pre-match routine leading right up to kick-off. I loved it that the crowd continued singing once the song had been forced into early retirement by the start of the match.

“So cheer us on through the sun and the rain ‘cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

And what a start.

From the whistle, the noise was deafening, the best of the season by far, and the returning striker Jackson almost caused immediate joy. Put through by Trevoh Chalobah, he raced on and found himself one-on-one with Guglielmo Vicario. There was a prod at goal, saved, but a crazy passage of play saw Micky Van de Ven attempt to clear, but the ball was hacked against Jackson’s shin. Our pulses were racing here, but sadly we saw the ball ricochet back off the right-hand post. There would be no celebrations in front of Parkyville just yet.

On six minutes, Marc Cucurella to Malo Gusto but just wide. That shot is featured here.

In the first quarter of an hour, I was very happy to see a far greater level of intensity and a much better desire to release the ball early, especially compared to the bore-fest at Arsenal.

Simply put, the threat of a pacey Jackson made all the difference since we now had a focus of our attack. On the right, Pedro Neto was also able to concentrate on his wing duties rather than ponce around in the middle and lose his way.

On eighteen minutes, a nice move twixt Jadon Sancho and Palmer on the left and there was a mad scramble in the Tottenham six-yard box, but Vicario was able to block virtually on the line.

There was a delightful turn / shimmy / dragback from Sancho that set up Palmer but the ball went out for a corner.

Dogged play from Jackson on twenty-eight minutes, hounding his defender, but a shot was blazed over.

By the half-hour mark, we were well on top, with Tottenham only threatening sporadically, mainly through Son Heing-min and Lucas Bergvall. Sancho showed lots of skill in tight areas but there was an infuriating reluctance to shoot. On the visitors’ rare breaks inside our final third, I loved the way that our players flung themselves at the ball to block. This showed spirit and character, and long may it thrive.

A lovely move on forty-four minutes resulted in a deep Neto cross from the right which was nicely met by Sancho. His wicked shot was on target but was incredibly well tipped over by Vicario.

At the other end, Robert Sanchez had been so quiet.

As the first half ended, we were happy, and there was a lovely sound of applause from the home areas.

In the concourse at the break, I spotted a chap with a River Plate shirt and I tapped him on the shoulder and could not resist the word “Boca” and a smile, but I wish, now, that I had stopped and asked if he was an Enzo fan.

Because everything was about to change.

After an early shot on goal from Palmer that tested Vicario again, the ball found its way to the feet of our talisman from Mancunia. I snapped as he eyed up the opportunity to cross.

His ball into the danger area was absolute perfection.

This felt right.

With my camera still poised, I snapped as Enzo – ex-River Plate – rose and planted the ball home.

MY ENZO.

GET IN.

The stadium exploded.

I was boiling over but shot a load of photos as the Argentinian raced towards us.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap,snap.

Enzo was hidden, submerged, for a few seconds, and I love the ecstasy on the face of players and supporters alike.

There had been a worry in the pub beforehand that without many local lads in our squad, the importance of this game against this opponent would be lost.

We need not have worried.

I looked at Alan.

We both smiled.

Paul Hogan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Barry Humphries : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Just after, Enzo attempted a very ambitious bicycle kick just past the penalty spot.

“Easy tiger.”

Two minutes after, the ball came out to the excellent Moises Caicedo from an Enzo free-kick, and he lashed it home.

The place erupted again, and I found it difficult to focus my camera on the melee in the far corner as the North Stand was moving so much.

Alas, VAR.

Alas, no goal.

Alas, a hairline offside from Levi Colwill.

Alas, the game we love is being strangled.

On sixty-three minutes, a massively wide effort from Neto, the ball curling out around ten yards from the corner flag in front of the West Stand.

Fackinell.

Tottenham went close on sixty-five minutes.

A substitution : Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Then, on sixty-nine minutes, Pape Matar Sarr broke and smashed a low drive from around thirty-five yards along the ground and seemingly at Sanchez. Our ‘keeper, maybe thinking about his post-match meal, his summer holiday, a long-lost unrequited love from his early years, or how the Matthew Harding roof stays up, wasn’t with it and his despairing dive only resulted in the ball deflecting high and into the roof of the net.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, a foul on Caicedo was spotted.

VAR.

A ridiculously long wait.

And I hate it how players from both teams were allowed to stand so close to referee Craig Pawson as he studied the pitch-side TV screen.

In such circumstances, the players should be corralled within the centre-circle.

Right?

Anyway, no goal.

Alan and I remained still and silent.

I don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour.

Fuck VAR.

However, the noise levels increased.

“This is more like it.”

I loved how Enzo twisted and turned down below me in the box, despite running out of space. His was a really fine performance on this night.

Vicario then saved from that man Enzo.

Another substitution : Reece James for Jackson.

Over on the far touchline, manager Maresca seemed to be getting the crowd in the East Lower pumped up. I noted that he was wearing a tangerine sweatshirt under his jacket, and it immediately brought memories of those orange sweatshirts that the players used to wear during their “kicking in” before games in the ‘seventies.

Twelve minutes of injury time.

Gulp.

Two more substitutions : Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo, Tosin Adarabioyo for Palmer.

I whispered to Alan : “anything could happen here, mate.”

The clock ticked…

I loved it when Dewsbury-Hall made two crunching tackles and after both his teammates raced over to “high-five” him.

Great team spirit.

The noise boomed.

To “Amazing Grace” :

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

In the very last minute, however, our nerves were sorely tested as Tottenham broke rapidly. Dominic Solanke – who? – played the ball to Brennan Johnson who crossed low towards Son at the far post. He slid and poked it goalwards, but Sanchez – I take it all back – made a remarkable recovery to move to his right and block the goal-bound effort.

Phew.

It was an absolutely magnificent save.

Soon after, the final whistle blew.

Thankfully, the famous Chelsea Football Club didn’t unravel.

Not this time.

Tales From The Cheap Seats

Posted on March 21, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 13 March 2025.

The home game against Leicester City was to be followed by three more trips to London for me in the following week. There would be two more Chelsea matches, but also a drive up to London on the one-hundred-and-twentieth anniversary of the formation of the club on Friday 10 March 1905.

Unbeknown to me, it seems that the club must have sent emails out asking for nominations to attend a stadium tour in the evening of Monday 10 March to mark the moment, and to my great surprise and pleasure I had been selected as one of the chosen few, or rather one of the chosen one-hundred-and-twenty.

I am still unaware who nominated me.

If it is you…THANK YOU SO MUCH.

It was a great evening.

I met up with my good friend Luke in the “Butcher’s Hook” where the club was formed all those years ago, and we chatted to other lads that I know, the brothers Dan and Eddie. Our tour was the last of the night, beginning at 6.30pm and ending at 8pm.

Ninety minutes, how fitting.

This would be the fifth stadium tour that I have attended; the others were in 1997 with a bunch of fellow fans including Glenn and Alan, a solo tour in around 2005, a tour with a friend from the US in 2016 and a tour with a friend from Germany later the same year.

The highlight was the chance to meet up, albeit briefly, with club legends Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Carlo Cudicini. There was the chance for photos, but I couldn’t really say too much to Jimmy and Carlo due to the lack of time.

To Carlo : “The last time I spoke to you was in Beijing in 2017.”

To Jimmy : “You know what, even though you played for Leeds, you’re not a bad bloke.”

There was plenty of laughter, plenty of smiles and giggles, and I loved it that Jimmy’s perfect hat-trick against Tottenham was mentioned a few times. In some ways, the star of the show was the Stamford Bridge pitch itself, bathing under self-tanning ultra-violet lights on a cold Spring evening. Knowing my obsessional desire to photograph Stamford Bridge as often as possible, in as many different circumstances as possible, it is quite likely that I would have driven up from Somerset just to take photos of the pink pitch and the large structures hovering over it.

I include those photos here along with a few others from that night. It was lovely to see a few people that I knew on the three tours. A special mention to Annette and Mark, pictured, who often act as my un-paid spell-checkers on this blog.

Before we disappeared into the home dressing room, the tour stopped by the Chelsea bench. A few of us sat in what is now “the dug-out club” and we spoke about the ludicrous price that the club charges spectators to sit in these twenty or so seats. For the two games against Liverpool and Manchester United, still to come this season, each seat costs a mammoth £12,995.

That’s correct.

It’s not a miss-print.

£12,995.

There have been many words of disdain written about this over the past few months. And this is no surprise. The bizarre thing is that these seats offer really crap views of the pitch. The Perspex tunnel roof, for example, obliterates much of the pitch at The Shed End.

But I have fostered a different opinion of late.

These tickets are clearly aimed at VIPs and the super-wealthy (though, perhaps, the mentally unstable too) and it could be argued that a few years ago VIPs might well be gifted match tickets dependent upon their status. Now, there is an alternative. And if the club can sell such shite tickets – and it’s only twenty of them after all – for such a ridiculous amount of money, then fair play to them.

In an ideal world, the monies raised – £259,900 per game! – would be used to offset the price of match tickets for the rank and file, but I am not naïve enough to believe this will always be the case.

To be honest, this “dug-out club” malarkey is a sign that the suits at Chelsea don’t really understand the differences between sports in the US and the UK, or at least baseball and football. At a baseball game, 95% of the important stuff – the pitcher versus batter duel, the base-running, the infield action – takes place in front of the dug-out and in front of home plate. Over there, seats in these areas are justifiably the most expensive. In football, having seats so low down is not really seen as a positive.

That said, despite all of the talk of the club charging extortionate amounts for some tickets at Stamford Bridge, the cost of my ticket for the game against Copenhagen on the Thursday was just £34, a decent enough figure if I am honest.

For this game I was accompanied by just Parky, with PD unable to attend. I picked him up from his village at 2.15pm and I made really good time. I parked up at my usual spot, dipped into “Koka” on the North End Road for a pepperoni pizza and then headed down from West Brompton to Putney Bridge to meet up with Michelle, Parky, Jimmy, Nick, Steve, Andy and Kim once more.

The pre-match in “The Eight Bells” was, as always, a laugh.

I had some good news for them. At long last, I had witnessed a home league win for Frome Town this season. On the Tuesday, in a tight and scrappy game, an Archie Ferris goal on eighty-seven minutes gifted Frome a huge 1-0 win against Hanwell Town from West London. The crowd was 335. In goal for the visitors was Sam Beasant, son of Dave.

A spare spot was available in “The Sleepy Hollow” and so Michelle sat next to Alan and me. Alas, Clive was absent in addition to PD. Alan had met Michelle before; on that trip to Porto almost ten years ago.

I soon spotted that Copenhagen had not taken the full three thousand allocation. This was our third tie against this team. We had played them in 1998/99 and 2010/11 too. Out of interest, I had pulled up the blog report for the game in March 2011 – “Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer” – and I was amused to read this :

The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –

“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fucking thing.”

“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

“Speak fucking Danish, why don’t you speak fucking Danish?”

As kick-off in 2025 approached, we checked our team.

Jorgensen

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

Caicedo – Fernandez

George – Dewsbury-Hall – Sancho

Neto

I was worried about this match. We were 2-1 up from the first leg but if we were to concede early, there was a good chance that both the team and the support would implode on a horrible nervy night.

At the kick-off, the two-and-a-half thousand away fans were bouncing wildly, and I suspected that they would prove to be the stars of the show.

Unlike Copenhagen’s vivid pink away shirts of 2011, this time they were wearing the opposite of our colours.

Chelsea : blue / blue / white.

Copenhagen : white / white / blue.

As the game got going, I became fascinated by the lack of spectators in the East Middle. Apart from a hundred lonely souls dotted around, the whole tier was empty. Never mind the dug-out club, Chelsea had royally messed-up with the pricing structure for that part of the ground, although the middle sections of the West Stand were not full either.

Bloody hell Chelsea.

No shirt sponsor.

A whole tier empty.

Sort it out.

Down on the pitch, my fears were real. There were two early Copenhagen attacks in the first five minutes and then on twelve minutes Josh Acheampong made a timely block on a shot from a Copenhagen attacker. The Chelsea youngster had begun well and would often drift inside during the first half.

Pedro Neto was put through, but their ‘keeper Diant Ramaj burst out to almost the halfway line to clear. This was one of our few attacks thus far, and we were really struggling to create anything.

After half-an-hour, I struggled to remember a single shot on goal, on target or off.

This was dire.

Football is meant to entertain us.

On thirty-six minutes, a nice piece of skill from Tyrique George brought the stadium to life – “fackinell, some skill” – but his touch to Sancho was just a little too hard.

On forty-two minutes, Alan realised that he had neglected to open his “lucky European” wine gums, and as Michelle and I tucked in, Moises Caicedo, as steady as anyone this season, won the ball and played in Neto. He tumbled over inside the box, but no penalty.

For a moment, I wondered if the “Maynards” were going to have an immediate effect.

From the away fans, shades of 2011.

“Is this a library?”

“You’re shit and you know you are.”

There was no witty riposte this time.

We were funnier fourteen years ago.

Well, this was as shocking a game as I had witnessed for years. We all agreed; not one effort on goal.

The boos at half-time seemed – as much as it hurts to say it – par for the course.

Enzo Maresca made two substitutions at the break.

Marc Cucurella for Acheampong, slightly harsh I felt.

Cole Palmer for Enzo, deserved.

On forty-seven minutes – REJOICE – an effort on goal, from Trevoh Chalobah after some typically fine play from Palmer. Then, a shot from Jadon Sancho.

Bloody hell.

“Smelling salts please nurse.”

On fifty minutes, a break down the other end and I yelled out “two spare at the far post” and a cross from their left hit one of them, but the effort was clawed away by Filip Jorgensen.

Ugh.

Just after, some tenacious play by Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall, played in initially by Palmer, enabled him to force his way past some defenders and he did well to persevere and flash the ball in at an angle.

We celebrated the unlikely scorer and the fact that we were now 3-1 up in the tie.

Time to relax?

I think so.

However, the goal that they conceded seemed to inspire the visiting Danes even more. Their show of support during the evening really was sensational.

There was a loud song for Cucurella, who was pleasing everyone with some tenacious play of his own.

We had little bits of the game, but nothing to set the pulses racing. There was a nice move and a shot from Palmer that was swept wide.

On sixty-five minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Sancho.

On seventy-six minutes, a Palmer free kick down below us but an easy save for Ramaj.

On seventy-nine minutes, Reece James for Caicedo (“for you, Michelle” as he had not appeared versus Leicester City).

Late on, another shot for Palmer, this one blocked too.

A very late sub, and a debut.

Genesis Antwi for Neto.

At the death of a poor match, there was a close-in effort for the visitors that was blasted high into the Shed Upper and then there was one last effort from Palmer that was saved by Ramaj.

It finished 1-0 to Chelsea.

The gate was 35,820, and oh those empty seats.

A Celebration Of 120 Years

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen

Tales From The History Book

Posted on March 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

I did not attend the away game in Copenhagen, but I know two Chelsea fans that did. PD and Parky, who I collected at 7am and 7.30am en route to London for the home game with relegation haunted Leicester City, had stayed in Denmark for five days and four nights and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay. I was unable to get time off from work for this game due to staff shortages in the office. On the journey to London, they regaled me with a few stories from the city and the game.

Though I missed that match, I have a few others to describe.

In a match report that will mention Chelsea Football Club’s celebrations of its one-hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary, I will continue my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season, a campaign that took place two-thirds of the way towards that 120 figure.

Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.

I would like to apologise for my behaviour on this particular day. For hopefully the only time in my life, I prioritised Tottenham over Chelsea.

That’s hard to read isn’t it? I can assure everyone that it was even harder to write.

With the second-leg of the Milk Cup semi final coming up on the Monday night at Stamford Bridge, I was unable to traipse across to Suffolk for our league match against Ipswich Town. This was all about finances. I simply could not afford two train excursions in three days.

Instead, I took alternative action and decided to attend Stoke City’s home match with Tottenham Hotspur which was to take place only a ten-minute walk away from my flat on Epworth Street near Stoke’s town centre if not city centre. As a student at North Staffs Poly, there was reduced admission in the enclosure in front of the main stand on production of my NUS card and I think this equated to around £2. I could afford that.

I had already watched Stoke on two occasions thus far in 1984/85 – two predictable losses against Watford in the league and versus Luton Town in an FA Cup replay – and on this occasion, Stoke lost 0-1 after stand-in ‘keeper Barry Siddall made a grave error, allowing Garth Crooks to score in the second half. The gate was a decent – for Stoke – 12,552 and I estimated 3,000 away fans. I approved of the fact that the visiting support sang “we hate you Chelsea, we do” as it felt appropriate to feel the animosity from “that lot.”

It was the first time that I had seen “that lot” in the flesh since a horrible 1-3 reverse in November 1978 at Stamford Bridge. I still shudder at the memory of that game.

“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”

Ugh.

The irony of Garth Crooks grabbing the winner against the Potters was not lost on me. Crooks once lived in Stoke, in Butler Street, just behind the away end, and very close to where I would live for two years until 1987.

Meanwhile, at Portman Road, Chelsea succumbed to a 0-2 defeat against Ipswich, so there is no doubt that I was doubly miserable as I walked home after the match.

Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.

This was a special day – or evening – for me. Although I had seen Chelsea play a midweek match at Bristol Rovers in 1976, the game against Sunderland was the first time that I would ever see a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. After the aborted trip to London on Wednesday 20 February, this second-leg took place a full nineteen days after the first semi-final at Roker Park.

I attended a couple of morning lectures and then caught a mid-morning train to Euston. I got in at 12.30pm, which seems ridiculously early, but I suspect that I wanted to soak up every minute of the pre-match vibe around Stamford Bridge. I bought double pie-and-mash at the long-gone café on the North End Road and mooched around the local area until 4pm when I made my way to Stamford Bridge. I spotted Alan and Dave. There was already a queue at The Shed turnstiles. I can remember to this day how odd it felt to be at Stamford Bridge in the late afternoon ahead of a game. It was so exciting. I was in my element. It was sunny, it was surprisingly warm.

I was in as early as 5.15pm. The game didn’t start until 7.30pm.

I took my place alongside Al, Dave and the others in the West Stand Benches.

What a buzz.

A lot of Sunderland arrived late. My diary reports that they filled two and a half pens in the North Stand, so my guess was that they had 6,000 at the match. Chelsea filled one section near the West Stand.

The gate was 38,440, and I have read that many travelling Wearsiders were unable to get in to the ground.

Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.

The atmosphere was electric, and a breakthrough came after just six minutes. David Speedie smashed home with a cross-shot after being set up by Pat Nevin at the North Stand end. Superb celebrations too. I was hugging everyone.

Sadly, on thirty-six minutes we watched in agony as a Sunderland breakaway took place and former Chelsea player Clive Walker struck to put the visitors 3-1 up on aggregate.

The noise continued into the second half. Sunderland hit the bar. However, there was soon heartbreak. A Chelsea defender made a calamitous error that allowed Walker to nab a second. We were now 4-1 down and virtually out.

This is when Stamford Bridge turned wild. I looked on from my spot in front of the West Stand as the whole stadium boiled over with malevolent venom. Chelsea supporters flooded the pitch, trying to attack the away fans in the North Stand pens, and there was a running battle between police and home supporters. It was utter mayhem.

Incredibly, a policeman was on the pitch and inside the Chelsea penalty area when Colin West scored Sunderland’s third goal of the night. To be truthful, my memory was of a police horse being on the pitch, but maybe the hysteria of the night was making me see things. Then, a Chelsea supporter emerged from the West Stand, raced onto the pitch and tried to attack Clive Walker. Late on, Nevin lobbed the Sunderland ‘keeper to make it 2-3 (2-5) but by then nobody cared.

Speedie then got himself sent off.

I was heartbroken.

I walked back to South Kensington tube – one of the worst walks of my Chelsea life thus far – mainly to avoid West Ham and their ICF, who had been playing an FA Cup tie at Wimbledon, and who would be coming through Fulham Broadway.

I eventually caught the 11.50pm train from Euston and finally reached Stoke at around 2.30am, and I was surprised to see around fifteen Chelsea supporters get off at Stoke station. I got to know a few of them over the next couple of years.

So much for my first-ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. Even to this day, forty years on, this game is looked upon with shame, and warped pride by others, as an infamous part of our history.

When I awoke the next morning, the events at Stamford Bridge the previous night were on everyone’s lips. In truth, I just wanted to hide.

If ever there was evidence needed of “we’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose” then this was it.

Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.

I was back in Somerset when this match was played, but did not attend. In truth, I was low after Monday’s events. This weekend was spent “in hibernation” in my local area, and on the Saturday afternoon I went out on a walk around my village. I caught a little of my local football team’s game in the Mid-Somerset League but then returned to my grandparents’ house to hear that we had lost 0-2 at home to Southampton. After the Sunderland game, I had predicted that our gates would plummet. I envisaged 15,000 against Saints. On the day, 15,022 attended. If only our strikers had been as accurate as my gate guestimates.

In truth, the trouble at the Sunderland game would spark an infamous end to the season. There would soon be hooliganism on a grand scale at the Luton Town vs. Millwall game, trouble at the Birmingham City vs. Leeds United game on the last day of the season, in which a young lad was killed, plus the disasters in Bradford and in Brussels.

The later part of 1984/85 would be as dark as it ever got.

Ahead of the game with Leicester City on the Sunday, I drove down to Devon on the Saturday to see Frome Town’s away game at Tiverton Town. This was a first-time visit for me. With both teams entrenched in the bottom of the division, this was a relegation six-pointer. In truth, it wasn’t the best of games on a terribly soft and bumpy pitch. Both teams had few real chances. There was a miss from James Ollis when one-on-one with the Tivvy ‘keeper, but Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips made the save of the season in the last minute to give us a share of the points. There were around fifty Frome Town fans present in the gate of 355.

On the Sunday, we stopped for a breakfast in Chippenham, and I arrived in London in good time. It was the usual pre-match routine. I dropped the lads near The Eight Bells, then parked up opposite The Elephant & Barrel. I walked to West Brompton and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge tube. I squeezed into a seat at our usual table and was able to relax a little.

Jimmy and Ian joined us, and then my friend Michelle from Nashville, who I first met for the very first time in Turin in March 2009. I had picked up some tickets for her at Stamford Bridge for the Juventus away game and we met up so I could had them over. I last saw Michelle, with Parky, in Porto in 2015. Neither of us could possibly believe that it was almost ten years ago. Alas our paths won’t cross in the US in the summer; Michelle will attend the Atlanta game while I am going to the two fixtures in Philadelphia. It was a lovely pre-match, though I am not sure Michelle understood all of our in-jokes, our accents, and our swearing.

There was time for a quick photo-call outside the boozer – Michelle had previously visited it before a Fulham away game – and we then made our way to Fulham Broadway.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

We were inside in good time, and we caught the introductions of some Chelsea legends before the entrance of the two teams.

We would celebrate our actual 120^th birthday on the following day, but this was a superb first-course.

Dennis Wise, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, Kerry Dixon, Ron Harris, Frank Blunstone.

Lovely applause for them all.

The ninety-year-old Frank Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship during our golden jubilee of 1954/55, was very spritely and it was a joy to see him.

Ron Harris, now eighty, was flanked by his son Mark and his grandson Isaac.

How quickly the time goes. It didn’t seem so long ago that everyone at Chelsea was celebrating our centenary with our second league title, as perfect a piece of symmetry as you will ever see.

I also like the symmetry of me turning sixty in our one-hundred-and-twentieth year.

Anyway, enough of this bollocks.

The two teams emerged.

Us?

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

The return of Wesley Fofana against his former team. A team full of wingers. A false nine. Nkunku wide left. Square pegs in round holes. Round pegs in square holes. Sanchez in goal. Clive, still injured, at home. My mate Rich alongside PD, Alan and me in a flat back four. Michelle in the Matthew Harding Lower.

Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.

The game began.

In the very first minute of play, Cole Palmer went down after a challenge by Luke Thomas, whoever he is, but the appeals for a penalty were met by stoney silence by the referee.

Soon after, Pedro Neto whipped in a great cross from the right but…um, shouldn’t he have been elsewhere, possibly nearer the goal? Anyway, despite having a team full of wingers, nobody was running into the box to get on the end of the cross.

There was a Leicester attack, but a shot straight at Robert Sanchez.

Soon after, an effort from Palmer went wide, deflected away for a corner. From the ensuing kick, Palmer created space but shot high and wide.

“Oh for two. Here we go again.”

The away fans were shouting out about “football in a library” and the Stamford Bridge thousands responded by…er, doing nothing, not a whisper of a response.

On nineteen minutes, Jadon Sancho was fouled by Victor Kristiansen, whoever he is, and an easy penalty decision this time.

Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.

Sigh.

In our youth – 1984/85 – we would have been up and cheering.

Sadly, Palmer struck the penalty low and the Foxes’ ‘keeper Mads Hermansen – great name – saved well.

Bollocks.

“Oh for three.”

On twenty-five minutes, a mess in the Chelsea box. A cross came in, Sanchez made a hash of his attempts to gather, the ball hit Tosin and looped up onto the bar and Colwill was thankfully able to back-peddle and head away before the lurking Jamie Vardy could strike.

Throughout this all, I heard circus music.

On twenty-seven minutes, Cole was “oh for four.”

After thirty-nine minutes, Moises Caicedo floated a ball from deep into the box towards Marc Cucurella but, stretching, he was unable to finish.

I spoke about Vardy.

“How we could do with him running into the channels, causing havoc, stretching a defence.”

Our play was not so much “quick, quick, slow” as “slow, slow, slower.”

We saw a couple of late half chances from a Caicedo shot and a timid Nkunku header but there were predictable boos at the break.

Pah.

“Palmer has gone into his shell after the penalty miss.”

As the second half began, the sun was still shining but the temperature had dropped. I noted an improvement in tempo, in movement. Down below us, a Cucurella effort was blocked for a corner.

On fifty-one minutes, that man Vardy wriggled in and crashed a shot in from close-range at an angle, but Sanchez had his angles covered and blocked.

Just after, the otherwise energetic and engaged Neto let himself down and crumpled inside the area under the most minimalist of touches from a Leicester player. Everyone around me was quickly irritated by this behaviour. As he laid on the pitch, making out that he was mortally wounded, the shouts of anger boomed out.

I joined in.

“GET UP. GET UP! WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU.”

Bloody cheating footballers.

He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.

On fifty-five minutes, there was a great claim by Sanchez following a low cross from the Leicester right.

An hour had passed and just as we had finished praising Cucurella for his fine aggressive play in all areas of the pitch, I started filming some of the play down below me so I could show a clip of the game to a friend in Azerbaijan. Photos are clearly my thing, and I very rarely do this. On this occasion, luck played its part as I caught the play leading up to a super-clean and super-clinical finish from the man himself.

“Get in Cucurella.”

A great goal, and the three players involved were becoming the main lights in this once mundane match. Neto, despite his painful play-acting, was full of running and tenaciousness. Enzo was a real driving force in this game, trying his best to ignite and inspire. Cucurella was, as ever, full of energy and application.

We were 1-0 up.

Phew.

We had edged our noses in front against a stubborn but hardly threatening Leicester City team.

Alas, on sixty-nine minutes, Cole was 0-5.

Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.

Tyrique George for Palmer.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

A shot on goal from Enzo was blocked by Conor Coady, who used to be a footballer, and there was a shout for a penalty. VAR dismissed it.

On eighty-eight minutes, Pedro Neto hounded and chased the ball in a display of “top level pressing” and was roundly applauded for it, his redemption complete.

A minute later, a final substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.

It had been another afternoon of middling effort matched by disdain from the terraces for this false footballer.

Tyrique George impressed on his cameo appearance and broke well, late on, setting up Enzo but his low drive was blocked well by Hermansen.

It ended 1-0.

This wasn’t a great game, but we had deserved the win. Miraculously it pushed back into the top four.

“How the hell are we the fourth-best team in England?”

Quality-wise, this is a really poor Premier League season.

We headed home. However, this would be a busy week for me as I would be returning to Stamford Bridge the following day and for the Copenhagen return game on the Thursday.

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland