Tag Archives: Frome Town

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From A Painful Watch

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2025.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez. Spin the wheel.”

This was a painful match to watch, and this is going to be a painful edition to write.

As is so often the case, the football managed to get in the way of an otherwise enjoyable day out.

Clear driving, perfect timings, fine weather, blue skies, good company, contrasting landscapes, interesting new pubs, friendly locals.

But also football.

Fackinell.

This would be my fifty-fifth Chelsea versus Manchester City game in all competitions and at all venues. It would be my twentieth visit to the Etihad. In the previous nineteen, we had won just five.

2003/04

2007/08

2008/09

2013/14

2016/17

The preparations for this trip north had been set in stone for a while. Normally for games in Manchester, we stop at the Tabley interchange on the M6 and enjoy some food and drinks at “The Windmill”. We visit so regularly that the landlady recognises us. However, I realised that this pre-match routine wasn’t particularly lucky for us. In fact, I can never remember us winning at either City nor United since this has been our Manchester pre-game plan. I decided we needed a change.

Rather than a pre-match spent to the south-west of the city, I decided to flip things one-hundred and eighty degrees, and head up to the moors overlooking the empire of Mancunia to the north-east of the city centre.

I explained my plans to PD and Parky, and there were no complaints.

I collected PD at 8.30am and PD at 9am. The idea was to arrive at the first of a little string of three or four pubs to the northeast of Oldham at around 1pm and to stay until 4pm before setting off for the game.

Soon on our way, PD asked me of my thoughts about the evening’s match.

I grimaced as I replied “I think we can get something today, maybe even a win.”

After all, simply put, City had not been City in the past few months. The collapse in Paris on Wednesday, I hoped, had unsettled them further.

The skies were clear, clear blue, as we headed north. We stopped for a very quick breakfast at Strensham on the M5. Our next stop was at Keele on the M6. For the last hour, New Order’s “Music Complete” accompanied us as I drove on. It got me, at least, in the mood for a few hours in Manchester.

We swept over the Thelwall Viaduct. Winter Hill, just to the north of Bolton, just a few miles north of where we won the league almost twenty years ago, was clearly visible. I curled around onto the M62 and then hit the M60 orbital. Then back onto the M62 again as we rose higher and higher. The skies were still magnificently clear. One view in particular was stunning; a wide and vast panorama of moorland, valleys, industrial heritage, rooftops.

Then, at last, a southern spur on the A672 took me to our first stop, the Rams Head pub on Ripponden Road.

We arrived at 1.15pm. A cold wind howled around me as I took a few photos of the rugged and wild moors that surrounded the pub. We settled in for the best part of an hour and befriended a local couple who had popped in for a pint or two. I was in for a shock. They informed me that pub was actually in Yorkshire, and the Lancashire border was a few miles away, but we would pass that important line soon. The log fire roared next to us. What a cosy place on top of such a wind-blown summit.

This area – Saddleworth Moor – is of course tainted with the horrific events of the mid ‘sixties and the atrocious acts of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.

“Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Lesley-Ann and your pretty white beads.

Oh John you’ll never be a man.

And you’ll never see your home again.

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

Not only the bitter wind chilled me to the bone.

We drove a couple of miles south-west to the next pub, The Printers, and were again welcomed with open arms by the staff. We squeezed in at a table next to a roaring fire. The beers were cheap, the pub was warming. The landlady gave us each a hug as we left and hoped we won. She was United. I had explained the need for us to break the ill-luck of visiting “The Windmill” at Tabley, and optimistically said “see you next season.”

At 3pm, we ventured further south and entered the final stop of this pre-game pub crawl, The Kings Arms. This overlooked yet more naked moorland and was a very busy hostelry. A City fan at the next table chatted for a while. Above the bar was a wooden beam that signalled the exact boundary between Yorkshire and Lancashire. The toilets were in Yorkshire.

At 4pm, we headed off to the game. From a geographical perspective, the Ripponden Road, the A672, resembled a long straight ski jump that would eventually send us hurtling into the heart of Manchester.

We were sent right through the middle of Oldham. PD remembers being in digs in Oldham while working with one of Frome’s many road gangs. But none of us had ever watched a game at Boundary Park, home of the town’s team Oldham Athletic.

The football scene in the Manchester conurbation has changed somewhat in recent years. Oldham Athletic and Rochdale are now one level below the Football League in the National League, while Bury are playing in the lowly North West Counties League, two levels below Frome Town. Going the other way, Salford are now in League Two while Stockport County are now back in League One after playing as low as the National League South in 2013/14, just one division higher than Frome Town.

Ah, Frome Town. On this day, I solemnly wished that I could be in two places at the same time. While I was two hundred miles north of Frome in Manchester, my home-town team were playing fancied Gloucester City in our first home game in more than three weeks. At half-time, I learned that it was 0-0.

My route took me from Oldham on the A62 and through Failsworth and close to United’s original home in Newton Heath. I made it to the Etihad where PD and Parky made a quick exit at a red light outside the away end. I was parked up at my usual place near The Grove pub – it memorably smelled of bleach in May 2023 – at 4.50pm.

That, I think everyone will agree, was perfect timing.

Once parked, I quickly checked the score at Badgers Hill.

Frome Town 0 Gloucester City 0.

I was happy with that.

I donned my warm Moncler jacket and slapped my black Frome Town baseball cap on my bonce and walked off in the cold along Ashton New Road to the waiting stadium.

I was inside the middle tier – block 214, three seats from the City fans, get ready for some tiresome banter – at 5.15pm.

My first-ever visit to Manchester took place in October 1984 when I visited a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly, and I briefly described this earlier this season. On that day, City played a Second Division home game against Oxford United in front of a very creditable 24,755 and won 1-0. I remember trying to spot the Maine Road floodlights as we travelled into town on the train. I was undoubtedly on the lookout, too, for the subtle differences between London and Manchester casual trends as we darted around the city centre. I definitely remembering spotting flared cords, flared jeans, and the seminal “Hurley’s” shop near Piccadilly.

Incidentally, just for the record :

City’s home average that season in Division Two was 24,206.

Chelsea’s average that season in Division One was 23,065.

My diary from that day mentioned us visiting a city centre pub called “The Salisbury” – I have the very feintest memory – but I have since decided that I would love to go back, as it looks an absolutely cracking boozer, right under the train tracks near Oxford Road station. Maybe next season.

Back to 2025, and I was inside just in time to see some white smoke drifting up from in front of the stand to our right. There had obviously been some sort of pre-match fanfare. The City team was being shown on the TV screens.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

There was time for a little Manchester-themed music. Typically, this featured Oasis, but also James, who I had not knowingly remembered being featured at City before. I wondered if there was a yearly meeting in a city centre hotel featuring the media team of Manchester’s two main clubs, and an NFL-style draft of the coming season’s playlists.

United : “Well, you can have Oasis, as per. And the High Flying Birds.”

City. “Mint. You can have Stone Roses. It’s our turn for The Smiths this season, Marr is more a blue than Moz is a red anyway.”

United : “OK, We’ll have New Order.”

City : “Oh, that’s hard to take. OK. We’ll have James.”

United : “Deal. Buzzcocks.”

City : “No worries. The Fall for us.”

United : “Magazine.”

City : “Duritti Column.”

United : “Happy Mondays.”

City : “Given. Inspiral Carpets.”

United : “Hollies.”

City : “Thought Russell Watson was more your style.”

What an over-the-top pre-match show. The stadium lights dimmed, flashing spotlights zoomed around the stands. I found it all too much. What will this shite be like in twenty years’ time for God’s sake?

The real City are Levenshulme, not Las Vegas.

There was an odd operatic-version of “Blue Moon.”

Oh boy.

It wasn’t like this in Moss Side in 1984/85 I am sure.

Then, a mood change.

A clanging mood change.

The images of three City players who have recently passed away were shown on the screens.

Bobby Kennedy

Denis Law

Tony Book

The last man, the player then manager Book, was described in revered tones and a nice banner was draped from a top balcony. The announcer called him “Stick” which was new to me. In Frome, two-and-a-half hours earlier, there had been a minute’s silence in memory of the same man.

I remembered the lovely and respectful way that City remembered Gianluca Vialli two seasons ago.

Despite the awful kick-off time, the three-thousand Chelsea fans were in. There was hardly an empty seat anywhere. My mate David, the freelance photographer, was spotted in a pit in front of the away fans.

Both teams in blue, the game began.

And how.

There was an early City attack on the goal down below us, but on two minutes, it was Nicolas Jackson causing problems in the City half. There was rather rustic clearance from Trevoh Chalobah and Jackson chased the high ball, putting pressure on the new City defender Abdukodir Khusanov. His headed pass back to Ederson did not have the legs, and Jackson picked up the ball and flicked it to his right where Noni Madueke was level with his run. There was a simple tap in.

The Chelsea away contingent, in three tiers, erupted, and Madueke raced away and slid to his knees in front of the disconsolate City support.

After my head stopped spinning, I did my best to capture the moment.

Ci’eh 0 Chowlsea 1.

Blimey.

However, I suspect that I wasn’t the only person thinking “we’ve scored too soon, here.”

After the tap in against Wolves, Madueke will not score two easier back-to-back goals in his career. We continued our bright start and there was a free-kick from Reece James. On nine minutes, Cole Palmer was put through into acres of space after excellent play by Chalobah. He raced on, but just as we were expecting a trademark ice-cold finish from his wand of a left foot, he remarkably played the ball to Jackson. Critically, this pass was overhit and Jackson struggled to catch up with the pace of the pass. The chance to shoot had gone, and although we kept possession, the follow-up shot from Jadon Sancho was blocked by Khusanov.

Bollocks.

A 2-0 lead on nine minutes would have been a formidable position to find ourselves.

Chalobah, the player of the game thus far, was able to block a shot on goal, and we then watched as that annoying little irritant Phil Foden smacked a shot against Robert Sanchez’ left post.

But then City, energised by a couple of breaks, grew into the game and the marauding runs of Josko Gvardiol caught the eye. After drifting past Madueke far too easily, the Croatian blasted over.

After Chelsea controlling the first fifteen minutes, City effectively dominated the remaining thirty minutes of the first period. Our midfield lost its bite, the wide players did not support the defenders, it all went downhill, like us dropping down from Saddleworth earlier.

Sigh.

The noise from both sets of fans wasn’t great. It is always difficult for us to get anything going as we are split over the three tiers. There were occasional barbs aimed at City.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Jackson was through on goal, but the shot was saved, and the linesman’s flag was raised anyway. City had a goal chalked off for offside.

The chances for City were piling up.

I turned to John :

“If City don’t equalise this half, it will be a miracle.”

Lo and behold, on forty-two minutes, a long ball out of defence set up a chance for Matheus Nunes as he beat off a challenge from Marc Cucurella. His shot was blocked by Sanchez, but the ball ran nicely to Gvardiol who tucked it in from an angle down below us.

Bollocks.

The home support just yards away turned it on. They were looking into us and were hoping for a reaction. I just turned away.

Sigh.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

The half-time period was spent with hands in pockets, keeping warm, trying to muster up some hope from somewhere.

The second half, then. Do I have to?

Initially, Chelsea managed to create a few half-chances but never really looked like scoring. On more than one occasion, I felt myself wanting to see a niggly and obstreperous Diego Costa leading our line rather than the flimsy Jackson.

In the second half at City, that far half of the pitch always looks so huge, so full of space, and it always scares me to death. We were defending high and always seemed at risk.

I was surprised that we managed to create, somehow, some half-chances, but the City goal was not really under threat.

Erling Haaland was having a typically odd game; never too involved but always a threat. He’s like a stick insect on steroids, a powdered up praying mantis, a bundle of arms and legs.

On sixty-one minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson and then managed to hide for the rest of the match.

“Half an hour to go, John.”

We surely wouldn’t last this amount of time.

We didn’t.

On sixty-eight minutes, Ederson went long and aimed a punt at the marauding Haaland. He met the ball, with Chalobah breathing down his neck, and managed to get a head on it. He spun Chalobah in the inside-right channel – all that bloody space – but as he sped away, we saw the worrying presence of the orange peril, Sanchez, racing out, changing his tack, and looking like a fireman who had been called out to the wrong fire.

Quite simply, this was not going to end well. We could all see it. To be fair to Chalobah, he had forced Haaland quite wide, but Haaland was no fool. He came inside just as Chalobah slipped. Sanchez was back-peddling and readjusting at the same time, going in nine directions at once, and a vain leap was never going to stop Haaland’s perfectly curled lob into an empty goal.

The City support erupted.

Fackinell.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

At last they made some worthwhile noise.

“We’re not really here.”

Sanchez, eh? For all of his decent saves and blocks, he is not good enough.

He is just not good enough for Chelsea Football Club.

The one thing that really annoys me is his really casual and lackadaisical approach to everything he does. He never seems to be tuned in, to be in step with others, to be fully aware of the situation at hand. He never seems to be ready to play the ball out. He is so slow. He doesn’t inspire confidence in fans nor players alike.

At City, he had his own low point.

I know our job as supporters is to support, but it’s fucking hard.

Some substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

We went to pieces.

On eighty-seven minutes, another Ederson long ball, this time to the substitute Kevin De Bruyne. He flicked it on towards the familiar pairing of Haaland and Chalobah. It was Haaland who got a touch, square to Foden. It was at this point that I took my eyes off the play and looked deep into the night above the stadium. I brought my gaze back to the game, and Foden slotted past Sanchez.

City 3 Chelsea 1.

PRE

MATCH

Tales From A Must-Win Game

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Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 20 January 2025.

I said it. You said it. Even educated fleas said it.

“This is a must-win” game.

And it was. With just three points out of fifteen in our previous five league games, things were starting to slip for Chelsea Football Club. Back in August, at our first away game of the season, we walloped Wolverhampton Wanderers 6-2, and they were currently mired in the bottom reaches of the table, having shown little spirit nor substance in the following twenty games since then. So, a home game with Wolves? We had to win this one.

This was a Monday night match, an 8pm kick-off, and thus was a familiar drive up to HQ. I collected PD and LP at 2pm. I dropped them off in deepest Fulham at 4.30pm. On the way to London, I was able, at last, to talk to them both about a Frome Town game.

My hometown team’s first match in three weeks had taken place on the previous Saturday at Winchester City and this was my first Frome game since an evening in Bath in the middle of December. Despite going one goal down at Winchester, Frome immediately countered with a fine strike from Rex Mannings. Not long after, Zak Drew touched home a flick-on from Archie Ferris at a corner to give the away team a 2-1 lead. Despite coming under severe pressure during the second half, another neat strike from Joe O’Laughlin gave Frome our fourth win out of five games in the league. Despite still being stuck in the relegation zone, the improvements over the past five weeks have been sensational. At last, there is hope in the Frome ranks.

On the way up to my usual parking spot on Charleville Road, the sky was tinted with a pink glow, and I noted that several friends were posting shots of the sunset on “Facebook” from around London. On this day, Blue Monday – the most depressing day of the year apparently, not a good sign ahead of the game – at least Mother Nature was trying to keep our spirits up. I caught the tube at West Kensington, and there was a stop for some food at Earl’s Court and a first visit to “Zizzi.”

I checked to see if there were many away fans at “The Courtfield” outside the tube station at Earl’s Court, but I saw few. It is likely that the vicinity might well have been crawling with away fans just over forty years ago.

On Saturday 19 January 1985, Chelsea were to host Arsenal in a repeat of the season’s opener in August. I was to attend from my home in Stoke. However, there had been a mighty cold snap leading up to this game, and so on the day before I ‘phoned Chelsea to gauge the likelihood of the game taking place. The message from HQ was unless there was “adverse weather” overnight, the game would take place on the Saturday but at the earlier time of 2pm.

On the Saturday morning, I ‘phoned Chelsea again – at 8.30am – from a public call box outside Stoke City’s Victoria Ground and the game was on.

I caught the 9.20am train down from Stoke. My diary tells me that the fare had increased to £9.10. I quickly made my way over to Fulham Broadway and I bought a “Benches” ticket for £4. I had quite forgotten that tickets were needed for a few games in the “Benches” in 1984/85. I was in the ground early and was eventually joined by the usual crew.

From the left : me, Alan, Richard, Dave, Paul, Glenn, Glenn’s mate (who he had met on the train from Frome – possibly Swan from Radstock), Leggo and Mark.

My diary mentions “no fighting at all.”

This game gave me my first sighting of Charlie Nicholas, who had missed the game at Highbury. The pitch was terrible; mud everywhere, the pitch heavily sanded, strands of straw all over the surface. As was often the case in that era, the match was shown live on Scandinavian TV, and there were dozens of odd-sounding advertisement boards in evidence everywhere.

It wasn’t a great match. Arsenal’s Tony Woodcock missed a couple of good chances in the first half, and David Speedie fluffed a one-on-one in the second period. The visitors went ahead in the seventy-fifth minute when Kenny Sansom sent over a cross for Paul Mariner to head home in front of the Arsenal hordes on the north terrace. Chelsea went to pieces for a while. Bizarrely, the rest of the lads left early, leaving just Glenn and me watching the last remaining minutes. However, I have a distinct feeling that they all left early to queue up for FA Cup replay tickets – the away tie at Wigan Athletic – after the game. In the last minute of the match, a deep free kick from Colin Lee was headed on by Joe McLaughlin, Kerry Dixon played the ball on to Speedie and with a deft flick, the ball was lobbed over John Lukic.

Well, the place erupted. Glenn and I danced around like fools in the wide gangway behind the back row of the wooden benches – the wildest celebration for ages – and loa-and-behold Alan and Paul sprinted back to join us. Great times.

The gate that day in 1985 was 34,752 and Arsenal had, of course, the whole end with maybe 7,000 fans, around the same as West Ham in September. I remember how bitterly cold it was, but I remember the joyous victory jig with Glenn, Alan and Paul to this day.

On the walk back to West Kensington, I bumped into Andy from Trowbridge who was looking at some designer gear in a shop window on the North End Road. Throughout that season, as Andy had in fact predicted on the train to Highbury back in August, there had been a seismic shift in terrace fashions, less and less lurid sportswear, more and more expensive pullovers in neutral colours, less pale blue jeans, more mid-blue and dark blue jeans – Hard Core jeans specifically – and more black leather jackets. Less Fila, Tacchini and Ellese, more Burberry, Aquascutum and Armani.

Forty years later, in 2025, it has all gone mainstream, and the thrill has largely disappeared. Occasionally, though – very occasionally – I find myself checking out the attire of a football fancier and I think to myself :

“Yep. Fair play. He’s got that right.”

I caught the tube from Earl’s Court down to Putney Bridge and had the briefest of stays – thirty minutes – with PD, LP and Salisbury Steve at “The Eight Bells.” We started to discuss plans for the upcoming trip to Manchester City at the weekend just as The Smiths appeared on the pub jukebox. How 1985.

Back at Stamford Bridge, I was inside at 7.30pm with half-an-hour to spare. Unfortunately, Clive and Alan were out injured and so it was just PD and me in “The Sleepy.”

Unlike Bournemouth, Wolves brought the full three thousand.

I again noted that an area down below us, adjacent to the pitch, was cordoned off by rope and around twenty or so corporate guests (I can’t call them supporters, sorry) were watching the Chelsea players carry out their shuttle runs. They were then walked across the pitch, past the centre-circle (what utter sacrilege) and into their expensive seats behind the Chelsea bench.

JD and I looked on disapprovingly.

“I guess that is what you get when you sit in ‘The Dug Out Club’ these days.”

“The game’s gone.”

I returned to my seat, which afforded me a view ten times better than those low down in the East Lower.

Our team?

The big news was the return of Trevoh Chalobah from his load at Selhurst Park and Captain Reece was starting too. Enzo Fernandez was out injured, but Cole Palmer was thought fit enough to start.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

There was the usual light show, but thankfully no fireworks on this occasion.

I must admit that I liked the look of the Wolves all-gold kit.

I guessed that the Wolves skipper won the toss because Chelsea attacked the Northern end in the first half, the same as against Arsenal in 1985.

It was all go in the first thirty seconds of the game.

Cole Palmer kicked-off straight back to Robert Sanchez and the ball was quickly played out to Pedro Neto who crossed inside. There was a defensive header behind and a Reece James corner on the far side. A Trevoh Chalobah header moved the ball on with Noni Madueki lurking behind the Wolves defenders Wilson, Keppel and Betty, but a volley went wide of the far post.

After five minutes, there was widespread applause as a superbly executed sliding tackle from Chalobah halted a Wolves break, one on one.

There seemed to be a lot more boisterousness from the crowd from the off and I really wondered if the extra thirty minutes in the pub on this evening of football was the reason why the volume was up on the Bournemouth game.

Chelsea had begun strongly and were creating a fair few chances in the first quarter of an hour. Noni Madueke set up Cole Palmer, but a shot went wide. Madueke, Dewsbury-Hall, Palmer again, and James all had efforts on goal.

It was a really decent start.

On sixteen minutes, the ball was played to Palmer, twenty-five yards out and he calmly caressed the ball as he weighed up options, touching the ball forward. We have been so used to Palmer stroking the ball nonchalantly into the corners of the goal – if he was a baseball pitcher, commentators would say he was “painting the corners of the strike zone” – that I was quite shocked when his eventual shot was turned past the post by Sa in the Wolves’ goal.

On eighteen minutes, Sa received treatment on the pitch for a knock, and the rest of the players received a drinks break in front of “The Dug Out Club” in the East Lower.

With it being a cold night, I wondered if it was a soup break.

“Right lads, I’ve got tomato, oxtail, cream of mushroom, Mulligatawny, leek and potato.”

“Any croutons.”

“You and your croutons, Trevoh. No. I keep telling you, choking hazard.”

The game continued.

There was a typical example of awful distribution from Robert Sanchez, and how we howled.

There was a typical example of a fine forceful run followed by a heavy touch from Nicolas Jackson, and how we howled.

Then, an errant Wolves header from Matt Doherty but the Wolves ‘keeper just about recovered before Pedro Neto could pounce, and how we howled with laughter.

From the resulting corner, the ball fell nicely to James who took a swipe at goal despite the presence of virtually the entire Wolves team blocking his sight of goal. There was a typical deflection, and the ball ran on to a Chelsea player, who smacked the ball home.

However, I did not celebrate as I thought the scorer, plus maybe two more Chelsea attackers, were in an offside position. Indeed, the linesman’s flag went up.

Not many around us in “The Sleepy” expected a goal.

“Offside by a mile.”

But there was a VAR call, and a long wait, a very long wait.

Goal.

I could hardly believe it.

Tosin ran towards the Matthew Harding Lower.

I snapped.

But I could not believe it.

In Alan’s absence, I loved the fact that two Chelsea mates in Texas, of all places, texted me the rallying-call.

Robin, in Houston : “THTCAUN.”

Charles, in Dallas : “THTCAUN.”

Chris in Fulham : “COMLD.”

Lovely stuff.

Sadly, we then drifted quite considerably. Wolves, for the first real time, came into the game.

PD was more succinct : “since the goal we been shit.”

Sanchez looked shaky again. I came up with a phrase that just about sums him up.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez”.

Spin that wheel, mate, we never know what you are going to do next.

There were defensive blocks at timely interventions, but Wolves had the best of the closing period of the half. In almost the last of the six minutes of injury-time, it all went pear-shaped. A corner from in front of the away fans, a jump from Sanchez at the near post, but a fumble and the ball was dropped.

Doherty pushed it home.

Ugh.

“Spin that wheel, Sanchez.”

There were boos at half-time, which I never like to hear.

It was time for some gallows humour. I joked with a few folk nearby that we got a head start on having a crap second-half by starting it in the first.

We attacked The Shed in the second-half of course; it never seems right these days.

Of course our “ends” have since flipped but I can’t often remember us often attacking The Shed in the first-half in pre-1995 days.

Sanchez was soon annoying me again. A simple throw out to Marc Cucurella went behind him, and I howled once more.

As the game got going again, I spotted how much space Madueke was enjoying out on our right and on three occasions in what seemed like a few seconds, Palmer reached him with expansive passes. Noni then flattered to deceive – that phrase only used for football – and went to pieces, with heavy control, poor passing, weak finishing.

However, spotting the team needed support, parts of the Matthew Harding raised their game.

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

There was yet another incisive Palmer to Madueke pass, but it was again wasted.

Thankfully, on the hour, cometh the hour, cometh the man, and that man was Cucurella. A cute cross from Madueke, at last, was flicked on by the improving and unmarked Dewsbury-Hall, and it fell at the feet of an also unmarked Cucurella. There was time for a softening touch in his, er, midriff, before he smashed the ball into the corner of the goal.

A scream from me, a slide from him.

GET IN.

Just after, the poor Neto was replaced by Jadon Sancho.

Five minutes after our second goal, Jackson won a free kick down by the Wolves support. Palmer floated the ball over towards the far post where Chalobah rose well to head the ball goalwards. Through a crowd of bodies, I semi-saw the ball headed in by another Chelsea player. The much-maligned Madueke raced away, slid to his knees, while I snapped away.

Chelsea had faltered but had dug in and improved. Fair play to the team on this occasion.

There were some positives. Both Chalobah and James were excelling; fine performances from them. In fact, in addition to the returning Trevoh taking Conor Gallagher’s shirt number, he had also inherited his specific chant too.

Welcome back, Trev.

Moises Caicedo was steady and solid.

Thankfully, Wolves faded as we improved.

Palmer – who had been fouled and was looking slightly off-colour – played Jackson through, and it looked offside to me, but he took the chance well. Alas, I was right for once. No goal.

Some substitutions.

77 minutes :

Axel Disasi for James, a warm ovation.

Malo Gusto for Dewsbury-Hall.

84 minutes :

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Madueke, a league debut.

Wolves kept going and tested us with a couple of late efforts, but we easily withstood them. There was even a fine save and a fine block by Sanchez from Matheus Cunha and Jorgen Strand Larsen.

At last, we had eked out our first league win in six games, and we rose again to fourth in the table.

Next up, a visit to the team that are – for once, the first time in a blue moon – one place below us.

See you there

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 1985

Tales From A Second-Half Fade

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 14 January 2025.

After the 3pm kick-off on the previous Saturday, I felt rather off-kilter as I made my way up to London with PD and Parky for a Tuesday evening game at home to Bournemouth. There is always a nice and natural rhythm to a run of Saturday games and one week seems to me like a perfect rest period for players and fans alike. After a week of inactivity – no Chelsea – most fans are chomping at the bit for the next instalment.

However, after a rest of just two days, the Sunday and Monday, we were at it again.

I had to chuckle after I had just after picked up the lads in Melksham and Parky, sitting at ease in the back seat, had commented “it’s tiring work, these midweek games” without a hint of irony.

Before setting off from Melksham, the football world had received the sad news that the former Manchester City player and manager Tony Book had passed away at the age of ninety. I would not normally mention things such as this, but Tony Book once played for Frome Town for a short while at the start of his career, which later took him to Bath City and Plymouth Argyle before joining City at the age of thirty. My father always told me as a youngster that Tony Book came from Peasedown, no more than eight miles from my home village, but it would appear that his home city was indeed Bath, but he played his first football for Peasedown Miners. There was a trial at Chelsea in his early years.

Tony Book was undoubtedly Frome Town’s most famous ex-player.

RIP.

As I stopped for fuel at Membury Services, I spotted that my mate Clive posed a question to me via a WhatsApp message.

“Who was the first British goalkeeper to win the European Cup with two separate teams?”

As I drove off, I had an idea, a strong idea, of who this might be. As I was driving, I asked PD to message Clive my answer.

I was pleased that I was correct.

Anyone have any ideas?

At around 4.30pm, I dropped the lads off along the Fulham High Street and they made their way to “The Eight bells.” Our pre-match activities were to differ on this occasion. I shot up to Charleville Road, just off the North End Road, to park up. I dived into an Italian restaurant and treated myself, but although the food was tasty, the portion sizes were miniscule and the prices expensive. Not even the charms of the two Italian sisters who work there might entice me back.

I shot off down to the re-opened “Broadway Bar & Grill” – formerly The Kings Arms – and met up with Mehul, originally from India, but now living in Berlin via a few years in Detroit. I last met up with him at Christmas 2019 on a boozy pub-crawl around Fulham. He was with his friend Pete, originally from near Swindon, and now living in Berlin too.

This was Pete’s first top-flight football match since Swindon Town’s lone season in the Premier League in 1993/94. Pete explained how Glenn Hoddle, who jumped ship to manage Chelsea after winning promotion for the Robins in 1993, is still referred to as “Judas” in Swindon circles. I can readily remember a Swindon Town supporter who worked as a fitter alongside me in a factory in Trowbridge, who had a snarling expression at the best of times, who seemed to hold me personally responsible for Hoddle’s deflection from his local team. Football, eh?

I explained to them both how Glenn Hoddle played an absolutely pivotal role in the upsurge in Chelsea’s fortunes over the past thirty or so years. Having seen Swindon’s entertaining football during the 1992/93 season on TV and at one game against Newcastle United, I can certainly remember being so thrilled to hear that he was to join us, despite his Tottenham past.

I made it to my seat at 1905, as good a time as any.

I noticed that Bournemouth did not take their full 3,000 allocation. It looked like the lesser 2,200 which resulted in a slightly different configuration to the away section.

The starting eleven caused a slight stir with Moises Caicedo again starting at right-back, but with Reece James and Malo Gusto available but on the bench. I was surprised that the long-term injured Romeo Lavia was the only player retained from the Morecambe game on Saturday. Would he be able to manage two games in four days?

Anyway, Enzo Maresca is the manager, he has the badges, while I will admit that I am a tactical moron.

This was the line-up :

Sanchez

Caicedo – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I had said to various friends in the pre-match chitter-chatter that although three points were vitally important, it was just as imperative to play some good football, to see our confidence return, to “get back on the treadmill.”

The game began, and nobody could complain about our opening. There was an early Enzo miss from close in during the first few seconds, and on six minutes Cole Palmer had a free-kick saved by the Bournemouth ‘keeper Mark Travers. On nine minutes, there was a delicate lob from Palmer that drifted just past the frame of the goal. All of this was a pre-amble to a lovely piece of football on thirteen minutes.

The ball was pushed into Nicolas Jackson by Enzo, and despite being surrounded by three Bournemouth defenders – Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew – Nico managed to hold on to the ball with great strength and wriggle out of a tight space with the ball. There was a finely gauged pass to Palmer, who had made a run past three more Bournemouth defenders – Cuthburt, Dibble, Grub – to perfection. With the ‘keeper in front of him, just one man to beat now, he paused slightly, effectively a dummy, and as the ‘keeper fell to one side, Palmer cooly slotted the ball to the other side and into the net.

There were joyous celebrations all around Stamford Bridge.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I likened the cool finish to Jimmy Greaves. Alan likened it to George Best.

CFC 1 AFCB 0.

On twenty minutes, the away team enjoyed a little more of the ball, but we still looked in control. We seemed more tenacious in midfield than in previous games.

On twenty-eight minutes, Enzo showed some lovely close skill and forced a low save from Travers to his right from twenty yards out.

On thirty-two minutes, all eyes were on Noni Madueke who was faced with the prospect of having to beat two Bournemouth defenders. I caught on film his tight control, his acceleration, his changing body shape as he miraculously sped clear. His final decision – a shot and not a pass – was his downfall. It smacked the near post. If only.

On thirty-seven minutes, yet another piece of shambolic play from Robert Sanchez gifted the away team with their first real chance of the first period. He played the ball straight to Justin Kluivert – a pass intended for Palmer – and after a little pinball in the Chelsea penalty area, it was the same Bournemouth player who hit the base of the left-hand post. The ball was hacked away by Moises Caicedo down below us and again Jackson did ever so well to wrestle himself from a physical challenge, turn and sprint away. This was gorgeous football. Alas, his strike at goal hit the base of the left-hand post at the other end of the ground and it stayed 1-0.

On thirty-eight minutes, a deep curler from out on the right wing by Palmer evaded everyone apart from the leap of Jackson. His downward header was superbly parried by Travers, and the bouncing rebound was slashed wide by Jackson again.

Snot.

It was a real curate’s egg of a first-half. Good – no great – in parts, but with still an annoying number of wayward passes. We created way more chances than Bournemouth – as evidenced by the predominance of the name of Travers thus far – but it stayed, worryingly at 1-0.

The noise in the stadium was truly terrible too.

But you knew that.

I joked with Frank who sits behind me that “we can’t bring Cucarella on to liven things up because the fucker is already on.”

Ho hum.

The second half began, and we seemed to be sleep-walking during the opening moments which was a big worry. Three minutes into the half, the otherwise impressive Enzo gave a loose pass to Romeo Lavia, and it was snapped up. The ball was played to Antoine Semenyo and as he raced away. As he set himself to shoot, Caicedo bundled him over. It was a penalty all day long.

Kluivert smashed it high into the goal.

CFC 1 AFCB 1.

I loved the crowd’s reaction, immediately after the goal.

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

The loudest of the night.

There was a bonkers foul by Lavia just after, and I was fuming. Just when we needed leaders to calm things down and to steady the ship, we gave away a cheap free kick. Thankfully it came to nothing.

I didn’t see the foul on Cucarella – the hair pull, give me strength – and I only saw the quite pathetic rolling around by Cucarella, no doubt screaming in agony. There was confusion as VAR got involved, players hounded the referee on the touchline, the referee seemed the centre of attention again.

A yellow, no red.

Pah.

On fifty-six minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia, with Caicedo trotting inside alongside Enzo.

On fifty-seven, a solid crunch of a tackle from Enzo, and the ball fell to Jackson, but that man Travers was able to save.

The away team grew in confidence. They were a well-trained unit that broke well. I said to Alan “we’ll do well to draw this.”

A Bournemouth corner resulted in a fine block by Sanchez from a shot by Brooks.

Just as I was thinking something along the lines of “well maybe if they attack us, we can exploit the space they leave behind them”, a rapid break down the inside-left channel cut us open and Semenyo, danced past Josh Acheampong way too easily and slashed the ball high past Sanchez with his left foot.

CFC 1 AFCB 2.

Fackinell.

Sixty-eight minutes had passed.

There was an immediate substitution. Although he had impressed against Crystal Palace, Josh had struggled here. He was replaced by Tosin.

A shot from Jackson was blocked by either Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthburt Dibble or Grub, I forget who.

With a quarter of an hour to go, I noted that there was a bit more fervour from the home support, thank heavens.

But Bournemouth still created two chances of their own with ten minutes to go, and our second-half fade, a trademark of late, was all too familiar.

On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution from Maresca.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Joao Felix for Caicedo.

There was a magnificent save from Travers, at full stretch, a header from Tosin from a Palmer free-kick.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

More than a trickle of fans had decided to leave.

Four minutes in, from virtually the same position as the previous free-kick six minutes earlier, Palmer and James stood over the ball. It was Reece’s turn. I snapped as he struck. The ball stayed low and miraculously bent its way around the wall and nestled into the goal.

The net rippled.

What a sight that is.

CFC 2 AFCB 2.

Reece wheeled away in ecstasy.

Phew.

In the ninety-ninth minute, Tosin headed wide. No last-minute madness this time. It stayed 2-2.

It was, alas, only our third point out of the last fifteen. And the really worrying thing is that these five games were against teams that we ought to be beating; Everton, Fulham, Ipswich, Crystal Palace, Bournemouth.

Oh well, on we go.

Next up is a home game on Monday against Wolverhampton Wanderers.

See you there.

The answer?

Jimmy Rimmer.

Manchester United 1968.

Aston Villa 1982.

Tales From A Box

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Chelsea vs. Fulham : 26 December 2024.

Nobody likes sloppy seconds.

And that was a very sloppy second-half performance. We just about edged the first-half, but lost our way significantly after the break.

Right, that’s the match report done. What else happened on Boxing Day 2024?

I was up early for the game with Fulham. The alarm rang at 5.30am and I soon got into my morning routine. While my hometown prepared itself for the Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway game at 3pm – a relegation six-pointer – I crept around in the darkness and collected first PD and then Glenn. Then a quick spin through some back roads to collect Ron from his house at 7am and then on to collect Parky at 7.20am.

There were five-up in the car for the first time since Aston Villa a few weeks back, and this was only the third time this season that Ron has been with us. It was lovely to get the gang back together. As a “thank you” for the time we spend with Ron, the Chelsea Foundation very kindly gave Glenn a ticket for the Chelsea Foundation box for the Villa game, and today it was my turn. This allowed me to give my season ticket to Glenn who would be watching alongside Alan, Clive and PD in the Sleepy Hollow.

On the M4, as we headed west near Swindon, everything was quiet. Outside, the skies were a mixture of black and various dark grey hues. There were strong blocks of darkness, some low-lying cloud, but in truth it didn’t look like the sky at all, more a painter’s palette, with colours mixing and blurring. With the spots of water on my driver’s side window contorting an already ethereal scene, the effect was mesmerising. Then, suddenly appearing high, just through some gaps in the blotchy clouds, I spotted the moon, though it was the slimmest and feintest sliver of white, barely there, barely visible.

The road was almost devoid of traffic.

I stopped at Membury Services for a couple of cans of iced coffee to keep me going, but also a very stale bacon bap.

On the drive, I coolly stated that “Fulham never win at Chelsea. Their last win was in 1979 in the old Second Division.”

I drove into London bang on time. I dropped PD and Parky off near The Eight Bells at 9.30am and I dropped Ron and Glenn outside the main gates just after. I did a little driving around SW6 – some reconnaissance – to check out the area’s new parking regime. In the end, I parked, again, right outside the Italian restaurant that I used for the Shamrock Rovers game, which seemed strangely ages ago. Then, a brisk walk down to Stamford Bridge.

I had been keeping a secret from the chaps for this game. Our great friend Dave was over from his home in the South of France with his football-mad seven-year-old son Jared and I had managed to obtain two tickets for them via my friend Gary. Dave was originally from Dartford in Kent but I first met him out in Los Angeles when Chelsea played a couple of matches in the summer of 2007. At the time he was living in New York and only returned to England in around 2013. He was, memorably, with me when Demba Ba did his magic at Anfield that year. Since then, he moved to France. His son has top Chelsea pedigree; he was born on the same day that Chelsea won at West Bromwich Albion in 2017 to win our last league title. I visited Dave in Nice for a day in September 2023 while on holiday on the Italian Riviera, but the lads had not seen Dave for a good three years or so. We decided to keep their visit a surprise.

Dave and Jared, a keen footballer now, had encountered train problems en route but were waiting for me ahead of schedule at 10.15am. We met up with Glenn in the hotel bar and there were hugs and smiles. I handed over the two season tickets, just a few yards away from our seats, and then the three of them sped off to meet up with the lads in the pub near Putney Bridge.

I sat with Ron, and three long-time Chelsea fans – John, Mark and his mother – and waited for a few more of the other Chelsea players who take part in the pre-match hospitality to arrive. I was gasping for a drink, but was gasping at the price that I was charged for a small “Diet-Coke”; a mighty £3.58. It was nothing more than half-a-pint.

A dry bap, an expensive “Coke”, I was doing well.

I really enjoyed spending time with the three supporters, two of whom – Mark and John – I regularly see at the hotel. Both kept me occupied with stories from a shared Chelsea past. I had chatted to Mark at our mutual friend Gary’s funeral back in June, and Mark’s mother was there too. His mother had been born locally in Chelsea in 1940 and lived very close indeed to Stamford Bridge, possibly just off the Fulham Road. She explained how she got to know some of the players in the late ‘fifties, and how one of them – I forget who – was her late husband’s best man, and that two others were Mark’s Godparents.

Talk about Chelsea heritage.

Some players arrived.

Tommy Langley, Gary Chivers, Colin Pates, John Bumstead, David Lee, John Boyle.

They paired up and went on their way around the executive and hospitality areas at around midday. There was more chat with a few other Chelsea fans; a couple from Boston, their first match, a couple of lads from Norway.

At 1pm, I disappeared out of the hotel and soon find myself being welcomed into the Chelsea Foundation box that sits next to the Shed Wall inside the stadium, right down the southern end of the West Lower. Glenn had praised the lovely selection of food on offer at the Villa game, and I was looking forward to some better-quality food than I was served at Membury Services. Not long after I had sat at one of the two tables, I spotted a former player arrive.

Brian Bason played nineteen games for Chelsea between 1972 and 1977, and I think that he was taken aback that I recognised him. We had been friends on Facebook before my account was hacked in June, and I had actually forgotten that we were friends again on my new account. I enjoyed hearing about Brian’s Chelsea career and it gave me great pleasure to hear that he was a boyhood fan of the club. I am not sure if it was his debut, but he told the story of him playing at Tottenham in October 1972 – and winning 1-0, of course – and being so thrilled that Ron Harris gave him a lift back to his house after the game.

“Ron wasn’t a dirty player. He was just hard and solid.”

We spoke about Brian’s blooter against Carlisle in the autumn of 1975, but how Sammy Nelson broke his leg in a League Cup tie at Highbury in October 1976. I remembered that I had seen Brian play twice for Chelsea – at home to Cardiff City, away to Bristol Rovers – and those games were just before the leg-break. Incidentally, Brian was replaced by Ron Harris in that Arsenal game.

Brian went on to play 130 games for Plymouth Argyle, and also for Vancouver Whitecaps, Crystal Palace, Portsmouth and Reading. While playing in the NASL he played against Pele and George Best. Just imagine that. Brian retired from football in 1983 and he now lives in Brittany. He’s a lovely chap.

The food on offer was unsurprisingly top quality, and I devoured some chicken breasts with assorted vegetables. As I was driving, I kept to “Diet-Cokes” and strong coffees.

Ron arrived with David Lee, Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers and tucked into some food too; “I’m starving.”

At 2.45pm we went outside and took our seats in the front row of the two rows in front of the box.

A box on Boxing Day. The SW6 derby was about to begin.

Back in 1984, Chelsea faced another local foe in a Hammersmith & Fulham derby. On 26 December 1984, we travelled to Loftus Road and eked out a 2-2 draw, with both goals coming from Kerry Dixon, one of them a penalty. I was listening in to score updates at home in Somerset. QPR was always a difficult ticket for me, and I didn’t see my first match at Loftus Road until 1995. Hell, I didn’t see my first game at Craven Cottage until 2004.

I dislike QPR intensely in the 1979 to 1990 period as they often seemed to have the upper-hand over us. I remember a horrible 1-3 defeat at The Bridge on a rainy and dismal Saturday in March 1979, and the couple of Rangers fans sat right in front of me in the East Lower.

The gate at Loftus Road on Boxing Day 1984 was a mighty 26,610. At least half of the spectators would have been Chelsea. We used to take over the place in those days.

Here is a comparison with QPR’s home games against all London teams that season.

Tottenham Hotspur 27,404

Chelsea 26,610

Arsenal 20,189

West Ham 16,085

QPR had seven gates under 12,000 that season, including 11,007 on a Friday night against Liverpool, the European Champions, although that game was live on TV. In those days, TV games were often poorly attended.

In 2024, it was a mild Boxing Day, and the masses had packed out Stamford Bridge to another capacity crowd.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

It was odd to be watching from such a strange angle. I noticed how shallow the West Lower is; a really low rake, a low angle, unlike the old West Stand.

The game began and Chelsea attacked the Shed. Fulham probably enjoyed the best of the first five minutes but we steadily improved as the game developed. Jadon Sancho on the far side was an early bright spark, an early leading light, and he looked keen to impress. Both teams were sounding each other out, with only a few jabs being thrown.

On sixteen minutes, the game changed. Cole Palmer had started the game quietly, but there is always a threat when he is given the ball. Levi Colwill, our most consistent centre-back now, passed the ball to Palmer and he moved gracefully forward. He evaded the presence of one Fulham player and then another, all the while the ball mesmerizingly close to his feet. He advanced further and the coolly and calmly dispatched the ball through a crowd of legs and past Bernd Leno, who used to be a goalkeeper, and into the goal.

I’ll be honest. I could hardly believe what I had seen. I turned around and said “in those situations, he is ice-cold” and I immediately added to Ron and Brian that it was a goal that was so reminiscent of Jimmy Greaves. Greaves would often pass the ball into the net.

Chelsea 1 Fulham 0.

Fantastic.

From Alan in The Sleepy : “THTCAUN.”

Chris in the West Lower : “COMLD.”

Just after, there was some over-elaboration which frustrated us all, with Nicolas Jackson and Palmer combining but a weak effort on goal.

Just after that, some more lovely stuff from Palmer and a curler from outside the box. We were in a great little spell.

But then Fulham got involved in the game. There was a shot that cleared the bar, and then someone called Calvin Bassey had an unfettered and lengthy run up the park before shooting low, but Sanchez was able to save.

Adama Traore was playing well, too, and Alex Iwobi was floating around waiting to strike.

Halfway through the first-half, I mused that it was perhaps a little fortunate that we were 1-0 up.

A lovely free-kick from Cole Palmer was floated into an empty six-yard box where it was met by a dive from Marc Cucarella, but the effort was firstly saved by Leno and then kicked to safety by a teammate.

As half-time approached, I was able to say it was a decent enough game, and we had indeed edged it.

Bloody quiet though.

I turned to Ron.

“Good news. Frome are winning 2-0 at half-time.”

At the break, I fed myself manically.

Cheese and biscuits, a Christmas crumble with apple and mincemeat, some cheesecakes and ice creams, a coffee.

It was the quickest half-time ever.

“That’s what happens when you spend the entire time stuffing your face with food.”

I missed the start of the second-half by a minute or so, the shame.

There was a fine curling effort from Enzo that was tipped over the bar by Leno, then a header by Colwill that was quickly disallowed for offside. Such a shame, because it came from a deliciously whipped-in cross by that man Palmer.

Iwobi went close down at our end, and the game heated up. A few of us in the West Lower tried to get others fired up to join in with some chanting but it was a desperate struggle. The noise had increased, though. It was, no longer, football in a library.

Fulham definitely grew stronger and were especially worrying me on the counter-attack where Traore and others were occasionally gifted space. Cucarella, pushed inside when we had the ball, was often out of position when we lost the ball. Very often it was two white shirts against his solitary blue one.

As the second-half developed, we grew frustrated with our slow build up play. I struggled to see the point in us gathering some momentum, Fulham out of shape, but then slowing the game down to a snail’s pace.

An arthritic snail at that. An arthritic snail with asthma.

Fackinell.

We just didn’t go for the kill in that second-half. And our play became so sloppy, and lacking focus.

We grew tense.

Sanchez made a big save close-in from Andreas Pereira.

On sixty-six minutes, at last a chance, started by a fantastic tackle by Caicedo, and then a strong piercing run by Jackson but saved well by Leno.

“Frome are 3-0 up, Ron.”

An effort from Raul Jiminez was sliced way up into the Shed Upper.

The tension would not go away. Fulham were a decent team. No doubt.

Fulham made a few changes, but we only brought on Christopher Nkunku and his blue balloons in place of Jackson, who had not been at his best.

Our sloppiness continued.

On eighty-two minutes, a cross from the Fulham left by Iwobi was met by a big leap by Timothy Castagne, who headed it back for Harry Wilson to head down and in and past Sanchez. The play was right in line with us and it all looked like an offside was involved, but alas not.

We attacked again, the game opening up, but Fulham always looked better placed to exploit the spaces that were appearing. Six minutes of extra time were signalled.

Death or glory?

Something like that maybe.

Alas, in the very last minute, with us all standing in the box, Fulham attacked us after the ball was given up way too easily. Sasa Lukic burst in front of us and crossed low for Rodrigo Muniz to turn the ball past Sanchez.

I slumped in my seat as the Fulham players celebrated in the far corner.

Bollocks.

For the neutral, a decent game. Fulham had played well, and had deserved a point, but perhaps their victory – hello 1979, the lads would crucify me in the car – was equally of our doing as theirs.

To be honest, though, no grumbles. We had been poor in that second-half.

There was a quick “hello goodbye” with Dave and I gave Jared a hug. I was so sad that his first game at Chelsea had ended in the saddest of ways.

There was time to tell Ron and Glenn that Frome had eventually walloped Plymouth Parkway 5-0 (four wins in a row now, no goals conceded either) before I marched back to the car.

The Fulham fans were cock-a-hoop on the Fulham Road.

“There’s only one team in Fulham…”

I felt like saying “with not one single major trophy since 1879, it ain’t you” but I kept silent.

At Tony Millard’s “The Clarence” on the North End Road, the boozer where many old school Chelsea types, old school hoolies, and those on banning orders reside on match days, the opening bars of “Yes Sir I Can Boogie” by Baccara were playing. It was clearly a very strange night in deepest SW6, but surely things would return to normal very soon.

Tales From The Top Of The Conference League

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Chelsea vs. Shamrock Rovers : 19 December 2024.

This UEFA Conference League campaign had been a long-drawn-out affair this autumn and winter, yet it was coming to a halt at an alarming rate with two final games in just eight days.

However, after the excitement and adventure with the Astana game in Almaty, the home game a week later against Shamrock Rovers was a far more humdrum proposition.

Was I excited about this game? No. Definitely not. Foreign trips aside, the Conference League is not the most loved of competitions. It has the feel of a European Simod Cup.

There was another cup competition that I was involved with on the Tuesday between the Brentford and Shamrock Rovers games. My local club Frome Town visited nearby Bath City in the Somerset Premier Cup and won 2-0, the club’s third win in a row. There is a new-found optimism racing through the club at the moment and long may it continue.

Thursday, and Europe, soon came around. I worked from 6am to 2pm and then drove to London with PD and Parky. For the first time that I can remember, we decided to visit “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. There had been a few rumours flying around about the visiting supporters from Dublin and elsewhere. This set of fans had been known to sing a few sectarian songs, and there was talk of Chelsea fans with a loyalist viewpoint making a stand. Would things be a bit tasty around the ground as the game approached? I wasn’t sure.

I dropped the lads off near the pub and then headed up to Charleville Road, where I knew that there would be free parking from 5pm. Just a few moments after, I slowly navigated myself around four or five police horses, waiting by the side of the road, and I wondered if the predicted police presence would include police horses to try to keep the peace.

As luck would have it, there was a parking space right outside an Italian restaurant – “AperiPasta” – and I killed two birds with one stone and wolfed down a beautiful slab of lasagne in no time at all.

From there, West Kensington was just a few minutes away. By 6pm, I was getting off the train at Putney Bridge and I was met by around twenty Irish fans, including one chap in full leprechaun get-up.

O’Fackinell.

I was soon in the pub with the usual suspects. We all noted one by-product of the possible threat of trouble before the game; we were served our tipples in plastic glasses. Ugh.

This was a skeleton crew on this night; just Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek, PD, Lord Parky and little old me.

At 7pm, we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. As I strode along the Fulgham Road, Steve and Parky dipped into “Bruschetta” where they briefly met Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink as a function came to an end. There was a noticeably strong police presence. I spotted a few hoolie-types lurking in the shadows, but things seemed pretty normal.

Inside at around 7.40pm, all present and correct sir!

The usual away following at Stamford Bridge is capped at 3,000 but there were gaps in the left half of The Shed. I think that the police had asked for a slight reduction in tickets going to the Dublin club. I fully expected a few Irish fans to be dotted around the usual home areas of Stamford Bridge. This was, as daft as it seems, the first competitive football match between Chelsea and a team from the Republic of Ireland. If the rumour-mill was to be believed, we were in for a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne in SW6 on this particular night.

There were many green and white flags on the balcony between both tiers in The Shed.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Disasi – Veiga – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Casadei

Madueke – Nkunku – George

Guiu

With the colours of the competition being green, the away fans must have felt at home. The game began at 8pm and there was a quick rendition from the Matthew Harding Lower of a Rangers’ song about “buying a flute” but, after that, I heard nothing of a similar note from both sets of fans.

As we waited to take a corner in front of their fans, toilet rolls bizarrely cascaded down from the top tier. Play was held up for a few minutes.

Thinking : “This lot are from Dublin, not the Bogside, right?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all us.

We probed and probed, but the defending was deep and resolute. A shock, then, on fourteen minutes, as Dylan Watts sent a low cross into our six-yard box from the left, right into the cliched corridor of uncertainty, but Johnny Kenny was unable to turn it in. An offside flag was raised, anyway.

A volley at the back stick from Noni Madueke, but a poor connection.

On twenty-two minutes, a lofted ball into space from Marc Cucarella was aimed at Tyrique George. The Rovers defender Darragh Burns panicked and headed the ball back to their ‘keeper but the pass was awry. A stooping header from Mark Guiu gave us a 1-0 lead and the longest-ever “THTCAUN / COMLD” – full of Dublin accents and choice phrases – was enacted between Alan and me.

“Their defender will be having nightmares about that.”

However, the visitors attacked straight after, and Jorgensen saved magnificently from a Kenny volley. From the corner that followed, Markus Poom smacked the ball home, via a deflection off Cesare Casadei.

The buggers celebrated wildly down below us.

Bollocks.

On thirty-three minutes, in virtually the same location as the first poorly aimed back pass by Burns, we were treated to another, this time via Daniel Cleary. The ball was intercepted by Guiu, and from a tight angle, he steered the ball home.

There was a daisy-cutter from Cesare Casadei from outside the box that the Shamrock ‘keeper Leon Pohls just about saved after sprawling to his left. It almost seemed odd to see a Chelsea player shoot from a long way out. We don’t seem to do that these days, and it doesn’t seem right.

On forty minutes, Cucarella played in Christopher Nkunku, but a great tackle thwarted the striker. However, the ball ran to Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall who calmly slotted home.

In the third minute of added time, Madueke sent over a cross from the right – not unlike the one to Cucarella on Sunday – and I caught the header from Guiu on film. It nestled nicely in the net.

At the break, Chelsea 4 Shamrock Rovers 1.

“Can we declare and bugger off home now, please?”

Enzo Maresca replaced Madueke with Harvey Vale at half-time.

I thought that Nkunku had been relatively quiet in the first-half but he showed a lot more life in the first ten minutes of the second period.

But the pace, not surprisingly, then dropped and the game seemed like a training game.

On fifty-eight minutes, Dewsbury-Hall played square to Nkunku who pushed the ball forward to Cucarella. He took a touch to his right – to his right, I repeat – and I snapped my shutter as he slotted the ball past the Shamrock ‘keeper. I captured his slide into the far corner. Job well and truly done.

On fifty-nine minutes, two more changes.

Harrison Murray-Campbell, a debutant, replaced Axel Disasi.

Joao Felix replaced Guiu, lots of applause.

Felix screwed a shot wide and there were a few more half-chances, but the evening’s entertainment was done, although the stadium honoured the final scorer with a rollicking good rendition of “his” song.

“He eats Paella. He drinks Estrella. His hair’s fuckin’ massive.”

This man is truly loved.

Redemption is a magical thing.

George was a bit disappointing – the phrase “flattering to deceive” seems appropriate – and the game petered out. There was time for one final change on eighty-three minutes with Dewsbury-Hall replaced by Sam Rak-Sakyi.

At the end of this odd autumnal tour of Europe – and Asia – Chelsea finished top of the Conference League table; first out of thirty-two teams, played six, won six, with twenty-six goals scored, and four points clear.

Can we have the trophy now please?

Tales From Seven O’Clock On A Sunday Evening

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Chelsea vs. Brentford : 15 December 2024.

There was much consternation about Chelsea pushing the kick-off time for our West London derby with Brentford back to 7pm. At seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, people should be close to home, going through those sometimes-annoying Sunday evening rituals ahead of a new week of work, school or college. It’s an out-dated expression these days, but Sundays were always days of rest. Football fans – “those who go” – at such a time on Sundays, should at least be well on our way home from a game. With a 4.30pm kick-off common in these days of football being the slave to TV, it is pretty tough to be setting off for home after a game in Liverpool or Manchester at 7pm.

However, at 7pm on a Sunday, football fans should not be rushing to get into a stadium to see the start of a game.

Sigh.

Chelsea deemed that the players needed an extra, say, four hours of rest after their trip to Almaty and the game the previous Thursday. I find this all a bit ridiculous. I am sure that the squad and management travelled on direct flights in style. Did they really require, effectively, four extra hours in bed? I doubt it.

Whatever. 7pm it was.

Ironically, the delayed kick-off worked for me. It meant that when I reached home just before midnight on the Saturday, I did not have to get up too early on the Sunday.

From the cheap seats : “What are you moaning for then?”

Me : “My personal situation doesn’t change the absurdity of it.”

I suppose I got to sleep at about 1.30am. I had, like the returning Chelsea players I suspect, managed to get a lot of sleep on my Azerbaijan Airlines flight home, and I woke at 9am feeling fresh.

I was planning to head up to Chelsea at 1.30pm or so.

No rush.

As I mentioned in the Astana blog, Frome Town had walloped Swindon Supermarine 3-0 at home on the Saturday. This was a huge fillip. It was our second successive league win and the first home win of the season. For the game with Brentford, I was travelling up to Stamford Bridge with my friend Courtney from Chicago. He so enjoyed his first Frome Town game in October that he was back for more. He was more than happy to combine Chelsea and Frome Town again. At 12.30pm we met up for a Sunday Roast at a local pub in a nearby village. This was, officially, Courtney’s first-ever roast on a Sunday in England. The roast beef went down a treat.

At about 1.45pm we set off for Chelsea. The trip up was pretty decent, and we chatted about all things Chelsea and all things Frome.

At around 4.45pm I was just about to park up in the usual place when I spotted new parking signs. We had been warned that new parking charges were coming into effect soon, but no solid date had been announced. I quickly did an about-turn and headed a few blocks north to Charleville Road. Here the parking was free after 5pm, rather than not until 10pm further south, nearer Lillie Road.

There was a short and brisk walk to West Kensington tube to Earls Court. As we changed platforms, I commented to Courtney about me first walking up towards the southbound District Line to Wimbledon in March 1974, over fifty years.

Courtney : “Probably the same steps.”

Chris : “Definitely the same legs.”

We shot through Fulham Broadway, always an odd feeling, and alighted at Putney Bridge. Here, PD and Parky – and a few other usual suspects – had been slurping since around 1pm. The two of them could not wait for my late arrival and, instead, had taken the train up to Paddington. Nothing gets in the way of a pre-match drink-up for these two Herberts. The place wasn’t too busy, and Courtney and I were able to find a quiet corner to sit and chat.

At just after 6pm, there was a call to arms and so Parky, PD, Courtney, Doncaster Paul, Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and little old me set off for Stamford Bridge.

Forty years ago, to the very day, I made my way to Stamford Bridge alone. On Saturday 15 December 1984, Chelsea played Stoke City in Division One. I was now back in Somerset after spending my first term at North Staffs Poly, and it was odd that I was now watching my quasi-hometown team play at The Bridge. I travelled up by train to Paddington and my diary reports that I spent the morning doing what I often did on Chelsea home games. I toured the West End shopping areas – Oxford Street, Bond Street – on the look out for clobber in several shops. For the first time I spotted the “Giorgio Armani” shop on New Bond Street (not Emporio Armani, that came later) and baulked at the price of those delicious pullovers. “Gee2” was nearby, and their pullovers were similar. Alas, I was a mere student and would soon succumb to a cheaper “Robert Klein” rip-off version at a shop in Stoke. I remember that I bumped into my college room-mate Chris on Oxford Street, visiting from his home on Teesside. What a small world.

I remember that I had been talking to a Stoke fan, Tim – he looked like Lou Costello – at that party above a pub before the Sheffield Wednesday away game and he confidently predicted that Stoke would take “a firm” to Stamford Bridge, but I wasn’t confident that he was telling the whole truth. Beer, bravado and bullshit, more like.

I sat with Alan in the West Stand benches.

So much for Tim’s protestations of greatness. Stoke only brought between 75 and 100 fans in a crowd of just 20,534. A Stoke firm? No. Most of them looked infirm. I didn’t see him.

This was a dire match. The suspended David Speedie was sadly missed. Stoke defended and defended. On seventy minutes, Pat Nevin sent over a cross that Gordon Davies reached. Former Manchester City ‘keeper Joe Corrigan, deputising for Peter Fox, saved his header, but Kerry Dixon headed home the rebound. Sadly, a minute later, Paul Dyson slid in and prodded in an equaliser from close range.

It was a poor game on a dull afternoon in London. I returned back to Frome where I went out for a few beers with a mate who had returned from college in Tottenham for the Christmas period. I bumped into Glenn wearing one of those patchwork leather and suede jackets that were becoming a sought-after item, on London’s terraces if not further north, in 1984/85. I would later to succumb to one of those buggers, too.

In 1984/85, Brentford were in the Third Division, and a place at the top table would have been a pipedream. Yet they are an established topflight team these days and were victorious in each of their previous three visits to Stamford Bridge in the Premier League.

But I was confident. Cole Palmer was playing for us, right?

Indeed he was.

Us :

Sanchez.

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Chelsea in blue, Brentford in red and white stripes.

Courtney had taken Clive’s place in The Sleepy hollow.

PD – Alan – Courtney – Chris

What a back four. No inverted full-backs here but no end of wide players though, myself included.

The Ron Harris Derby began.

There was an early header from Nicolas Jackson, and then the game flattened out a little, with slow build-ups from Chelsea in front of a Brentford midfield and defence that defended so deep that the players almost started shouting at each other with South London accents.

After the chill of Almaty, this was a ridiculously mild night in SW6.

There was an angled drive, again from Jackson, beautifully found by Moises Caicedo, as we dominated the ball. Their ‘keeper Mark Flekken blocked the effort. A couple more Chelsea efforts, from Palmer and Madueke emphasised our dominance.

On seventeen minutes, Robert Sanchez had us all worried when he mis-controlled the ball close to his goal line but was able to recover.

All of us pedants in The Sleepy Hollow, if not the entire Matthew Harding, became obsessed with two balls being on the pitch at the same time. A ball sat on the pitch a few yards from the goal-line.

We kept tut-tutting.

“The game should be stopped.”

“If a goal is scored, it really should not count.”

“The lino is not far away. Why can’t he flag the referee?”

“Has no official seen it?”

After a few minutes, a ball boy rose from his seat and picked it up and took it off, accompanied by, possibly, the loudest cheer of the game thus far.

I purred at the unreal close control from Palmer which set up a chance, but it went wide for a corner.

The chances were mounting, but I thought that we were half-a-second slow in our passing half-a-yard slow in our movement. It was too pedestrian.

A block from Colwill thwarted a Brentford effort from Mikkel Damsgaard, whoever he is.

It was mild in the stands too. Oh, modern football. The noise levels were dire.

However, on forty-three minutes, Malo Gusto pushed the ball out to Noni Madueke. He floated a fine ball into the box and Marc Cucarella attacked the ball. He guided a fine header down and in at the far post from the edge of the six-yard-box.

Get in you fucker.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I silently dedicated the goal to all those fools who left for a half-time drink or slash just before.

At the break, mixed feelings. Happy to be ahead. Not overly happy with our approach play. But winning. Unlike against Stoke in 1984.

There wasn’t too much of a reaction from Brentford, and it was business as usual as the second half began.

It really was all us.

On the hour, a lovely move involving a wriggle and a dribble from our boy Palmer, and then a cross from Jadon Sancho set up the on-rushing Jackson. He could not believe the miss, high, and nor could any of us. Heads were nestled in hands throughout the Matthew Harding in a flash mob homage to “The Scream” by Edvard Munch.

Fackinell.

We kept going. Our chances came but nothing clearcut.

On seventy-two minutes after a little head tennis in our box, the ball was pumped back in and Christian Norgaard, whoever he is, settled himself before volleying at goal.

I knee-jerked a yelp of “goal!” but was utterly amazed by Sanchez’ amazing leap and save. It was magnificent.

On seventy-six minutes, the ball was out to the Brentford right and Cucarella had been sucked in, following the ball. A low cross was met by a stab by Fabio Carvalho and the ball smashed the crossbar before bouncing out, the ball landing right on the line.

Phew.

This was tense stuff now.

Come on Chelsea.

Jackson easily fell inside the box down below us and we groaned. Thankfully, not long after I caught the run from Jackson, released from deep by a lovely ball from Enzo, and snapped as he set himself up to breeze past Ethan Pinnock, and then fire low past Flekken.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just after, eighty-three minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

He was warmly applauded.

“He’ll miss more than he will score, but what player is any different? He’s a threat.”

Rather than an easy slide into the last moments of the game, we were treated to some typical Chelsea nervousness after a sliding tackle from Tosin missed both ball and player and Bryan Mbeumo on a quick break was able to finish impeccably.

Seven minutes of extra time were signalled and the crowd grumbled. It was seven minutes of hell, but we held on. Cucarella had been as good as anyone. He had my vote for Man of the Match, so it was with some surprise and a little sadness that we learned that he was sent off after the final whistle.

However, second place.

What a bloody fantastic effort.

Tales From A Small Family

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3

Astana vs. Chelsea : 12 December 2024.

“Onwards and eastwards.”

These were my closing comments for the Tottenham Hotspur blog, as I typed away in a Heathrow hotel.

Eastwards, indeed.

I was up early on Monday 9 December, and soon wolfed down a breakfast. I made my way to nearby Stanwell, where my friend Ian – whose daughter Ella had taken my spares at Tottenham – had very kindly offered to provide a parking space for my car while I would be in Kazakhstan. Ian dropped me off at Hatton Cross, and I then double-backed on myself to Heathrow where I caught a 9.15am National Express coach to Stansted. It was worryingly cold while I waited at the bus stop at Heathrow, and I began to wonder how I would cope with the colder temperatures in Almaty. I didn’t catch much sleep during the night, so I was happy that I managed to drop off as we wound our way clockwise around the M25. It is a well-travelled journey for me; Stansted is often a departure point for European adventures.

I was soon checked-in at the gate for the first part of my mammoth journey. First up was a three-and-a-half-hour flight to Istanbul – Constantinople for you Jimmy – which was set to leave at 12.50pm. I spotted a few Chelsea faces, around ten, who were on the same flight.

Thinking of Marc Cucarella’s problems at Tottenham the night before, I told a few Chelsea lads “it’s going to be icy and snowy in Almaty – I hope you have picked the right shoes.”

I had been contented with my planning for this trip. I was out via Pegasus and back via Azerbaijain Airlines, all for £418. The apartment that I had booked in Almaty was just £95 for four nights.

The flight left a little late, at maybe 1.15pm.

I did not care; I was on my way.

There is always so much to check and double-check on these trips, but I could now relax and relax I did; I probably slept for 75% of the flight.

We were due to land at Istanbul’s Sabiha Gokcen airport – the one on the Asian side, how fitting – at 8pm local time. I was awake for the approach and was able to set my eyes on the glorious lights of Istanbul and the Bosphorus to my left. I could not make out the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia but I knew that “they were down there somewhere” and that was enough for me. I just made out the lights on the bridge that I walked across in 2014. The plane was buffeted in the wind as it approached the airport, and the landing was rather bumpy.

There was only an hour and a half to wait for the onward flight. I met a few more Chelsea who had flown in on an earlier Pegasus flight. There was probably fifteen or twenty Chelsea on the second flight which left at around 10pm.

Again, I slept for much of the five-hour flight. There was more legroom, more space, on this flight and I soon drifted off. I had the extra pleasure of a window seat so was able to use my chunky pullover as a pillow.

However, at the mid-way point, I woke and decided to flip up the window-blind. Down below me, to my right, seemingly within touching distance, was an incredible sight. A huge white city – everything was white – appeared and everything was so clear, so pristine, so bright. Was it all constructed from marble? A vision in the darkness of the night. Stunning. How I wish I had the nous to turn my phone on and take a few photos. The moment lasted only a few moments.

Was it a dream?

I slept on.

I was awake again as we approached Almaty and I spotted roads and houses sprinkled with snow as we descended. We landed ten minutes late at 5.25am.

“Hello Kazakhstan.”

There’s a phrase that I never ever expected to utter in my life.

As we made our way out into the airport, I braced myself for that first blast of cold air.

There had been a little confusion in the weeks approaching this trip regarding my baggage allowance. The messages that I received from both airlines were not clear. Rather than be stung with excess costs, I decided to go for the “least risk” approach and take a small ruck-sac. As a result, I was wearing my chunkiest pullover in addition to my warmest jacket. I looked like the Michelin Man as I walked into the relative warmth of the airport.

I exchanged some sterling for the local tenge, and while I gathered my thoughts, I supped a large cappuccino. This spruced me up and, with the morning still ridiculously early, I was not sure what to do next. While I charged my phone, I chatted to Roy and we soon agreed to split the cost of a 9,000 tenge cab down to his hotel near the stadium where I could at least grab another coffee and try to work out a plan for the day.

We were on our way.

In the build up to this trip, I had been emailing a local guy – Vijay – who I have been in contact with since 2003. Vijay owns an office furniture company in Almaty and we had been planning a meet up during my stay. He had even suggested that I could crash at his house until my apartment became ready at 2pm.

We arrived at Roy’s hotel, with the old school stadium floodlights peaking behind in the morning mist. There was a stand-off with the cab driver – who now wanted 33,000 tenge – but Roy stood firm. It was around 7am.

Cathy arrived in the hotel foyer. She was staying there too. Reports of her first hotel breakfast were not too appetising. We chatted about our plans for the up-coming FIFA World Club Cup in the US, and I have no doubt that I will bump into Cathy in Philadelphia in the summer.

I messaged Vijay to say that I had managed to grab tons of sleep on both flights and so would look around the stadium and then take a leisurely stroll towards the city centre.

At around 8.30am, I called in to a nearby McDonalds. They have been renamed and rebranded as “I’m” (as far as I could work out) after the US/Russia sanctions following the invasion in Ukraine. There was no breakfast menu, and I struggled with a burger at such an hour, but the coffee warmed me. I felt that I was a stereotypical tourist – I hate this feeling – but I definitely needed to optimise locations with Wi-Fi on this trip. An attempt to fire up “Uber” and “Yandex” did not work.

Incongruous Western Christmas songs aired on the in-house radio, how surreal. I quietly observed the facial features of the locals; a real mix, what an exciting trip this will be.

My phone charged further, I set out into the morning air. The sky was still grey.

Within ten minutes, I reached the Central Stadium, where Astana play their games while their indoor stadium is being renovated. Everyone was happy that we were not required in Astana where the temperature can drop as far as -25 at times. Here, in Almaty, the range during winter is -5 to -15.

I took a few photos of the façade of the stadium and then waltzed in. The pitch was covered with a thick tarpaulin, and a few workers were shovelling snow. I was befriended by a couple of them, and one offered me a little white sweet.

I nervously popped it into my mouth.

Fackinell.

It tasted of salt.

I would later learn that it was made from goat’s milk. While their back was turned, I spat it out onto the running track.

The stadium was a typically bleak former Eastern-bloc structure, and my eyes kept wandering over to the section to the right of the classic columns behind one goal – the Northern end – where we would all be gathered in two days’ time.

Not surprisingly, my camera – my “pub” camera for this trip, I could not risk my SLR getting turned away on Thursday – went into overdrive. I hope that you like the photos. I think I was the first away fan to visit the stadium, but a few more visited it over the next two days before the game itself.

I then began my momentous walk back to the city centre. I aimed for Ascension Cathedral as my apartment was nearby.

Soon into my walk, a few locals waved at me and seemed to strongly suggest that I put a hat on. But I wasn’t too cold, not yet anyway. I soon stumbled upon another stadium – Dinamo, in blue – and it appeared that this hosted both ice hockey and football. There was the slow hum of traffic on the city’s grid pattern streets, and I took it all in.

Almaty. What do you have for me?

More opulent than I had ever imagined, many fine buildings, happy locals – Moscow, are you reading this? – and I was mesmerized by the mix of facial types…some Slavic, some Turk, some from further East, Mongolian, Chinese, Nepalese? Even some with European features.

We are all one big mixing pot, right?

Some students outside a university building were enjoying a cigarette break, and it is some while since I have seen so much cigarette smoke in one place. Nobody was vaping.

I put the jacket hood up, but felt constrained, and didn’t fancy that feeling. I actually enjoyed the feeling of the cold air on my cheeks. It was all part of the experience. Even my scarf was loosely tied around my neck. My bobble hat was in my pocket and I hadn’t even brought a pair of gloves for this trip, the simple reason being that I didn’t own one.

I was feeling fearless, kinda.

At a second McCoffee stop – for the Wi-Fi honest…OK, and the toilets – I warmed up a little, but when I went back outside again, I wished that I had not come inside since it seemed twice as cold.

I walked on. The traffic was constant. I lost count of the times that I waited at lights to cross the busy roads.

Eventually, after a leisurely – and pleasurable – three-mile walk of two hours, I arrived at the glorious Ascension Cathedral. Out came my camera. It did not appear to be made of wood, but it is the tallest wooden Orthodox church on the entire planet. Inside – uh, oh…too warm – the richness of the religious decoration blew me away. A few locals lit candles. I said a prayer for all of us.

I had an hour to kill, so located the nearest bar – “Hoper’s” – which had just opened at 1pm. I am no fan of craft beer and wanted a simple lager. The barman Konstantin, a Russian from Almaty, suggested one from Blandford Forum in Dorset, which is – madly – the brewery where my grandfather worked before he moved to Frome.

Hall and Woodhouse, the home of Badger Beer – who would have thought that it would have got a mention on a trip to Kazakhstan? Once he heard my grandfather’s story, he grabbed my hand and shook it. There is a Hall and Woodhouse pub opposite where I work.

Anyway, alas – to Konstantin’s horror – he told me that the “Badger” lager was not available, so I made do with a disgusting Lebowsky lager from Russia. At least it only cost me £2.50.

I always say that the first few hours in a new foreign city simply cannot be beaten. I had revelled in my first taste of Almaty; a marvellous walk through alien streets, with alien faces at each and every turn, with the cold wind kissing my cheeks.

Konstantin played a Cocteau Twins song for me on the TV.

“Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops.”

I was in heaven.

At 2.30pm, I arrived at my lodgings – the smallest apartment ever, a room with a loo – just as the owner’s husband arrived to see if I was “in.”

I had arranged to meet Vijay at 7pm, so for a few hours I slept.

Every hour counts on these trips.

Vijay arrived in a cab at 7pm, but I was still struggling to get out of my one room apartment. I had to negotiate three locks, all with keypads, and I found it all rather discombobulating. I don’t know what the local word for “Fackinell” is but it is the only swear word, or version thereof, that I did not utter in a frantic ten minutes of number-punching and both clockwise and anti-clockwise twisting and turning.

Eventually, the prisoner was free.

I hugged Vijay and we disappeared a mile or so south. We ended up at “Bottle” on Furmanov Avenue where we spent a brilliantly entertaining couple of hours. Vijay told me all about his company – he formed it in 2000 – and we spoke about football and, er, furniture. He is a Manchester United supporter, ever since he read copies of “Shoot!” magazine, like we all did, in the early ‘seventies in his home city of Singapore. Unlike most Manchester United supporters that I meet, he has been to Old Trafford; not once but thrice.

We shared two bottles of red wine which complemented our horse steaks, which were accompanied by chips, spinach and asparagus.

It was simply beautiful.

He suggested that the beautiful white city that I saw from 35,000 feet was Ashgabat, the capital city of Turkemistan, and confirmed that is constructed completely of marble. I have checked the flight path from Istanbul to Almaty, though, and it doesn’t exactly correlate. It must have been Ashgabat, though. Surely there are no two cities like this.

Vijay fancied one more stop, so we visited “William Lawson’s” which was shut, but then ended up at “Mad Murphy’s” where I supped a pint of Staropramen. Vijay had to head home, but he dropped me at one last bar – “Guinness Pub” – where I spotted Punky Al and two of his mates, faces familiar, names unknown. I also spotted my friend James (who I first met in Baku, 2017) with Tom, a Manchester United fan from Frankfurt, and a Chelsea fan from Dublin, whose name escapes me.

“Barman!”

Two more pints of Krombacher lager were consumed amid frenzied talk of our football fascination. James and Tom had been in town since Friday and on Monday they took a minicab with others in a tour group to go horse riding in the mountains.

You don’t do that on an away trip to Leicester.

They kicked us out at about 2am. I walked home, down the hill, and got back into the apartment unscathed at 2.30am, but my head was spinning with what the night had given me.

I didn’t fall asleep until 4am.

I woke at around midday on that Wednesday but was tired. I honestly think that I had expelled so much nervous energy during the build up to this trip that my body was telling me to rest up.

Work, blogs to squeeze in, photos to edit and upload, booking confirmations to check and double-check, a new phone to set up, a new laptop to plumb in, boarding passes, an Azerbaijani visa, emails, coach tickets, hotel bookings, packing lists, cameras, adaptors, Tottenham away, Heathrow, Stansted, Istanbul, Almaty, Baku, ticket vouchers, passports, travel, travel, travel.

I decided to postpone some more sightseeing on Thursday and Friday and went back to sleep.

I was out at 5.45pm, freshly showered and ready, and soon popped into a shop to buy a pair of gloves for £10.

From there, I enjoyed a lovely meal of meat and bean soup, then lamb ribs with potatoes and onions. With a “Diet Coke” – it shocked me that I didn’t ask for a beer – it came to another £10.

Up the road on Dostyk Avenue – not far from the final watering hole earlier that same day – I met up with around thirty Chelsea.

It was a blast.

Callum, an Eight Bells regular, Martin, Neil, Garry, Russ, Rich, Pauline and Mick from Spain, Scott, Gerry and Paul, Ben and James, Skippy from Australia, Only A Pound, and a lovely visit from the South Gloucestershire lot, Brian and Kev, Julie and Tim, Pete, and Dave from Cheshire.

And a few more too.

The Shakespeare was Chelsea Central in Almaty. Vijay had informed me that it was owned by the same guy as the Shakespeare in Baku, our main pub in 2019. Here, it was a fiver a pint.

That Wednesday in that Almaty pub was a proper hoot. On the way home, I called in to see the South Gloucestershire lot at “Hoper’s” for one last drink before I made tracks; their hotel was nearby, it was their “local”…Dorset, Somerset, South Gloucestershire…it must be a Wessex thing.

I made it back to the apartment at just after 1am.

I slept well.

Match day arrived and I was out at 10.45am. I dropped into a café for some pastries and a coffee – and Wi-Fi – and then continued my walk up the hill – phew! – to the Kok Tobe cable car, which everyone seemed to be visiting. The view at the top was excellent although there was a dirty brown fog hovering over Almaty. As in parts of Baku, I was able to smell the oil and gas in the air. The mountains to the south were spectacular, the skies were blue, and the temperature was bearable. My gloves and hat were in my pockets, my scarf was back in the hotel. I didn’t fancy being too hot, as I would be in a few bars very shortly.

I got the call from Jonesy, who had arrived via Antalya at 7am, and I began to walk north to the ticket collection place, but first made my way to see the Memorial Of Glory, close to the cathedral, en route. It is stunning and impressive.

From there, a twenty-minute walk to the collection point.

I lost count of the times I had checked my pockets for “wallet, camera, passport” during the day.

I gave Jonesy a hug and soon collected my match ticket. The club gave us a special commemorative key-ring, to say thanks” for making the effort to travel the 3,500 miles to Almaty.

A nice touch indeed.

Jonesy and I go back decades. I know that he went to Jablonec in 1994, but I met him a few months later. I remember that I always saw his name featured in “The Chelsea Independent” and his letters always resonated with me as being honest and succinct. Memorably we went with Paul from Brighton to Barcelona in 2000 when we almost made it to our first Champions League Final.

At the time, that day seemed like our biggest day ever.

I laughed when he told me that he bought a kebab at 7am from a kiosk as soon as he got in as it was the only place open.

We walked to The Shakespeare, arriving at around 3.30pm.

Cathy and Tombsy were sat outside having a fag, a perfect “welcoming committee.”

Inside, even more Chelsea. A hug with Luke, another Eight Bells regular, and a photo with Steve who I had not seen for a while. A hello to the previously un-named Gary. A chat with Spencer from Swindon about the US. Pete and I reminisced about him buying me a beer when we were 4-1 up in Baku and he then bought me one in Almaty, cheers mate.

Some had travelled via Frankfurt and Astana, some via Bishkek, some via Dubai, many via Istanbul.

There were a few local Kazakh Chelsea, but not too many.

We sat at a table to chat with Joe – a friend of Neil – and two of his mates. A gaggle of Chelsea joined us; a lad called Des now living in Qatar, plus some lads I semi-recognised.

Jonesy and I were blissfully content.

“This is the life, Jonesy.”

“We’ve been lucky, Chris.”

“We have, mate.”

The call went out to get a cab to a bar closer to the stadium. We just knew, from many personal experiences, how easy it would be to leave it too late and to get enmeshed in horrific traffic.

We hopped into a cab – five of us – and headed for the “Paulaner Brauhaus” which was, on paper, a fifteen-minute journey. Soon into the trip, Jonesy – quite unannounced – disappeared outside for a gypsy’s kiss – “I’ll catch up with you” – but we never saw him again that night. The cab kept moving, Jonesy kept slashing, what a horror show.

After a whole bloody hour, during which time the cabbie even stopped for fuel, we made it to this other pub. The traffic was virtually grid-locked but we had made it.

Toilets!

The bar was half-empty. The beer was served by local girls in full Bavarian garb.

I ordered some beers. We were on good ground; I told the lads that we had frequented the Paulaner beer hall on 19 May 2012.

Who should be in the bar but Des & Co., who offered us some of their two meat platters.

Beautiful stuff.

God knows what it consisted of, though.

With the kick-off at 8.30pm, we were still in the bar at 7.50pm. We put a spurt on and did the mile and a half or so in around fifteen minutes. We didn’t feel the cold.

By 8.10pm, I was through security, I had taken my first photo of a local fan, and I was searching for Alan, Gary, Pete and Nick.

Relax everyone, I work in logistics.

I found the lads easily. I stood between Gary to my left and Alan to my right.

So, here I was, here we were.

Chelsea versus Astana at the Central Stadium in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The furthest that any English team had travelled for an official UEFA game? Yes. Only in Tokyo in 2012 had I travelled further for an official Chelsea game. I looked around. It wasn’t a full house. We had heard that Chelsea had sold 475 tickets. My guess is that around 200 were from the UK. There was no segregation though. There were bona fide Astana fans mixed in with us in the Chelsea bit.

It felt like I recognised a bigger proportion of the Chelsea fans from the UK than the Chelsea players dressed in all black on the pitch.

Our team? It included two full debuts. Welcome Josh and Sam. It was a first sighting of Carney since his injury at West Ham in August 2023.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Dewsbury-Hall – Rak-Sakyi

Pedro Neto – Chukwuemeka – George

Guiu

My Boca Juniors hat was on. My newly-acquired gloves were not yet being called into action. My Aquascutum scarf was in my room. At last, though, some of the expensive and cold-weather resistant designer clobber that many of us have horded over the last few decades of the casual movement were at last being properly tested.

My chunky green CP Company pullover was covered by my super warm off-white Moncler jacket. I was nice and toasty. There were still cold kisses on my cheeks, but all was good. The terraces were still dusted in snow, and I would later learn that the stadium manager would be sacked because of this. But my toes were not too cold…yet.

The game began.

We attacked the other end.

The stand to my left reminded me a great deal of the “distinti” at the old Communale in Turin. In fact, this stadium reminded me of the former Juventus ground so much.

Chelsea began the far livelier and attacked at will. With the action down the other end, I found it difficult to watch the intricacies of the game. Sadly, I knew my photo quality would not be too great.

On fourteen minutes, a goal.

Pedro Neto played a ball forward on the right to Marc Guiu on the right. He kept his footing as he danced forward on an icy pitch before entering the penalty area, drawing the ‘keeper and slotting the ball nicely home from just inside the six-yard box.

Alan and I did our usual “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine amid frozen laughter.

Soon after, Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall passed to Neto who accelerated away from his marker before crossing low for Guiu to bundle in at the near post. This goal was later given as a Aleksandr Marochkin own goal.

At this stage, I dreamed of Jeunesse Hautcharage heights.

A few more Chelsea shots threatened the Astana goal.

On thirty-two minutes, I heard the first “Astana” chant.

Four minutes later, Charles Chinedu tested Jorgensen from outside the box.

A song from the Chelsea North Stand in Almaty :

“It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.”

I was coping OK. My gloves were still in my pockets.

Efforts from Acheampong and Chukwuemeka warmed us up (actually, no they didn’t, don’t be twat, Chris) and then from a corner on our right from Kiernan Stately Home, I caught the leap from Renato Veiga to put us 3-0 up.

“Free header.”

Just before half-time, Astana had a rare spell in our half, not so far from us. Their captain Marin Tomasov shimmied inside our box, and I caught his approach on film. His whipped shot hit the far post but rebounded in. The roar of the crowd was loud and hearty.

At half-time, I wandered off and took a few shots of some nearby fans. Nick and Gary had their own mission at the break. Word had got out that there were free cups of tea at half-time for Chelsea fans, but they glumly returned to our spot on the terrace to say that it had all gone by the time they had reached the front of the queue.

The second half was a dull affair as temperatures plummeted to -11.

Ouch.

I got the impression that a lot of the home fans at the other end left during the break, Maybe they had heard about the free tea at the our end.

Ato Ampah replaced the lively Neto.

Soon into the half, a dipping effort from Tomasov was well saved by Jorgensen.

The pace slowed as the pitch frosted further. Everyone did well to stay on their feet. There were no Cucarella fuck-ups in this game, thankfully.

On sixty-eight minutes, a few sections of the home crowd tried to start a wave.

“Fuck off.”

Tyrique George on the left had a lot of the ball, and Stately Home now bossed the midfield.

On sixty-seven minutes, Harvey Vale – I remembered his debut at Brentford – replaced Carney.

My feet were getting colder, and my hands were now stuffed inside my pockets. Still no gloves though.

On seventy-eight minutes, I noted Astana’s best move of the match, down their right but Jorgensen saved well.

Shim Mheuka Replaced Guiu.

On eighty-six minutes, Kiano Dyer replaced Rak-Sakyi.

In truth, I did not have a clue who some of these players were. Not to worry, they didn’t know me either.

It had been a professional show from these lads, and thankfully there were no significant injuries on the pitch. Off it, I am not so sure; the night was still young.

We applauded the team, some of whom were still a mystery to me. It’s a shame that they could not get closer, stranded on the pitch, like relatives waving at an airport terminal.

I gathered my things and gingerly edged towards the exit.

“See you Sunday, Al.”

Out into the night, with no taxi aps to my name, I was resigned to a long walk back to the centre, and The Shakespeare would probably be as good a place as any to aim for. However, about twenty minutes into my walk, two local Chelsea lads caught up with me – it wouldn’t have been hard, believe me – and told me that there was a meet up at “Bremen Bar”, a place that Cathy had mentioned on Tuesday.

I was up for this. My flight home wasn’t until 2.35am on Saturday morning. We set off and arrived at around 11.30pm, an hour after I eventually left the stadium. The bar was packed full of Chelsea fans from all over. Mainly locals, but some from Belarus, but some from Russia, and Mongolia, plus around ten or so from the UK. I soon made friends. More beers. Some songs.

In fact, lots of songs.

The two lads with the “Belarus” flag were pretty decent with the “Chelsea Ranger” and I loved that the “Thiago Silva” song was probably the loudest of the night. I dared sing about Peter Osgood scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far, and my voice almost held out until the end. A group of English lads got going with the “Florent Malouda, Louda, Louda” chant and my voice definitely could not reach the high notes.

I felt like a broken man.

I mentioned to a few lads that I have taken Ron Harris up to Chelsea in my car and I had a nice idea to Facetime him, via his son Mark.

At about 12.15am, Ron Harris appeared on my ‘phone in Almaty and I think it is safe to say that a couple of the local lads almost feinted.

Fantastic.

Oh – a guy called Tim wanted a mention…a pleasure.

The place gradually thinned out.

At about 2.30am, a few of us took a cab to another bar, “Gastreat”, but this was a twenty-minute drive right past the football stadium again and out into the southern suburbs.

By this stage, I wondered if I would ever see my apartment again.

We stayed here for another two hours, and I met a few more lovely Chelsea folk. I had met Alex from Oxford and Bryn, from London I think, at the previous bar, but we chatted some more. There was a guy who surreptitiously handed me a Moscow Blues sticker. They must be quite rare these days, eh? This chap knows Only A Pound and Cathy too, and I loved that. I loved that someone in Moscow knows two of Chelsea’s finest in London.

I turned to him and said :

“We might be a big club but we are a small family.”

It genuinely feels like that. The match-going fraternity know each other and look after each other. It’s a great small family.

One of the local lads, who looked like Enzo Fernandez, called his wife to take a few of us home. She soon arrived. Back through the streets of Almaty we travelled once again.

I reached my apartment at 6am.

What a night.

Because of my very late finish, my last full day in Almaty took on a new plan. Vijay had very kindly invited me to his company’s end of year party at 7pm, very close to where we had enjoyed a meal on Tuesday. I did nothing during the day except sleep, not surprisingly, and I eventually stirred at around 4pm.

It was with a great deal of sadness that I packed up and locked up, then made my way out and up the hill for the final time. I was the first party-goer to reach the restaurant, and as the others arrived, one by one, not a word of English between them, I moved further and further away from my comfort zone. I looked out of the window at the night traffic crawling along and at the ever-changing colours of lights being projected onto a public building opposite. At last, Vijay arrived and I could relax a little.

This was another great night. Vijay sat me next to a guy that once worked for him but had moved on to work for a pharmaceutical company but was still friends. And he was a Chelsea fan. Like many at the game, this was his first sight of Chelsea. He watched from the stand to my left. I can’t imagine the thrill of seeing your favourite team, from three and a half thousand miles away, playing in your home city.

We chatted – thankfully a few could speak and understand English – and enjoyed some fine food. I loved my braised beef cheeks (and the chocolate fondant was to simply die for, darling). One by one we were asked to make a toast. I was truly happy to be able to spend some time in the company of Vijay, who is quite a character, and to try momentarily to understand the dynamics of that part of the world. I said a few things.

One of the guests, Russ, was very quiet and hardly said a word all night. When it was his turn to stand and make a toast, I feared what he might do. He had been drinking Monkey Shoulder whisky, alongside another co-worker, but what he said was pure poetry.

He stood. Everything was quiet. Still. Silent.

He pointed at the tumbler of whisky.

“The ice is cold, still. The whisky is hot, fire. Together, it works.”

I knew what he meant.

“We are all different, but in good company, we produce magical moments.”

At around 11pm, Vijay said the horrible words :

“Your car is here, mate.”

That was tough. It was a touching moment, surprisingly so. Everyone had made me so welcome.

I said to Vijay “I’m quite emotional” and he smiled.

“We are emotional people.”

Gulp.

I went around the room and said my goodbyes. Vijay walked me out to the waiting cab and we hugged one last time.

Thanks, Vijay.

Thanks, Almaty.

It felt like I was the only English person at Almaty International Airport in the small hours of Saturday 14 December. Thankfully, there were no problems with passports, boarding passes, bags and everything else. I made my way through to the departure gate but the 2.35am flight to Baku was delayed, maybe for around an hour.

As I waited, I felt drowsy. I could not wait to get up onto the plane and get some shut-eye. We eventually boarded at 3.20am and the plane took off around 4am. The plane caught up a little. It was meant to land at 5.25am but did so at 6.40am.

For the third time in my life, I took a cab from Heydar Aliyev airport to the north-east of Baku, along Heydar Aliyev Avenue, past the Socar-Tower – it is full of office furniture that I helped supply in 2014 – and into the city.

It virtually never snows in Baku but it was snowing now.

Fackinell.

This somewhat curtailed my sightseeing opportunities a little. I based myself at the Hilton Hotel, where I had previously visited but not stayed, on both previous trips, and took advantage of their Wi-Fi.

I ventured out to the promenade and spotted the Flame Towers in the distance. It was like a dream to be honest. There was even time to visit a friend that I made in 2019 and to spend a few lovely moments with their three-year-old son, plus a brief stop-off at the wondrous Heydar Aliyev art gallery and conference centre, one of my favourite buildings.

I was back at the airport at around 4pm and was now ready for the last stage of my momentous trip. Back in England, it was midday, and Frome Town were preparing for a home game against Swindon Supermarine. My flight back to Blighty was set to leave at 6.25pm, and it left on time. I hoped that there would be some great news on my ‘phone about the Frome result as I landed later in the day at Heathrow.

Again, I slept well on the six-hour flight home. Just after touching down at Heathrow, I received the wonderful news :

Frome 3 Swindon Supermarine 0.

Our second league win on the bounce.

Lovely.

It was around 8.30pm and I needed to get myself to my car. The buses were sporadic, a cab would cost me a whopping £40.

“But it’s only a mile and a half away, mate.”

Not to worry, I unbuttoned my jacket, let the air in, and walked back to the car. It took me the best part of an hour, and I did feel a little like Alan Partridge striding down the dual carriageway to the Linton Travel Tavern, but after the week of travel that I had encountered, it was nothing.

I reached home just before midnight, the end of most certainly the longest day of my life.

Where next Chelsea?

CENTRAL STADIUM

ALMATY

PRE-GAME

ASTANA VS. CHELSEA

POST-GAME

BAKU

Tales From A Different Corner

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Southampton vs. Chelsea : 4 December 2024.

Our last visit to nearby Southampton, and their dull identikit St. Mary’s Stadium, was on a balmy evening in August 2022, when it certainly seemed that Thomas Tuchel’s Chelsea adventure was unravelling fast.

It seems longer ago than just over two years to me.

Saints were relegated that season but bounced-back in their first campaign in the Championship. However, it was with a certain amount of annoyance that our away game was announced for a Wednesday evening; it just makes everything rather rushed and squeezed.

I worked 7am to 3pm and collected PD and Parky. My “sat nav” suggested that the drive down to Southampton would take an hour and a half, but I always suspected that it would be slightly longer as we would drive into some rush-hour traffic around Salisbury and then on the approach into the city.

I was able to pass on some good news to the two lads about Frome Town. On the previous night, in West London, the team had beaten Hanwell 2-0, only our second league win of the season. There was also some lovely news off the pitch too. During the day, Frome Town announced that my friend Courtney from Chicago – featured in the Anfield blog in October – was to join the board and to lead the way with future initiatives.

I was so happy.

I was parked up at the central station car park at 5.15pm. We headed past the dire “away” pub on the main strip – plastic glasses, noise, crowds, I am too old for all that shite now – and aimed for the “Biergarten” German-style bar that has housed us for a few years on our visits to Southampton. We got in at around 5.30pm. We spotted Jimmy the Greek – or rather he spotted us – and PD got some Krombacher in for him and Parky and something a lot-less Germanic and a lot less alcoholic for me. Jimmy had just eaten, and I was starving. I asked if the food took long to arrive. With an early 7.30pm kick-off, and the stadium a good twenty-five-minute walk away, I didn’t want to be waiting around for some food.

I ordered a bratwurst, some potato dumplings and some sauerkraut at 5.40pm. At 6.30pm I was still waiting for my food.

The first fackinell of the report.

The away end at St. Mary’s has switched one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, with us in the south-west corner now. This meant that the walk was slightly less than before but would still entail a hike for PD and Parky who both walk with sticks. So, with an hour to go before the kick-off, the others left to get a head start on the walk to the match.

My food arrived at 6.40pm. I shovelled it all down my neck in ten minutes and was soon on my way to St. Mary’s, the rain now steadily falling.

I have walked to the stadium from the south a few times, but it really is a messy and dull approach, full of shabby industrial units, and gloom.

At about 7.10pm, I arrived, the rain falling harder, and I could hear a loud “carefree” booming away in the distance.

A quick security check – they didn’t spot my SLR, it was well hidden – and I was in.

Bearing in mind that this area had housed the home fans since 2001, I was surprised how spartan the concourse was, all exposed brickwork, no decoration, all very dull.

I was inside, near the corner flag, at 7.15pm.

Perfect timing.

Yes, it was odd to be visiting a stadium but with a different view, from a different corner. The whole point of the change was for the club to be able to utilise the larger space behind the Northam Stand to allow for a – Godforsaken – “fan zone”, but it was allied to being able to set up an entire end of safe standing for the red and white hordes.

As the minutes ticked by, I was shocked how few people were inside that new home end.

What in God’s name were they doing behind there, in the fan zone?

Were they all grooving away at a “Howards’ Way Foam Party” or something?

Before we knew it, it was time for another annoying part of modern football; the pre-match light show. I guess it was OK the first time we saw it at Chelsea, and elsewhere, but it is all a bit naf, now.

To make things worse, out came a few mobile phone torches, how very Barry Manilow circa 1985.

The teams appeared.

Enzo Maresca had changed things around, and there were a few surprise faces in our line-up.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Disasi – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Nkunku

Or something like that.

We have become used to seeing Enzo Fernandez in a further-forward role of late, and I initially wanted to moan about Moises Caicedo being the lone defensive midfielder.

The home team contained many plain English names; Lumley, Walker-Peters, Stephens, Wood, Manning, Armstrong, Archer, Fraser.

They sounded like a “Dads Army” roll-call.

As the game kicked-off, the rain falling even more heavily, I trusted that Maresca had it all planned to perfection.

We were in all blue. This was forced on us because of the Saints’ white socks. There was something very odd about their black shorts. There was no trim at all, nothing. No coloured seam, no panels, no flash of red or white. Just a white number and a small badge. I approved. It made our shorts – still a dog’s dinner in my eyes – look even more ridiculous.

The Chelsea choir were in good voice, no doubt, as the game got going, but not so the home lot, who were really quiet. Given their current predicament, it is no surprise.

Despite their position at the bottom of the pile, the home team began brightly and Joe Aribo, the gum magnate, forced a decent save from Filip Jorgensen soon into the game.

On seven minutes, a Chelsea corner. It was difficult for me to see through the heads of the spectators but I spied a ball from Enzo that – SHOCK! HORROR! – cleared the first man. There was a leap from a Chelsea player and the ball was headed cleanly in.

YES!

There was confusion as to who scored. A few presumed that it was Tosin. Only when we spotted the team line-up on the TV screen a few minutes later did we realise that it was from the head of Axel Disasi.

Southampton 0 Chelsea 1.

Alas, just four minutes later, Southampton broke down their left and after a tight spin past Enzo, Kyle Walker-Peters prodded the ball back and Aribo arrived to volley the ball in.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 1.

Our defence must have been sucking on some of his Tangfastic gums and were distracted.

The home fans celebrated but “Gold” by Spandau Ballet was played over them, another aspect of the modern game that tires me out. Let fans enjoy themselves, in their own spontaneous way, for fuck’s sake.

The home team were surprising us. A lot of the play was in their final third down in front of us.

On seventeen minutes, the Saints; ‘keeper Joe Lumley attempted one of those kamikaze-style passes as beloved by connoisseurs of the modern game, but Noni Madueke was alert and intercepted the ball before advancing and slipping the ball out to Christopher Nkunku. He slotted the ball into a very empty net.

Fackinell.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 2.

“It’ll be 6-5 at this rate, Al.”

As the first half continued, we improved and became looser, more confident. I loved the way that Joao Felix found space, and he was often involved.

We had a spell with some good chances from Madueke and Joao Felix. Then a run from Palmer, after a great pass from Joao Felix, but his shot hit the base of the near post after a save from Lumley. Just after, a header from Tosin from a corner by Palmer grazed the bar.

This was an open game, but with a few errors all over the pitch. It had the feel of an old-fashioned match, despite periods of play when we slowed things right down. Palmer sometimes walked at a snail’s pace with the ball.

On thirty-five minutes, Joao Felix pushed the ball out to Madueke who advanced in the inside-right channel. This is where Noni often makes an incorrect decision, but after a shimmy or two to wrong-foot the defenders and get an angle, he guided the ball in at the far post, a shot that I just about captured on film, through the wind and the rain, across one hundred yards or more.

The Chelsea end roared.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 3.

The game seemed safe now.

The rain continued, as did the songs, many for players who have not featured for years.

Them : “That’s why we love Solomon Kalo.”

Me : “It’s fucking Salomon!”

Then, at a corner, some nonsense between the Saints captain Jack Stephens and Marc Cucarella. I saw the pull of the hair. There was a delay. Then VAR. Then the red card.

Oh boy.

In the closing moments of the half, a diving header from Joao Felix, but wide.

At the break, it was time for some “half-time hellos” for some folk that I had not had the time to see before the game began. It always amazes me, if I am honest, how so many of the same group of people appear everywhere, come rain and shine, and from distance too.

Scott from Lancashire.

Darren from Cheshire.

Mick from Yorkshire.

Rich from Leicestershire.

Heroes all.

What a pleasure to be so close to Madueke and Palmer appearing in front of us in the away section as the second half began. I thought to myself :

“If this goes well, we are in for a treat.”

I did not have long to wait. After thirty seconds of the new half, Madueke passed to Palmer, who reached the goal-line, nonchalantly lost his marker with a seemingly effortless turn and sent over a perfect ball towards the unmarked Joao Felix at the far post. His header was guided towards goal, past Lumley, but it dropped past the far post.

Ugh.

Our chances continued. Tosin hit the post. Then, Joao Felix set up Palmer whose low shot was saved by Lumley. The ball came out to Madueke…everyone thought “goal”…but a last-ditch tackle robbed Madueke of the ball.

Unbelievably, the home team did not always seem that they were a man down and, without wishing to sound condescending, they played some surprisingly decent stuff. A save from Joegensen kept out Mateus Fernandes.

There was a feeling that over-elaboration in front of the Saints goal, especially from Madueke, was our downfall. He was very involved though, and always seemed to occupy the thoughts and minds of at least two Southampton defenders, allowing others to find space around him.

He forced two saves from Lumley.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced him.

Five minutes later, a raiding Enzo pushed the ball into the path of Nkunku. His shot was part-stopped by Lumley but as the ball continued to roll forwards, Palmer whacked the ball in.

GET IN.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 4.

At last a second-half goal.

I caught his celebratory run towards us, his smile wide, his trademark hug.

It was at this point that the trickle of home fans leaving became a mass exodus, to which the Chelsea choristers had an easy riposte.

“Oh when the saints go marching out.”

On seventy-nine minutes, more changes.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

On eighty-seven minutes, Malo Gusto raced at a retreating back line and set up Sancho to his right. Our loanee took one touch and smashed the ball high past the hapless Lumley. It was his first goal for his childhood team.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 5.

There were a flurry of songs.

“Oh, Enzo Maresca. Oh, Enzo Maresca.”

There was one based on “Amarillo” – a bit shite to be honest…”and he comes from Italy.”

…mm, must do better.

Then, the loudest of the night – “We’ve got our Chelsea back.”

A plume of sulphurous blue smoke billowed into the sky as the players came over to share the love of our support. A fine moment.

On the ridiculously long and wet walk back to the car…yes, new territory, or at least a new exit route, we got a little lost…we realised we hardly saw any home fans. They had departed earlier. In the wind and the rain, we bumped into a few Chelsea stragglers; Salisbury Steve, Mick from Huddersfield, Leigh from Basingstoke, Lucio, a few more.

I summed it up : “could have been ten.”

This one was a good one.

Loved it.

Next up, Tottenham away.

What else you gonna do on a Sunday afternoon?

“WE’VE GOT OUR CHELSEA BACK.”

Tales From A Hot Ticket

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 10 November 2024.

The game at home to Arsenal had the feel of a real test. Here was an eagerly-awaited contest against an old foe, a historic London rival, but also a club that had enjoyed the upper hand over us of late. Since beating them 4-1 in Baku in 2019, our record in the subsequent eleven games was just two wins, just two draws but seven losses.

It was about time we had a little revenge. From a long way out, this absolutely felt like a big game, and a hot ticket.

My friend Aleksey, who had been lucky in acquiring tickets for the matches at Old Trafford and at home to Noah, was still in England for the Arsenal game, but as the weekend approached, we were struggling to find him a spare ticket. I had asked my usual two contacts but it just seemed that there were no spares out there.

Not to worry. He at least would be enjoying one game of football over the weekend.

At just after 11am on the Saturday, Aleksey alighted at Frome station after taking a direct train from London Paddington. There never was a direct train service in days of yore. I wonder what changed.

Alex was in deepest Somerset for the Frome Town game against Winchester City. He was another mate from the US who had been enticed down to my particular part of the West of England for a little dabble in the non-league scene. Hot on the heels of Phil, Courtney and Josh, Alex has adopted Frome Town as his non-league team of choice and was eagerly looking forward to the game at Badgers Hill.

We shot off for a superb breakfast at a local farm shop and we shared a very interesting chat about the game at both level one and level seven of our national sport. But there was also talk of his teenage years, in Moscow, when supporters of his team Spartak and other rival fans were engaged in battles throughout the city on game days. I can only imagine the carnage.

Alex was able to compare his experiences at the previous two Chelsea games. He absolutely loved being among the noisy and partisan Chelsea supporters at Old Trafford. When our equaliser came so soon after their penalty, the scenes startled him. He was punched in the ribs – unintentionally of course – and mentioned that a fellow-fan who was behind him ended up three rows in front; no mean achievement in these days of – painful – seating.

Noah, however, was a different story. Marooned in a sea of dopey tourists in the West Lower, he described it as a “train-wreck”, with people staring starry-eyed at The Shed and The Matthew Harding as the supporters therein took it in turns to sing songs of support, while the area surrounding him was a sea of tranquillity. Long-gone are the days when the West Lower could be relied upon to join in.

A low point for me personally on Thursday night was hearing a sizeable amount of the fans in the MHL carrying out that Arsenal chant about Tottenham.

Stop it.

Stop it now.

Thank you.

I gave Alex a little tour of Frome and the surrounding countryside, including a quick look at a fourteenth century castle in the village of Nunney, a fifteenth century church and a sixteenth century manor house in my home village of Mells, a little chat about the five-hundred-year-old house that I lived in until the age of twelve, and a few similarly historic buildings in Frome itself. The town itself dates from 685. We stopped for a pint at “The Three Swans”, which has stood since the seventeenth century, before joining a table of friends at “The Vine Tree.”

Our opponents were positioned just above us in the league table. They had won promotion via a play-off in 2022, just like we had in May of this year. This was a game that my home town team simply had to win.

As we approached the turnstiles, we heard the sad sound of the last post being played on a bugle in the centre circle. I was annoyed that we had missed the start of this. I promised myself there would be no repeat at Stamford Bridge the following day.

Although a fine crowd of 566 attended the game, unfortunately Frome Town succumbed to a solitary goal from Thomas Wright following a defensive error on the hour. At the final whistle, I slumped down to my haunches, an immediate and unplanned – er – knee-jerk reaction to a bitter defeat.

It felt like I had been kicked in the goolies.

Ugh.

However, Alex really enjoyed the conviviality of my local club, and the intensity and spirit of both players and supporters. I knew he would. There is so much to cherish about the non-league scene. I chuckled when I heard a gaggle of away fans in The Cowshed have a dig at the home support.

“Where’s your cathedral?”

After a drink in the clubhouse, we had an early-evening wander around the cobbled streets of the town centre before settling in at “The Archangel” for one last pint.

Tomorrow would be another day of football.

I collected PD at 8am and soon picked-up Alex at his hotel on the outskirts of Frome before collecting Parky, who was wearing a regimental tie ahead of his later attendance at All Saints Church in Fulham for the two-minute silence at 11am.

The four of us made our way to London, and I drove past the softly undulating countryside of Wiltshire and Berkshire. The roads were quiet. I fuelled up at Membury Services, and at around 10.30am, I got as close to the church and pub as I could; the local roads were jammed full of locals marching to the service.

Now in London, a spare ticket for Alex had still not materialised, and I was starting to give up hope.

I parked up and then walked down to Stamford Bridge to take a few photos and to chat to a couple of early-risers. On the way, I stopped for my second football fry-up of the weekend at the Memory Lane Café.

Forty-years ago to the exact day, Chelsea travelled up to Tyneside for a game at St. James’ Park. Newcastle United had been promoted alongside Chelsea in May and the two games involving the teams were the high spots of that magnificent season. In March of that year, over 36,000 attended the same contest, yet just 23,723 were at the fixture eight months later. I think this was my biggest disappointment of 1984/85; that the attendances didn’t really move up a level. In 1983/84 our home average was 21,120. A year later, in a division higher, it was 23,065. I was hoping for a steeper rise. At St. James’ Park, without the Keegan factor, it was worse. In 1983/84, they averaged a very impressive 29,856, but it dropped to 26,204 the following season.

On the pitch, Newcastle went 2-0 up in the first-half with goals from Neil McDonald and Chris Waddle, and although Kerry Dixon scored a consolation goal, it was another loss for Chelsea. Our record in the league thus far that season was 5 – 4 – 5, not the start that we had hoped for. At least King Kerry was still popping the goals in.

I reached the pub at midday and stayed until 3.30pm.

There was a real gathering of the clans again with the four of us joined by friends from Salisbury, Kent, North London, Buckinghamshire, Texas, Norway, Tennessee and Doncaster. I enjoyed chatting with Ian – Buckinghamshire – for the first real time. One of his previous roles was as the Chelsea Matchday DJ in the early-nineties, which I was not aware of. Drinks were flowing, though not for me of course.

Lo and behold, after weeks of trying to tease a spare ticket from someone, anyone, anybody, the little gang of lads on the next table had a spare for Alex.

Deal!

We were all happy now.

And relax.

We all hopped up onto the northbound platform at Putney Bridge tube and made our way to Stamford Bridge.

I was inside in good time. Again, I tut-tutted at the little gaggle of tourists watching Chelsea go through their pre-match shuttles and stretches behind a roped-off area by the West Stand, a few yards away from the pitch, having paid God knows what for the privilege.

The game’s gone.

It annoyed me that the usual pre-match songs were played just before the “Chelsea Remembers” letters were carried out by members of the armed forces. I had hoped for a period of silence before what should be a solemn time. Soon, images of Chelsea Pensioners appeared at The Shed End on a huge scale. Then some Chelsea Pensioners welcomed both teams onto the Stamford Bridge pitch. The tunics of those residing at the Royal Hospital are the only items of red clothing welcomed with open arms and open hearts at Stamford Bridge.

The Last Post.

Then gentle applause.

In all of these reminiscences of previous years, I cannot remember Chelsea Pensioners involved in those home games nearest to Remembrance Sunday. In fact, nor can I honestly remember last posts, nor two-minutes of silence. Does anybody?

There was, of course, a complete change of personnel since the Noah game on Thursday.

The team, as the old saying goes, picked itself.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

There was a bristling atmosphere as the game kicked-off, as it should be with a 4.30pm kick-off, and all of those extra pints being sunk.

I soon found it ironic that Kai Havertz was deployed as a false nine.

After just two minutes, Cole Palmer – on whom a great deal of our collective hope was resting – collected a ball from Romeo Lavia and advanced. He needed no encouragement to let fly. The shot was hit powerfully from thirty yards, but David Raya was equal to it, and tipped it over rather flamboyantly. Palmer, a possible injury doubt after Old Trafford, was back in the game.

Gabriel Martinelli – why do I always think of Marinello? – was getting himself into some early space out wide and Arsenal were posing a few problems. Then, some respite and a lovely sweeping move with Palmer the instigator. He moved the ball out to Pedro Neto, a familiar pass of late, and a deep cross was met by the leap but a misdirected header from Noni Madueke. The crowd groaned.

Some intricate footwork out on the left from Neto – scintillating to see – eventually gave him a few inches of spare space and he sent over a hugely impressive cross towards the far post. If Kerry Dixon, even now at the age of sixty-three, had been able to meet it, we would have taken the lead. Alas, the inch-perfect cross found the head of Malo Gusto who is unfortunately a full back and not a centre forward. The ball flew over.

Poor passing out of defence, that old problem, meant that Arsenal were able to gather the ball and it all resulted in a shot from Martinelli from an angle, but Robert Sanchez was able to fling an arm at the ball and swat it away. From the break just after, Madueke wasted an opportunity.

“Good game, this.”

Just before the half-hour mark, we seemed to collectively lose concentration at an Arsenal free-kick. The ball was pushed through to Havertz, and despite seemingly being knocked off balance, he managed to poke the ball past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

VAR was our saviour, but there were no celebrations nor screaming nor shouting from me.

Phew.

It was bad enough seeing Havertz scoring a couple against us at Arsenal in May. Seeing him celebrating at Stamford Bridge was momentarily worse.

There were pantomime jeers at the corner flag down below me as Declan Rice took a corner or two.

Palmer sadly failed to clear the wall on two separate occasions as the first-half continued. He had drifted out of the game a little.

No goals at half-time, but I think we probably edged it despite the phantom goal from Havertz.

Soon into the second-half, we were treated to a couple of crosses. The first from Madueke out on the right was acrobatically met by Wesley Fofana, arguably enjoying his best game yet, but his volley required the touch of a Dixon boot. The ball was hooked over the bar. A second cross was gathered by Reya.

The quality disappeared from our game for a while.

On the hour, as at Frome the day before, the visitors took the lead. The ball was steadily worked from Havertz on the Arsenal right out to Martinelli, who was one of two Arsenal attackers completely unmarked inside the box on the right. He shot cleanly past Sanchez at the near post.

Crap.

Here we go again.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

An Arsenal player called Timber, whoever he is, ran unfettered and went close with a long shot.

There were shouts around me.

“Change it!”

I mentioned to Clive that it was so noticeable that our three games against the three leading teams thus far appeared to be pointless, so to speak.

While PD was getting more and more angry with each passing minute, Clive was disappearing into a vortex of despair.

I thought to myself “is it really that bad?”

On sixty-seven minutes, two substitutions.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

Mykhaioo Mudryk for Madueke.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

There was a switch in positions. Mudryk showed up on our side of Stamford Bridge on the Chelsea left, while Neto became inverted, but hopefully not introverted, in front of the East Lower on our right.

It rapidly paid dividends.

Neto, relatively deep, played the ball to Enzo. Arsenal were nowhere close, poor from them. Enzo prodded the ball into space for Neto to run onto. One touch from Neto, the goal begging for a shot. A swing of the left leg, and a fine connection. The low shot crashed past the despairing dive from Raya at the near post.

Ecstasy in the Matthew Harding. Euphoria in the West Stand. Bedlam in the East Stand. Pandemonium in The Shed.

Poor Neto did not know what to do, nor where to run. He ended up in front of the East Lower with a high jump.

Get in.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 1.

Phew.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge now.

There was an inviting low cross from Bukayo Saka – the first time that I have mentioned his name – out on Arsenal’s right that evaded, thankfully, everybody as it made a lonely journey through a packed box. The cross evoked the phrase “corridor of uncertainty” and I am still amazed that nobody touched the ball goal-wards.

Another cross from the Arsenal right was headed down by Mikel Merino, whoever he is, and Sanchez gathered just before Havertz could get a touch.

Not long after, a clear offside as Nicolas Jackson – the first mention – ran through. A worryingly high percentage of the supporters housed in our end of The Bridge cheered. I fear for the human race.

On eighty-two minutes, Reece James took over from Gusto.

A little head tennis in the box, but Arsenal survived.

A very late substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

A cross from the Arsenal right, a shot from Merino, a great save from Sanchez, but the ball fell to Leandro Trossard. In my mind I was waiting for the net to bulge. He blazed it over. Offside anyway.

Fackinell.

In the ninety-fifth minute, a similar second-half story. A low cross from out on the Arsenal flank, this time the left, and a great cross right into “the corridor” but not a worthwhile touch, and offside anyway.

As you were.

Although, in fact, not as you were.

Since last season Arsenal have worsened while we have improved, no doubt.

When I got back to the car, I was flabbergasted to see that we had reached third place in the Premier League.

There is a cartoon that often does the rounds on the internet of an elephant up a tree, but of course that image never entered my mind at all.

Never.

Honest.

We have a break, now, until we all meet up again at Leicester City on Saturday 23 November.

See you there.