Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 24 October 2026.

There was a later than usual start for the game with Tottenham Hotspur. With the kick-off switched to 5.30pm, I had allowed myself a lie-in on this particular Saturday. Well, not much of a lie-in; I was still up at 7.45am. On the short run over to Nunney Catch to fuel up, there was not the vibrant colours of a fortnight ago. Far from it. Overhead low grey cloud made everything boring and oppressive, and there were muted tones in the surrounding fields. I was prepared to do battle with the remnants of Storm Austen on my drive to London – what a ridiculous concept it is for us in the UK to start naming weather systems, do we have to follow North America on every damn thing? – and there were newly-liberated leaves on the lanes as I headed south for a few miles.

I collected Paul at 9am and Parky at 9.30am. The plan was to drop them off near Walham Green around midday so they could enjoy a few hours – five! – drinking with friends.

I made good time, only stopping for the chaps to forage for a bite to eat at Reading Services. During our quick visit, we bumped into a coachload of young Swansea supporters and every single one of them was wearing clobber; an array of Stone Island, CP Company, Aquascutum, Lyle & Scott, Peaceful Hooligan and Barbour. It could have been a scene from any year since 2002. From the waist up. From the waist down, a sad 2026 story and a mess of baggy black joggers and scruffy black trainers. I even saw one lad wearing Crocs.

To be honest, they seemed well-behaved, just a little mouthy, but to be expected for lads so young. They were all in their late ‘teens and early ‘twenties. Just lads being lads. Their strong Swansea accent gave them away. I was soon Googling to see who they were playing; they were en route to QPR. I had to stifle a smile when one lad purchased a bottle of water for himself and one for his mate.

Best to stay hydrated, eh?

The traffic was surprisingly light, and I deposited the chaps at Vanston Place at 11.50am. After another cracking breakfast on the Fulham Palace Road, I swung my car towards Stamford Bridge and tried to spot a free car parking slot near Queens Club.

Just after 1pm, I found a space on Kinnoul Road. I reversed in and was happy. I zipped up my jacket and began the twenty-minute walk towards Stamford Bridge. The rain was tipping down. I must admit that I was a little annoyed to see empty spaces in the next few streets, closer to my destination, but so be it.

I turned left onto Lillee Road and then right onto Rylston Road.

At the junction with Estcourt Road, I stopped and took a photograph of the two road signs. I wanted to illustrate this next part of this match report.

When I was growing up in my home village of Mells in Somerset, I had very few family links with London. My grandfather’s brother William – “Willy” – lived in Southall and had worked for the Great Western Railway as a steam train driver. I remembered visiting him on two occasions.

The first time was around 1972, at his house on Shaftesbury Avenue, and I can remember the excitement that I felt when we were led out to see the Grand Union Canal that flowed past the rear of his garden. I was mesmerized by this. His house was only a mile from the M4, the road that I still use on matchdays at Chelsea. I remember that my father took a cine camera with him on that trip to see Willy, and there is a loving closing shot of him smiling and waving to us at his gate.

The second time was at a nursing home called Twyford Abbey just off the North Circular at Park Royal in 1973, not long before he passed away. I can’t remember too much about that visit. However, I do recollect my father swinging by Wembley Stadium on the way home so that I could have a look at the fabled building.

Yes, it’s true; I saw Wembley Stadium before Stamford Bridge.

Soon into 1974, my mother wrote to the people who ran the nursing home – I have a vague memory that it was run by monks or brothers – and cajoled them into allowing my father to park on their property on the day we travelled to Stamford Bridge for the very first time in the March of that year.

I have strong memories of that day; and the walk to the art deco charm of Park Royal underground station.

My next game at Chelsea was the Tottenham game on Saturday 12 October 1974, but on this occasion, we parked outside the house of relatives Aunt Murial and Uncle Harold. I am sure that Murial was related to Uncle Willy; possibly a relative of Willy’s wife. As far as I can recollect, Willy did not have any children. They lived in the heart of Southall, just off the Broadway. On that day, we caught a bus to Ealing Common, and then a train to Fulham Broadway.

That game – my first sighting of Tottenham in the flesh – resulted in a 1-0 win thanks to an early John Hollins penalty at the North Stand end. We were close by in the East Lower; my first visit to this towering structure.

Chelsea’s team included Ron Harris, Charlie Cooke, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson. The Tottenham team included Pat Jennings, Mike England, Steve Perryman and Martin Chivers.

I can vividly remember returning to their house in Southall and everyone being indignant about the hooliganism that we had witnessed that day.

So, these relatives seemed to be my only familial link to London when I was growing up.

However, there was another set of distant relatives – Aunt Zena and Uncle Joe – who had grown up in London, and I am sure that Zena was another relative of Uncle Willy. They eventually moved out to Cambridgeshire. I really liked Zena and Joe. Zena came down to visit in 1994 when she was in her ‘eighties and a widow. On hearing that I was still an avid Chelsea supporter (everyone in my family knew that I was a mad Chelsea fan from an early age, even those living in Cambridgeshire), she told me that during her early years, she had lived in Fulham, and she mentioned such names as Rylston Road and Estcourt Road. My ears pricked up when I heard this. At last, I had a familial link – although admittedly a very tenuous one – to the area where my beloved Chelsea played. She said that she knew those streets very well. Looking back, I wished that I had asked hundreds of questions about Fulham and Chelsea in the immediate post-war years.

However, every time I walk past those two street signs after parking my car in the adjacent area, I think of Aunt Zena and that visit in 1994.

And that really was it. There were no other family links to London, that huge metropolis, that I could use to muster up some sort of ersatz reasoning to explain my allegiance to Chelsea Football Club.

However, the only streets that I know that a relative frequented in London were not Elwood Street and Plimsoll Road near Arsenal Football Club, nor Cabot Way and Arragon Road near West Ham United Football Club, nor Manor Road and Denmark Street near Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, but dear old Rylston Road and Estcourt Road near Chelsea Football Club.

And I like that.

Of course, we all know that the reasons that I support Chelsea are 1970, that kit and a man named Osgood, but I do like the synchronicity of this story about Uncle Willy and dear Aunt Zena.

I walked on, my jacket soaked. I decided to drop into the “Vanilla Bean Café” on Dawes Road, another road where Aunt Zena no doubt walked, and sat with a decaf cappuccino in the slight hope of the rain stopping.

Crocs, bottled water, decaffeinated coffee.

Where did it all go wrong, eh?

Well, the rain didn’t subside, and by the time I marched into “Walham Green” my dull blue North Face jacket was drenched.

Jimmy the Greek reckoned I looked like a baby seal and Parky threw me some fish.

I joined the lads whose group had sprawled around four tables, and included Johnny Dozen from California, plus Ollie and Julien from Normandy.

I soon took a photograph of the hall and added to my homage of Ian Dury’s classic single from 1978, that I still own to this day, and posted it on “Facebook.”

“I could be the catalyst that sparks the revolution.”

I had arrived at about 2pm and stayed a couple of hours. The place became full, with a few Chelsea songs booming around the old place.

By now we had heard that Joao Pedro, a key player, was out with an injury.

Negative vibes.

While we were ensconced in SW6, Frome Town were battling an FA Trophy tie in BA2 against Bath City.

At half-time, it was scoreless, but we had enjoyed the best of the half according to my mate Steve.

At just after 4pm, I sensed that the rain had stopped and so said my goodbyes and au revoirs and slinked out.

Alas the rain was as troublesome as before. On the walk to the turnstiles, the liveried “Spurs” coach made its way out and onto the Fulham Road.

I counted this as a bad omen.

I was in at around 4.30pm.

Alas, the news came through from Twerton Park. Despite holding the hosts to a creditable 0-0 scoreline after ninety minutes, my hometown team had lost 4-3 on penalties.

More bad vibes.

I met up with Sean and his daughter Emaline, visitors from New York, and they were both very complimentary about the old blogorama, so that was nice to hear. It has been an odd twelve months; I strongly believe that my ridiculously high numbers from last summer were driven by many data centres in China and the US searching for info about “Chelsea World Champions” as AI continues to lead us towards an uncertain future.

The rain still fell.

Brad from New York called over to say hello too. I remember being with Sean and Brad down at Navigli before the game at the San Siro four years ago.

Alan and PD joined me.

“This rain will be a great leveller,” said Alan.

More bad vibes.

At 5.15pm, we were shown recorded interviews on the large screens with one of Matthew Harding’s sons and two of his boys. We recently passed the thirtieth anniversary of our former director’s death. It is shocking how quickly time passes. This was a nice segment and tastefully done. Matthew’s face appeared on the screens, and we applauded and sung his name.

Back in 1996, it was Tottenham who visited Stamford Bridge for the first game after his death. It is a day that will live with me forever. My words today are the same that I wrote to accompany a blue and white bouquet that my friends Glenn, Russell and I left outside the old club offices on 26 October 1996.

Matthew.

With Love And Appreciation.

We Will Never Forget You.

The mood changed a little as Cesar Azpilicueta was interviewed on the pitch, and I was able to capture his wide smile as he walked behind the goal at our end and disappeared into the stand below us.

With the rain still cascading down in buckets, the teams appeared. There were no flames and flashing lights. On a day when we remembered Matthew, this was a nice touch.

However, Chelsea versus Tottenham doesn’t need any embellishment nor hyperbole.

This, dear reader, is the real thing.

For me, it’s our biggest game of the season, bar none.

At 5.30pm, the match began.

I didn’t like the fact that we were attacking the end where we were sat in the first half. We usually attack The Shed.

Yet another bad omen.

I spent much of the first few minutes trying to work out the shape of our team. After Xabi Alonso decided not to replace Joao Pedro with Danny Welbeck, I presumed that he would play Morgan Rogers up front. He at least has a physical presence.

Mike Penders

Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill – Jorrel Hato

Jordan Henderson – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Geovany Quenda

Morgan Rogers

As the first half developed, it almost looked like an old-style 4-4-2 at times with Palmer free to float higher than usual.

There was great noise at the start of this encounter. Without thinking, I found myself singing along to the “Willian” song, simply because it was difficult not to, but then chastised myself for doing so; I am not a big fan of us regaling former players unless we are 5-0 up with a few minutes to go.

We began brightly, but then Tottenham enjoyed a spell.

Palmer was set free on the right and whipped a cross in, but it evaded everyone.

I liked the way that referee Chris Kavanagh played the advantage after a shirt pull on one of our players but then signalled a free kick after the move broke down. This time, we saw three players shape to take the kick; Palmer, Henderson, Rogers, but this version was over-elaborate and disappeared up its own arse.

On fifteen minutes, Neto chased and harried his defender near the far corner and won the ball back. He passed to Rogers, who moved the ball to Palmer. His snapshot was acrobatically tipped over by pink-clad princess Nastassja Kinski, now in her ‘sixties; a wonderful reaction save from the iconic German screen heroine.

Who knew she was playing for Tottenham?

We then wasted two corners.

Oh dear Mister Henderson.

With approaching twenty minutes gone, this was a feisty game, but we were slightly on top.

Then, the next section went to Tottenham, and Alan keenly observed that our energy levels had declined and we were losing battles. We were especially susceptible to balls played with pace down our right.

The Tottenham chances stacked up. Mohammed Kudus slammed a shot wide, Momar Marmoush forced a fine stop from Penders. The young ‘keeper then raced out to block a shot from Mathys Tel.

Towards the end of the half, we created a few half-chances. Some nice one-touch passing allowed Henderson to shoot, but Kinski saved. A shot from Rogers, but offside anyway. We were a little livelier as the first forty-five minutes closed, but the overwhelming feeling was that we had been lucky to get out of the half unscathed.

At the break, there was time for a photo of Emaline, Sean and Brad in the concourse.

The second half began, but soon into it, James Maddison – a key player for them thus far – was injured and replaced by Conor Gallagher. As he came on, there were a few boos, but I was having none of that. A sizeable number in the MHU clapped him on, so I joined them for a few moments. However, the poor bugger was so mortified to be playing for that lot that he has jettisoned the blond highlights for a darker hair colour in the feint hope that nobody recognises him.

Just after, a punt up field, and Neto almost reached but Kinski raced out to clear.

At a Tottenham corner down below us, I liked the fact that we kept four up, thus meaning that four Tottenham players were unable to join others and pack our penalty box. There was a box of four Chelsea players in two lines of two. The resulting corner kick did look rather odd. With so few players contesting the ball that was played into the six-yard box it looked like a five-a-side game, perhaps. This was then repeated soon after.

On the hour, a rapid break, and Palmer edged towards the penalty box. His shot was blocked and Neto was able to take a second swipe, but the ball was saved for a corner.

On sixty-five minutes, a change.

Marco Palestra for Hato.

Tottenham maintained high levels of possession. It felt for most of the evening that this was their game and that we were unwanted guests. They did not carve out chance after chance, but they always looked the dominant team.

I grew more nervous.

I hate conceding goals to this lot. I always find these games so intense. There was little respite from this anxiety.

On seventy-two minutes, Estevao replaced Quenda, who had been largely invisible and had to consider himself lucky to have lasted this long.

There was a combination of loose tackles as a move developed down our right. I saw Caicedo flattened by ‘seventies Dutch detective Van der Valk but then there was a coming together of bodies after a tackle on Palmer. For some reason, the Tottenham players seemed more incensed than ours. There was a long delay, and I was worried. In the end, two Tottenham yellows and one to Palmer.

Just after, from the free-kick, Estevao raced away, got close, but hit the top of the side netting.

If only.

In fact, if only Estevao had played instead of Quenda, we might have been ahead by now. A Chelsea vs. Tottenham game seemed to be beyond the young winger, who was starting a game for the very first time.

I said to Alan “I’ll take a 0-0 now.”

Alas, on seventy-seven minutes, a corner from down below us and four versus four, plus Penders, inside the Chelsea six-yard box with no other player inside the penalty area. The ball was whipped in at a good height, and as Jan Paul van Hecke jumped for the ball, so did Penders. Our young ‘keeper has been particularly adept at punching the ball vast distances thus far into his nascent Chelsea career, but on this occasion, his contact was awry and the ball flew back at Penders and towards the goal. The ball crossed the line despite Lacroix’ efforts to hook the ball out.

Alas, I took a photo of this moment.

Bollocks.

Chelsea 0 Tottenham 1.

We were up against it now.

One song dominated the entire evening.

“Tottenham Away, Olé, Olé”.

And now it was sung even louder.

I felt ill.

So ill.

Three minutes later, a late challenge by Palmer on Gallagher.

A second yellow.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, Penders redeemed himself slightly, getting down low and pushing a shot away with a very strong hand.

On eighty-seven minutes, Josh lost possession, tight on the touchline, and Tel raced away, up the left-wing like an express train. He came inside as I decided to take a photo. His resultant shot was perfectly hit and nestled inside the near post.

Read it and weep.

Chelsea 0 Tottenham Hotspur 2.

Fackinell.

There was an immediate exodus. I know there was disruption on the tubes all day, but the sight of so many leaving their workstations was sickening.

On eighty-eight minutes, Danny Welbeck replaced Neto.

This was all too late; ridiculously so.

This was grim and only exacerbated by some self-deprecation from that lot in the far corner.

“Tottenham get battered everywhere they go.”

At the final whistle, I silently packed away my camera and then huffed and puffed as I made my way out into the night.

It was still raining as I shuffled back through the streets of Fulham.

Fulham Road, Fulham Broadway, Vanston Place, Dawes Road, Rylston Road, Lillee Road, Moylan Road, Disbrowe Road, Musard Road, Humbolt Road, Kinnoul Road.

Kinnoul Road?

More like Fackinnoul Road.

I drove back to Dawes Road where Pinky and Perky were sitting at a bus stop. It was a painfully slow retreat up the North End Road, and although we soon stopped at Heston Services for some Scooby Snacks, not even a packet of pork scratchings and some Irn Bru helped alleviate the pain.

The other two slept for an hour, and I battled the M4. The drive home, though, soon passed and the rain eventually halted. After I dropped off Parky at 11pm, PD and I – though hurting still – were philosophical.

“When all is said and done, they have visited Stamford Bridge forty-two times since 1990, and they have won just twice.”

“Yes mate.”

And I dug further.

“And what have Tottenham won since 1990? Two league cups, one FA Cup and one Europa League.”

“Exactly.”

“Bloody hell, we won all that by breakfast.”