Tag Archives: Fuck VAR

Tales From CFC & MUFC #200

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Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 31 October 2026.

Now then dear reader, I must confess.

I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about our lunchtime fixture against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one. What kept preying on my mind was the fact that we have enjoyed some real humdingers against United, and their current demise – in the red corner – allied with our recent loss of form and direction – in the blue corner – made for a far less attractive proposition in comparison to previous battles.

This 2026 version just seemed so insipid and pale.

In my living memory, I can easily recall some seismic encounters, especially in the recent hey-day of both clubs from the mid-‘nineties.

Who can forget us beating them 5-0 in 1999?

But then the horrible loss to them in Moscow in 2008.

We suffered an FA Cup Final defeat in 1994, but relished FA Cup Final triumphs in 2007 and 2018.

Every match in that era was a heavyweight fight and we would go toe-to-toe with them.

The two teams were absolute juggernauts.

But our history with Manchester United goes way back. It stretches as far back as is possible to go; to our first season of football in 1905/06. In this inaugural Chelsea campaign, in the Second Division, we drew 0-0 on Christmas Day at their ground on Bank Street in Clayton. This is now the site of the National Cycling Centre and is no more than half a mile from Manchester City’s Etihad Stadium. The return fixture took place on 14 April and a mighty 67,000 attended when the average in the First Division was just 13,000. The results of those two fixtures? 0-0 in Manchester, 1-1 in London.

Even before my time, in the ‘sixties especially, the two teams provided entertaining spectacles in both Manchester and London. And then there was the Chelsea 5 Manchester United 6 slugfest during our first championship campaign of 1954/55.

By some nice twist of fate, this game on Halloween 2026 would be the two-hundredth game to be played between the two clubs in all competitions. The overall record stood as below :

Chelsea : 57

Draw : 57

Manchester United : 85

Incidentally, my personal total stood at 86 games with this record :

Chelsea : 27

Draw : 24

Manchester United : 35

Enough history.

Let’s concentrate on the last day of October in 2026.

This was a 12.30pm kick-off and so an early start was required. I was due to collect PD at 7am. It’s an eight-minute drive from my house to his house. I left two minutes early at 6.50am so I could take an early morning photo of my dormant village to act as a starting point to the day’s activities. As I stopped opposite a thatched cottage, the scene of the road leading down to the centre of the village – the pub, the church, maybe in that order of priorities – looked so idyllic and calm.

I drove into town, through the deserted streets, and headed up the hill to Keyford. Paul was waiting for me outside his house.

It was exactly 7am.

“Alright mezun?”

“Good morning! Alright?”

Parky was collected soon after and we breakfasted on the hoof. On the way up to London, I updated them with Frome Town’s recent exploits. On the Wednesday evening, while Chelsea were on League Cup duty at Anfield, I attended a Somerset County Cup game against Welton Rovers at Badgers Hill. This club is just down the road from Frome in Midsomer Norton, and I always think that Welton Rovers sounds like a fictional team that Roy Race used to pit his wits against in the “Tiger” comic. It was a mismatch and Frome ended up 11-0 winners. It’s the highest score that I had ever seen in a game that I have paid to see, though I grimly remember losing 13-1 in a school game once. At half-time, with Dodge 3-0 up, I crept into the clubhouse and timed it perfectly to see the two penalties from Anfield. I kept in touch with the developments at Liverpool in the second period when eight further Frome goals were scored. At the end of the game, I decided not to watch the penalties in the clubhouse after the 1-1 draw at Anfield.

“If I watch, we are bound to lose.”

I drove home, and we lost anyway.

On this Saturday, Frome Town were at home to Chichester City. Despite my ambivalence to the United game, there was not a hope in hell of me choosing Chichester City over Manchester United.

Not yet anyway.

Pete from Texas was going to the game and I had arranged to meet him in “The Eight Bells” at 10.30am. I think I last bumped into him at Leicester a few years back.

It had been a cracking drive east and the skies brightened further as I dropped my passengers off at the bottom end of Fulham Palace Road for them to be able to meet the usual suspects in the pub at 10am. I buggered off to park up just off Lillee Road and then walked over to West Brompton tube. From there, it was a quick dart down to Putney Bridge. I sidled up to Pete at the bar bang on 10.30am. If my accomplishments in life could match my ability to pick up co-passengers and to meet mates in bars at exactly the right times, I would be unstoppable.

I stood with Pete and his wife Margaret, and we chatted about all sorts of football-related shite. I had to grimace when Pete suggested that “The Eight Bells”, on his first-ever visit, was something of an old man’s pub.

Shudder.

I corrected him.

“Old school, maybe.”

We laughed.

Maybe Pete didn’t realise that every single one of the people who were cramped around tables in the pub and nestled on benches outside were all going to the game. Visually, there were very few clues that we were all Chelsea.

Margaret and Pete had acquired tickets alongside his son and his wife in the East Upper and headed off early. I stayed alongside PD and Parky, Jimmy the Greek, Salisbury Steve, Benches Dave, DJ Ian and Doncaster Paul. It was the first visit to our “local” since Hull City. I have missed it badly.

We left for the game at around 11.30am.

Just as with the old Fulham Broadway station, there is an exit that gets used only on match days. As I ascended the steps to the rear of the station, I took a photo of the stadium’s roof supports, the rear of the West Stand and the autumn leaves. If we are to see redevelopment at Stamford Bridge, then I suspect that there will be substantial exits built where the northern edge of the Oswald Stoll buildings sits.

I was in relatively early again. I spotted a few of the trademark red / white / black flags in the United section of The Shed.

A large red poppy sat on the centre circle. This would be our closest home match to Remembrance Day, so it was no surprise to see it.

Chelsea Football Club always carries the ceremonies linked to remembering those lost in conflicts over the years with great class and understated style.

Apart from on this occasion. While members of the armed forces strode out towards the centre of the pitch and along the West Stand touchline, instead of complete silence, there was the loud playing of “The Liquidator” and thousands yelling “We hate Tottenham.” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I shook my head in disbelief.

I remember the days when balconies were stripped of banners too, thus emphasising the importance of the focus of the pre-match.

I guess that won’t happen again.

There was, however, a fine tribute at The Shed; a large red poppy, a sea of white mosaic cards, and a solemn banner below – “We Will Remember Them” – and a sole Chelsea Union flag was waved in the Shed Lower.

That was more like it.

As the players stood in the centre circle – attended by two Chelsea Pensioners – everyone became silent as a passage from “For the Fallen” by Laurence Binyon was read.

“They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

And then, with everyone quiet, “The Last Post.”

That was more like it, Chelsea. My faith in everything was restored. A few spectators raced in to sit at the last few remaining seats. I was alongside Clive and PD. I mentioned to Clive that I didn’t think that United had ever turned up wearing black shorts, and not white, at the previous forty-six visits that I had seen in person.

Without Joao Pedro again, Xabi Alonso played Pedro Neto as a “false nine” which allowed Estevao to play on the right. Marco Palestra made his league debut.

Mike Penders

Josh Acheampong – Wesley Fofana – Levi Colwill – Marco Palestra

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Estevao – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Pedro Neto

We attacked the twin sets of supporters at The Shed in the first half.

As I looked over to the East Stand, bathed in sunshine, how nice it would have been to see the bright scarlet tunics of some Chelsea Pensioners in the front row of the East Middle. Instead, I saw one climbing the steps to sit in the back row of the middle tier right at the northern end.

We began reasonably brightly. Early on there were two searching balls towards Neto, one centrally lofted by Palmer, and the other from the left. He almost reached them. On eight minutes, Estevao – looking keen – cut inside but his strong shot flew past both the ‘keeper and the post.

I admitted to Clive that I couldn’t name United’s keeper if I was offered £10,000.

“It’s not Paddy Roche, is it?”

Just after, United broke and a shot from Andrey Santos flew high and wide. There had been no reaction to his reappearance at Stamford Bridge.

On eleven minutes, a fine and fancy run from Estevao deep into their box, and he reached the goal-line but there was nobody to prod home. I think it was Harry Maguire who thumped the ball out.

Estevao had started very well, and on fourteen minutes he finished off a fine move that he had instigated with a pass to Neto. There was a shot, a save by Senne Lammens – for it was him – a prod home, but I immediately saw a raised flag from the lino.

Immediately after a Chelsea corner, Bryan Mbeumo raced away and flighted a perfect cross over to Brino Fernandes, alone in the middle His rushed shot flashed high. How we laughed, with associated hand gestures of course.

Twenty minutes had passed and I thought that Chelsea were slightly on top.

However, United were starting to warm up.

On twenty-five minutes we witnessed two chances for the away team, including a low cross from Fernandes that thankfully missed everyone.

On twenty-nine minutes, Penders did well to block a shot from Matheus Cunha and the ever-reliable Josh blocked a follow-up shot.

Penders did well to block an effort at the near post from Amad Diallo after Wesley Fofana had managed to get his right leg going towards Lambeth and his left leg going towards Leytonstone.

On thirty minutes, a United break threatened to cut us open, and I bellowed “get an early touch, Fofana” but the moment was lost as he dillied-and-dallied, dallied-and-dillied and lost his way.

I’ll say it again.

Fofucksake Fofana.

On thirty-three minutes, a corner from Fernandes down below us, and Maguire lept at the back stick and Cunha headed home. The United players raced off to celebrate using a very odd dance routine in the far corner. Thankfully, VAR intervened and the lead was annulled.

Then, bizarrely, we hit the United post.

I kid you not.

A corner, and Fofana – yes, really – headed towards goal. The ball touched Caicedo and apologetically bumped against the base of the post.

On forty-two minutes, United broke into acres of space. Fofana – yes, him again – was the lone defender charged with tackling Diallo. Fofana’s response to this heavy task reminded me of the moment when you spot someone you know in a supermarket from a distance, so you prepare a little greeting in your head, walk on, but at the last moment you realise that it wasn’t who you thought it was, and you veer off to inanely gawp at pineapple chunks in aisle seven.

It wasn’t a tackle; it wasn’t a challenge. It seemed there was no physical contact whatsoever. The moment that the two players went their separate ways was captured on my SLR and I include it here for – I guess – comedic value.

Don’t hate me.

Thankfully, Diallo lifted the ball over the goal frame, and we lived to tell the tale.

A minute later, a break down our left and Neto pick-pocketed the lumbering Maguire but drilled a shot past the far post. Then, just after, an Estevao run and shot, but his effort was smacked at Lammens. Estevao, full of tricks early on, had drifted out of the game.

At half-time, it was time for honest reflection and one of Clive’s choccy bars. I thought that we were on top for twenty minutes but then United had the chances to lead. I’m not into negativity but – my goodness – it’s hard to warm to Fofana. I wanted Morgan Rogers to be more confident and to take players on. Palmer had struggled to get a foothold. But there were signs that Romeo Lavia was finding his feet at the club.

The second half began, but the atmosphere, that had been awful in the first half, showed no signs of improving.

With five minutes of the second half elapsed, a fifty-fifty in the centre circle, and one became two snappy tackles from Lavia. The second allowed the ball to be touched to Rogers.

I grasped my camera and snapped away as our forward – showing all the self-belief that I craved at half-time – raced forward, pacing himself against the United players alongside him. He had the better of them. An extra touch – please God let it not be one too many – and then a sublime flick over the United ‘keeper who I have now forgotten the name of again, and the net rippled.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Alas, the limbs of the bloke in front of me spoiled any photos of him leaning against the corner flag, but I did not care. I was ecstatic and punched the air instead.

GET IN MY SON.

Advantage us, and we then started playing. Caicedo fell inside the box, and appealed for a penalty, but it looked a weak challenge; just a coming together.

I was having none of it.

“If that’s a penalty, I’m a Dutchman.”

Immediately, the bloke in front of me turned and spoke some Dutch.

“Love it mate. That’s brilliant.”

Estevao, charged with delivering most of the dead balls, swung in a tight corner and the ball nestled right on top of the net. It so easily could have dropped into the goal. Another corner from him, deeper, and the ball was headed away for a corner. I saw a Chelsea player fall to the floor – guess who? Yes, Fofana – but I did not see what had happened. Our lads were appealing strongly for a foul and thus a penalty.

VAR was called into action.

There was no excitement from me. I greet every VAR intervention the same way; with grim disapproval.

The referee was told to check the replay on the small screen by the West Stand. Tellingly, no United players raced over. They stayed within the penalty area. It was as if they knew it was a penalty. Well, as soon as a referee starts talking, you know the decision.

Penalty.

I did not celebrate.

However, Lisandro Martinez now had two yellows, so he was off, and that gave me a nice warm feeling; perhaps a security blanket.

We waited for the penalty kick.

Cole Palmer slapped it low, but the ‘keeper reacted well and his body blocked the ball’s path, only for it to rise off his shoulder.

But it was in.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

I celebrated now.

However, I spotted that Palmer seemed quite subdued. Maybe he realised how lucky it was that his shot was hit so powerfully that it was not stopped by the ‘keeper’s touch.

The Chelsea crowd, louder now, were in a playful mood.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

On sixty-six minutes, the United manager Michael Carrick, made two substitutions. Amidst the changes, Santos exited, and Mason Mount appeared. I did not boo. I certainly did not clap. I just indulged in a hand gesture well loved by boys of a certain age and beyond.

There was an ambitious curler from Estevao, that I caught on camera, but which went well wide.

With an extra man, we were purring.

Clive : “they can smell blood.”

This really was much better. I loved how Lavia was playing alongside Caicedo. Rogers looked more at ease. And what a joy it is – in an age where damned statistics determine playing styles – that we can watch Palmer and Estevao, the free-stylers, performing on the same pitch.

These two players then combined, racing through the middle. Palmer played the ball out to his right to Estevao, but I must admit that I thought Estevao was offside from my angle. However, I managed to capture his exquisite finish, with Maguire floundering, whipped high past the ‘keeper at his near stick. The scorer raced away to milk the applause with smiles on the faces of everyone. He even dropped on top of the crowd at one stage; a human crowd-surfer.

But wait. After what seemed a very long time, but was probably around ninety seconds or so, VAR flashed up on the TV screen. To be honest this came as no surprise to me as I originally thought that Palmer’s ball was played to Estevao in an offside position. In fact, I hardly celebrated the goal.

But this is what annoyed me about everything.

Why did it take so long for VAR to be signalled? Surely the folks at Stockley Park could have spotted a borderline moment within ten seconds?

To me it seems that the officials are in cahoots with the TV companies to create false drama here. It’s as if the TV cameras crave wild celebrations after a great goal as it shows players and fans alike enjoying those blissful moments of football. Players smiling, celebrating, carrying out embarrassing dance routines, high-fives, hugs, glances towards cameras, braggadocio. Fans in ecstasy, hugging, cheering, boisterous and living for the moment.

And how often do we get the VAR signalled once the scoring team’s players have walked back to their positions for the re-start.

Now we have the TV cameras searching out the dismay of those same fans, the annoyance of the scorer, the change of atmosphere in the stadium.

It’s almost as if this routine – that happens so fucking often – is especially stage managed for the folks at home.

Is this what football has become?

Some sort of showcase for fake drama and a circus for fools?

I was not surprised that Estevao was called offside; neither were PD and Clive, nor the lads sitting behind me. But imagine my disapproval when I soon found out that the margin was just a few inches. In those cases, let the goal stand.

Please.

VAR is a betrayal of everything that football – the spirit of football – was about.

I despise it.

Alonso shuffled his pack.

Seventy-four minutes :

Pep Chavarria for Palestra.

On eighty-three minutes, Penders carried out his first real save of the second period when Joshua Zirkzee made it easy with a shot right at him.

Estevao forced the United ‘keeper to dive full length to save another of his fierce shots.

By now, the Chelsea crowd had changed the tune for the United manager.

“Michael Carrick – we want you to stay.”

And then, later, this one.

“You’re going down with the City.”

More shuffling.

Eighty-seven minutes :

Danny Welbeck for Caicedo.

Valentin Barco for Pedro Neto.

Malo Gusto for Estevao.

A mighty ten extra minutes were signalled and yes – us being us – I was immediately concerned. Mbeumo slammed a spectacular volley against the bar, and we were all so grateful that the ball didn’t bounce down over the line.

A goal then would have created a few tense minutes.

Two late chances presented themselves; a Palmer curler after a pass from Chavarria, and then a cross from Gusto set up Barco, who sadly slammed his shot over.

Very late on, Geovany Quenda replaced Palmer.

It stayed 2-0 and we stayed fourth.

Manchester United had still only won once in the league this season.

The mood was certainly buoyant as I made my way down the Fulham Road. It was so different to the feelings of despair and even anger of the previous Saturday. Here, there were smiles, and positivity. It really was a massive change and I felt it sharply.

It solidified my feelings that football is so important to us all, despite its detractors and its ability of self-afflicted pain.

In a nutshell, the Chelsea Nation would be happy on this Halloween.

Everyone was talking about Lavia. It was, for sure, his best game for us by a country mile. I hoped that this game represented a base camp from which the Caicedo / Lavia midfield partnership could rise and conquer football’s summits.

I made my way back to the car and slowly drove out of London. I was very much aware that another game was starting, and I checked its progress at Reading Services.

I saw that Chelsea fan Albie Hopkins had put Frome 1-0 up on fifty-six minutes.

Alas, I also stopped at Membury Services only to find that we were now 1-3 down.

It ended 2-3.

Bollocks.

Frome have now dropped to eleventh in the division.

I reached Dodge and treated myself to a Victory Kebab, the staple food chosen by my Chelsea mate Leggo every time his Bedford Town wins a game.

It had been a cracking day out and this Chelsea win now changed things slightly.

Chelsea : 58

Draw : 57

Manchester United : 85

Looking ahead, a magnificent road trip is planned for next weekend.

I will see you at either Sandhurst or Sunderland.

Cheers.

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2024.

I think it is fair to say that many of us in the Chelsea fraternity had been dreading the home game with Tottenham Hotspur. But then the away game at Aston Villa, and especially the second-half performance, gave us all some hope. I certainly approached the game with a lot more expectation than, for example, I could have possibly predicted after the 0-5 shellacking at Arsenal a week or so before.

I was up at just before 5am to work an early shift. The drive in to our own special part of London SW6 was as easy as it gets.

My pre-match was spent in very unfamiliar surroundings. PD and Parky, for the recent Everton game, had chosen to drink in “McGettigans” opposite the old booking hall of Fulham Broadway tube station. It is a pub that I had only ever visited on one occasion before; in the summer of 1997, with a new trophy to admire in our trophy cabinet (and only the fifth trophy in ninety-two hears I hasten to add), a little band of us did a Stamford Bridge tour. After, we decamped into “Bootsy Brogan’s” – the former “White Swan” – for a reflective pint. Over the years, the pub’s name changed a few times, but I had never returned. It has remained as the strangest of boozers. It is located perfectly for match days, a decent size, yet to this day I know of nobody at Chelsea who use it, nor who ever have. It’s a real enigma, like Chelsea Football Club itself.

I had popped in for a bang average pizza on Lillee Road and then joined up with PD and Parky, plus Salisbury Steve and Luke, at “McGettigan’s” just before 6pm. It was as I had remembered it from 1997, a big rambling pub with multiple floors. I eventually located my friends who were way down in a booth in the lower levels. Typically, there was no familiar, or even semi-familiar, faces on show. We had a good natter. Luke flicked up the Chelsea team on his mobile phone. A lot had been made of the injury list before this game, so – in a way – the team almost picked itself. There was one change from Villa; Alfie Gilchrist – who sounds like a Sarf Landon villain – in for Thiago Silva. With fourteen players out, it looked a decent enough team. On the bench was a host of youngsters, some of whom I was not familiar with.

We spoke about plans for the last four games of the season and the time soon passed. This was a 7.30pm kick-off – an earlier one than usual, good – and so we left the pub at 7pm.

I picked up several copies of the match programme on the way in. There was a photo of Thiago Silva on the cover, and the programme included a feature on a proper dodgey character on pages 22 and 23.

The kick-off soon came around.

Before the game got going, Alan and I brought each other up to speed with our second loves.

Alan has a season ticket at Bromley in the National League. He first started watching his local team in around 1979 when they played at a much lower level. He has enjoyed their resurgence in recent years. On Sunday, Alan is attending the National League play-off at Wembley against Solihull Moors. The prize is a place in the Football League. Alan will therefore be missing the West Ham game. I have spoken to Alan in the past about missing a Chelsea game because of Frome Town. It hasn’t happened yet, but I am sure it will.

Talking of play-offs, the previous day – Wednesday 2 May – I had watched Frome Town play Mousehole at home in the one game semi-final of the divisional play-offs. On a wet night, Frome blazed into a deserved 3-0 first-half lead via two goals from James Ollis and one from Kane Simpson. This was a sturdy, dominant performance with three well-taken goals. It was a different game in the second-half, and despite a sending-off for George Rigg, the home team held on. The gate was a magnificent 1,099. It was the second gate of over one thousand at Badgers Hill in just five days. On Bank Holiday Monday, Frome meet old-foes Bristol Manor Farm, in the play-off final. We are expecting the gate to top 1,500. Revenge is in the air since Manor Farm defeated us in the semi-finals two years ago.

Just before the game began, the two teams did their huddles, but the Tottenham one was down in front of their fans. I had not seen that anywhere before. I remember how Celtic were the first team, to my knowledge, to do the huddle in around 1995/96, and it was their “thing.” Since then it has been adopted by virtually all teams. The first time that I can remember us doing a huddle was when we played Vicenza in the ECWC semi-final in 1998, with us all dressed in yellow, on a rainy night in SW6.

The latest in a long line of Chelsea vs. Tottenham games kicked off. This was my forty-first Chelsea vs. Tottenham game at Stamford Bridge since my first one in October 1974, and I had only seen us lose three times; in 1978, in 1986, in 2018. 

The noise was thankfully buoyant. The “Willian” song was sung loudly by the Matthew Harding, not because of the player but because of the dig at Tottenham. It got the game off to a raucous start.

We attacked the three thousand away fans and the three thousand home fans in The Shed. We almost got the game off to a dream start. Alan and I had spent a few seconds discussing how we don’t always play to Mykhailo Mudryk’s strengths, but he sped clear down the left and passed to the on-rushing Nicolas Jackson. In a flurry of activity, a shot was blocked and a rebound landed at Cole Palmer’s feet, right under the bar from our perspective. To our disbelief, he wasn’t able to correctly adjust and his effort excruciatingly flew over the bar. I was stood and my hands instinctively cupped the back of my head. Why do football fans do that when a shot dramatically misses the target? Is it intuitive or is it developed over time? I was just aware how much of a cliché I looked.

A proper “head in hands” moment.

There was a phenomenal dribble down the left from Mudryk, but he really should have passed outside to a free team-mate, and his effort blazed over. There was a riser from Noni Madueke. Then an effort from Gilchrist, another rising shot, that flew over.

A lovely shimmy inside from Madueke and a left-foot curler that I thought was just going to sneak in, but it narrowly missed the top left corner.

This was good stuff from Chelsea. I need not have been worried.

On twenty-four minutes, I was surprised that Conor Gallagher and not Palmer, dolloped a long ball at a free-kick towards the far post.

My first thoughts : “too far, that.”

But I still clicked. I caught the moment that Trevoh Chalobah rose like a salmon – talking of clichés – and beautifully headed across the Tottenham ‘keeper, whoever he was, and into the net.

The stadium roared as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Tottenham support.

Good work, son.

After the celebrations had died down a little, the mood changed.

VAR. Possible off-side.

Up came my hands to cup my head again.

We waited.

And waited.

Then a VAR check for a foul.

Memories of that VAR mayhem in the first-half at their place this season.

Boos.

One of the reasons why I hate VAR is that referees now have a reason to defer the decision-making process if they – and their linos – are unsure.

“Let VAR decide. Fuck the fans. They can wait.”

The goal stood, but I never cheered, nor did Alan, nor PD.

Who the fuck cheers a VAR decision?

Next, a close one from Mudryk, but just off target.

On the half hour, one song boomed around The Bridge.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE TOTTENHAM.”

We continued to out-pace, out-think, out-play Tottenham for the rest of the half, but they did have two, late, rare attacks. A header from somebody, and a Chalobah block from another, those Tottenham players without names.

In the closing minutes of a really entertaining game, Clive posed a question to get us thinking.

“Name five England players from the ‘eighties whose surname began with the letter G.”

…mmm, the ‘eighties, my era, when I cared for the national team, let me think.

“One is easy, the other four not, one player played just one time.”

Alan soon got the easy one. Over the half-time break, and then into the second-half (it felt odd being distracted from the football) I managed to get the other four. Admittedly, I guessed around six or seven times incorrectly, but I got them. Clive and I often send ourselves photo teasers on “WhatsApp” to keep our minds fresh; it’s usually players or grounds. It’s our little way to stave off dementia.

Just after half-time, I was happy. I had guessed the last one.

“YES! FUCK DEMENTIA!”

There is no doubt that Tottenham bossed the first part of the second-half and we were limited to the occasional rare break, often including Madueke and Jackson, not so much Mudryk. But we held firm and limited Tottenham to the odd half-chance. There was a rare chance for Palmer but he leaned back as he shot and the ball was well high.

As the game wore on, the away fans found their voice. Just before the hour, we heard their uber-dirge for the very first time.

“On when the Spurs…”

There was a shimmy, a body-shake, from Palmer that almost defied description. He is so casual, so laid-back, almost indifferent to what else is going on, and he then produces moments of utter charm and delight. He is a real talent. Without him, this season really would have been difficult.

But Tottenham were in the ascendency now. On the hour, we were hanging on.

Alan : “If Tottenham don’t win this, it’ll be a miracle.”

I was reminded of “that” game in 2018, when we scored first yet they came back to score three, with two at The Shed End.

Ugh.

On seventy-two minutes, the industrious Marc Cucarella won a free-kick outside the box. Palmer shaped to take a shot, and I shaped to take a shot with my camera.

He caught it, I caught it.

The ball slammed against the bar, bounced up, but Jackson showed sublime predatory skills and hung in the air to nod the ball into the open corner. This was down below us at our end. We had a perfect view of this.

It dropped in.

I yelled and ascended the steps to my left, punching the air. I then had my wits to capture the run and slide by the scorer into the corner.

Oh boy, what a moment.

In truth, we scored at just the right moment. Tottenham had been on top, but were, now, surely beaten. A few of their fans decided to leave.

The rest of the game?

I have to say that Tottenham’s finishing was absolutely woeful. In another game, they could have tied it up. But this was Tottenham, at Chelsea, and after all these years, after all these games, there must be now, surely, something in the THFC DNA that says “no.”

The place grew noisy, noisy as hell.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

Now, this was as noisy as I have heard it all season I think. Teenagers from Ruislip and Rayners Lane, schoolkids from Stoke Poges and Surbiton, battle-hardened former skinheads from Walworth and Wandsworth, grandmothers and grandfathers from Oxford and Cambridge, loyalists from Frome and Trowbridge, Stamford Bridge first-timers from New York and New Delhi, locals from Fulham and Pimlico, all joined together in song.

And one more for luck.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

There were three late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

Josh Acheampong for Gilchrist.

Jimi Tauriainen for Jackson.

More profligate finishing for Tottenham in front of The Shed gave the game a comical ending.

This was a very decent Chelsea performance.

Cucarella magnificent, Caicedo rejuvenated, Gallagher relentless, Palmer with understated efficiency, Jackson running and fighting, Chalobah firm and steady, even Badiashile was cool under pressure.

Colour me happy.

All the Tottenham lot had disappeared by the time I collected Ron outside the hotel. We walked up the North End Road among beaming Chelsea fans. Parky and PD were happy. Alas, the M4 was shut at Reading and so my cruise home was delayed. I eventually got in at 1am; another 5am to 1 am special. But I loved it.

Next up, another London derby.

Chelsea vs. West Ham United.

See you there.

Pub

Programme

“I’m from a small village in Somerset and I became a Chelsea fan – like many of my generation – as a direct result of the FA Cup win in 1970. I don’t remember the game, I just remember being around the school play yard immediately afterwards and somebody said Chelsea had won the Cup. I don’t know what, but something stuck – maybe it was the sound of the name. I was coming up to five at the time and my parents weren’t really into football, but with each passing season I became more of a fan. Then, on Christmas Day in 1973, my parents announced that they were taking me to a game, and just thinking of that now reminds me how excited I was to be going to Stamford Bridge. We only had a black-and-white TV set at the time and I don’t think I was prepared for the full colour experience that was going to hit me!

My dad was a shopkeeper in Frome and he wasn’t able to get too much time off work, but he arranged things with his boss so he could drive us up to London on March 16, 1974 – the 50th anniversary of which has recently passed. I was as excited as any eight-year-old possibly could be. I remember the tube ride to Fulham Broadway after we had arrived in London, and finally feeling like a Chelsea fan for the first time. I’d never had the chance to prove that to anybody before. We had tickets on the benches, in the West Enclosure, Row 6, towards the North Stand. At that time, the East Stand was being built and, with the TV cameras being on the West Stand back then, you never really saw what it looked like until you went. We won 1-0. Hutch [Ian Hutchinson] scored after about 10 minutes, from a cross, and I can still picture it – he kind of headed it down into the goal. My dad was only able to get time off work for us to come up twice a year, but I started to go more often once I was in sixth form.

Then I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent for three years in the mid-Eighties, which enabled me to go and see a fair few away games as well. My favourite season was 1983/84 and that was a real rite of passage campaign. I was 18, starting to go to pubs and make friends around the area. Chelsea fans from Wiltshire and Somerset always stick together because there weren’t many of us around at the time, and we still do to this day. Another important year was 1997 – getting silverware again after all those years. I was a Chelsea fan when we won the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1971, but I don’t remember anything about it because I was only six. I remember nothing of the League Cup loss to Stoke the next year either, but I remember the cup quarter-final against Arsenal in 1973 – Osgood scored the goal of the season in the draw at the Bridge, then we lost the replay at Highbury. I remember all the near misses, the League Cup semi-final losses against Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday, in 1985 and 1991. That’s why 1996/97 was such a memorable season, because we started to chip away at the top clubs and we had some fantastic players: Wise, Gullit, Vialli, Hughes, Zola. Magnificent. That whole FA Cup weekend we stayed up at my friend’s in south London and they were just magical times.

Growing up, I’d had one of those old pub mirrors in my bedroom – a Chelsea one – and every morning I’d gaze at it and think, “Will we ever win more than the four trophies on that mirror?” It always felt like if we could replicate ’70 and ’71 that would be quite a thing, so winning in Stockholm in 1998 to do the FA Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup back-toback again was a wonderful night. We’ve had so much success since then, and I don’t have space to go over it all here, but I’m still making that journey from Frome now, as a home and away season-ticket holder. I enjoy the good times but I don’t get too down when we don’t do so well. Football is such a fantastic thing and I’ve met so many good friends over the years. It’s all the other stuff that keeps us going – meeting up in the pub, the friendships and the laughter.

Among the friends I’ve made is someone who brings the story full circle. Ron Harris lives near me and he now comes up to games in my car. He was playing in the first game I ever went to, so it’s really quite surreal for me to be driving up to Chelsea, look in my rear-view mirror… and there’s Ron Harris sitting in the back seat.”

The Five England Players

Paul Gascoigne.

Eric Gates.

John Gregory.

Paul Goddard.

Brian Greenhoff.

Tales From Memory Lane Café

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Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 27 December 2023.

The drive up to London had been horrible. Due to traffic congestion throughout the journey, and not helped by persistent rain, it took four hours rather than the usual three. I had set off from my house at 10.30am, then collected the three others, but wasn’t parked up on Mulgrave Road until 2.30pm.

We were in town for the delayed Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game, pushed forward a further day from Boxing Day. As I battled the rain and spray I was able to tell the chaps all about the game that I had seen on Boxing Day, the local derby between Frome Town and Melksham Town. It was a mad but deeply enjoyable encounter that resulted in two players from each side being sent off, plus the visiting Melksham manager too, and a 2-2 draw in front an attendance of 696, the highest home league gate of the[i] season. It had it all. I was breathless at the end of it. Proper football.

I made my way down the North End Road, the rain almost stopped, and decided to call in for an all-day breakfast at “Café Olé” for the second time this season. As I sat at the table, I tuned in to the café’s wi-fi to put out a post on “Facebook.” I wanted to detail what was happening exactly forty years ago to the day.

On 27 December 1983, we played a game against Portsmouth at Stamford Bridge. I uploaded a couple of photos with a little narrative. I then realised that it was in this same café back in November before the Manchester City game, in the exact same café, the exact same table even, that I had detailed a similar “forty years ago” moment on “Facebook.”

So, 1983/84.

For my generation it’s everybody’s favourite season, and I will be dipping in to its reach seam of memories occasionally during this campaign. I originally wrote about that season in greater depth during my 2008/9 match reports on its silver anniversary. There will be a few more “memory dips” this season. Let’s go back in time…

I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst the boisterous and noisy supporters in The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted and with Mark Hateley and Alan Biley upfront, would bring a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought fully up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had been developing, unbeknown to us, in the main football cities since 1977.

Since then, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture; ”the thing with no name” one Manc has called it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983 had many; there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around from 1977, there were those into heavy metal with their long hair and denim, the Goths were around, there was rockabilly, psychobilly, soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon )…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, with girls – and boys – who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…hip hop was making inroads from across the Atlantic too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years.

The season was fermenting most beautifully; not only were Chelsea playing some great football, I was also going to more games – and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue, though Glenn had met some casuals on an away day to Carlisle I believe. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with my two Italian pals Tullio and Mario with me wearing a polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that…get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits over their trainers? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers. They’re either “Pringle” ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea ) or “Lyle & Scott” ( yellow eagle ). I had only ever heard of “Slazenger. Why are all the trainers either “Nike” or “Puma” or “Adidas”? Wait, what are they? “Diadora”? Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s “Sergio Tacchini” and Bjorn Borg’s “Fila”. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies” depending where you were in the UK.

And here’s the thing – it was all about football; the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and has almost gone down in casual folklore. Pompey always seemed to have a photographer in their 6.57 firm and there are a few from the north terrace that day in circulation. Kerry Dixon infamously missed two penalties during the match but the one abiding memory is of a lone Pompey fan sauntering in, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below and wearing a pink pullover.

My diary from that day records our words to him as ”who’s the poser in the pink?” but this has since changed in popular culture to “the wanker in the pink”, as featured in a line within John King’s “The Football Factory.”

Several years ago, I chanced finding a photo from the game – both teams were wearing exquisite Le Coq Sportif kits – showing Kerry going up for a header with the West Stand in the background. I wondered if I might be spotted in the crowd. I zoomed in and found myself, way right, almost out of shot. I loved seeing myself from all those years ago, complete with floppy wedge.  I include it here. I don’t like including photos on this site that aren’t mine but I make exception on this occasion. I include a few photos from Fulham Broadway of the Pompey mob, the North Stand – which, alas, I never stepped foot on – and the game.

Ah the memories.

Back to 2023.

I soon found myself catching a train from that same southbound platform at Fulham Broadway to join up with the lads at “The Eight Bells.” There was just time to take a couple of photos of the old station exits, including the ancillary one that was only used on match days. It bypassed the booking hall and went straight from platform to street level in a steep ascent. I had taken an outside shot too, to complete the picture. It’s an almost forgotten and un-noticed feature of the old station that I am sure 90% of current match-goers simply do not notice. That and the old Shed wall; that’s all that’s left from my first visit to Chelsea in 1974.

I reached the pub at about 3.45pm. Glenn, my mate from beside me on The Benches in 1983, was with Parky, PD and Salisbury Steve in “The Eight Bells” with some German lads who have featured in these tales before. Ben used to work for a company on the Swiss border that I used to contact for onward shipping of our furniture. He has visited Chelsea a number of times; the last time in 2019. He was with Jens and Walt, who we had met before, plus another chap called Michael. Everyone was getting on famously, despite the barmaid mischievously putting a couple of “WW2” films on the pub TV for their viewing pleasure. They were howling with laughter. Kyden originally from Kent, but now living in Florida called by for a drink and a chat. The pub wasn’t too busy. We rarely, if ever, visit this pub for an evening game. Top marks to Salisbury Steve who was first in at 11.30am. That’s pretty keen for a 7.30pm kick-off, eh?

I was shocked, and saddened, to see a huge poster advertising a PSG club shop in London on the northbound platform as I alighted at Fulham Broadway. There are no words.

I was inside Stamford Bridge very early at about 6.30pm. I waited for the troops to arrive. For a team that has seemed to have had our number on occasion recently, I was staggered to read that we had won our last dozen games against the Stripey Nigels in all competitions; I hoped it would be unlucky thirteen for them.

Nobody, though, seemed confident.

Our team was announced, and there was a full first team debut for Christopher Nkunku.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Maatsen – Nkunku – Mudryk

Jackson

…”or something like that.”

Ben, Jens and Michael were around fifteen yards away to my right but Walt was down in The Shed. There was the usual “lightshow and flames bollocks” before the teams entered the pitch.

At 7.30pm, the game started and Crystal Palace began brightly attacking the Matthew Harding. They enjoyed a couple of efforts on our goal.

“Colwill is too tall for a full-back.”

On eight minutes, we were treated to a magnificent turn of pace from Mykhailo Mudryk who slotted a perfect pass through for Ian Maatsen. It ran away from him a little but he poked a toe at it as the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson raced out. Sadly, a Palace defender recovered to clear from just a few yards out.

On thirteen minutes, a very fine move carved Palace open. A majestic turn / drag-back from Malo Gusto had the crowd purring and the right-back then set off up field. A little fortune saw the ball continue to Nkunku, who had two stabs at getting the ball between two defenders into Gusto, who had ridiculously continued his run from the inside-right channel to the inside-left channel. His perfect low cross was pushed home by Mudryk.

GET IN.

We roared but he seemed subdued. There was no trademark Chelsea run to the corners. The central celebration seemed odd.

Not long after, a terrible pass from Nicolas Jackson – intended for Nkunku I think, but it hit a Palace player – did his cause no good whatsoever, but thankfully the move that followed fizzled out.

On twenty-one minutes, Mudryk was in on goal after good passing from Caicedo and Jackson but Henderson saved well. There was a roller from Jackson across the goal but wide of the far post. Next, at last some consierable styrength and doggedness from the currently maligned Jackson who battled off the challenges of two Palace defenders and set up Nkunku, who was not able to get a shot away.

This was decent stuff from Chelsea.

Pass the smelling salts, nurse.

And it was reassuring to hear genuinely positive reactions from the crowd. Stamford Bridge was clearly not a riot of noise, but there was warm applause from our surprisingly intricate and pleasing passing movements.

A pass from Gusto to Maatsen, but wide.

In the last ten minutes of the half, the game died a little. The frustrations from the crowd returned. Nkunku seemed peripheral now. Maatsen looked out of place out wide, often afraid to take his man on, too often happy to play the ball back. I spotted how slow Moises Caicedo is with the ball.

“Seen treacle move quicker.”

For all of Conor Gallagher’s energy, we missed a playmaker.

“Oh please exploit the spaces out wide.”

What I’d give for someone to loft a ball into those wide open spaces for a willing wide man to attack.

A sturdy tackle on Maatsen by Chris Richards released the ball for Palace. A deep cross towards the far post from Jordan Ayew always looked like causing us grief. Michael Olise, lively in the half-thus far, was scandalously unmarked and he had time to chest the ball down and smack past Djordje Petrovic at the near post. Caicedo had lost his concentration. Terrible defending.

It was 1-1 at the break.

So, moans at half-time. The relative positivity from the first half-hour had evaporated. It seemed to be the same old Chelsea of 2023/24.

One step forward, several steps back – and sideways.

In the first minute of the second period, I spotted how easy it was for the Palace attackers to roll off our defenders.

After a few more minutes of toil, I said to PD “there is nothing unexpected about our play.” All of it was without invention, without a spark, all of it in front of the defensive lines.

On fifty-three minutes, a Palace free-kick went just wide.

“We could lose this, boys.”

I looked over at the Germans; at least they were still awake.

Benoit Badiashile – he had impressed me at the end of last season, but has played poorly of late – allowed Jean-Philippe Mateta to roll off him and break. Badiashile and also Disasi raced after him but could not stop a shot on goal. Petrovic saved well at the near post.

A debut for Romeo Lavia on the hour, replacing the really poor Maatsen. Thiago Silva replaced Colwill at the same time.

Gallagher pushed up, Lavia sat alongside Caicedo and immediately looked more mobile and interested than his new midfield partner.

On sixty-six minutes, Gusto was so tenacious to stop a rapid break. Whisper it, but a few of us would not be unhappy if Gusto replaced Reece James in the long-term. We love Reece but his play has stalled for a while. He is so injury-prone and is too quiet for a captain. Gusto was enjoying a really excellent game.

More substitutions with twenty to go.

Noni Madueke for Nkunku.

Armando Broja for Mydryk.

More than a few supporters : “how is Jackson still on the pitch?”

Jackson then missed a one-on-one. Gallagher prodded the ball centrally – a great ball actually, one we had been missing – but the young striker fluffed his lines and his shot faded wide. Jackson fell into the netting and probably wished that the goal would swallow him up. Shortly after, we thought there was redemption.

A cross from Silva was deflected but Jackson pounced at the far post.

A roar.

We celebrated wildly.

He celebrated wildly down below.

He slid.

He crossed himself.

He closed his eyes.

He pointed to the sky.

He was mobbed by team mates.

I took some half-decent photos.

Then, after about a minute or so, to my disbelieving eyes : VAR.

Silence in my brain, sadness in my heart.

I was still stood, but slumped back against my seat.

No goal.

Oh do fuck off.

A save from Olise by Petrovic after an error by Silva.

Broja rippled the side-netting.

Late on, Madueke – who had looked lively – fell just inside the box after a corner. There had been a challenge, but I did not really see it. I could not judge its severity. With Madueke down, Palace broke with four against one. The referee played on. I screamed expletives. I’m good at that. That chance thankfully passed, but then VAR was signalled. I am tired of VAR now. I didn’t applaud nor cheer.

Eventually, a penalty was given.

Again, no cheer from me.

Jackson took the ball. Gallagher took the ball. Then Madueke, the fouled, took the ball. He looked confident. A staggered run-up. I clicked.

Goal.

I cheered now alright.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Eighty-nine minutes had passed.

Bloody hell.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

One last substitution.

Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

The young lad certainly made a strong impression in his first fleeting minutes as a first-team player. There was the “gee-ing up” of team mates, at least one crunching tackle, and much running around like a man possessed.

Alfie. Alf. Welcome to the show, son.

There was just time for one last save from Petrovic, again down low at the near post, again from Olise.

It finished 2-1, a well-won victory if not an easy one.

We rose to tenth place. It is, I think, where we will be come May.

Next up, an away game at Luton Town and a visit to the Oak Road End once again. I will see some of the lucky ones there.

1983

2023