Tales From Somerset To Wembley

Posted on May 18, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 16 May 2026.

Who was confident before our FA Cup Final set-to with Manchester City? Anybody? I know I wasn’t. I put our likelihood of success at the 25% mark. I remarked to a few people that it was an odd feeling to be such an underdog in a Cup Final. And when I mean Cup Final, I mean the FA Cup Final, it’s the only Cup Final that you can get away with by just saying “cup final” in the UK; that’s for the overseas readers.

You must go back to 1994 for a similar set of circumstances. I would probably have put our chances at 25% in that one too, against a Manchester United team in their first real flush of pomp under Ferguson. Our defeat came as no real surprise, but it was just the strength of defeat – plus those penalties by Cantona – that hurt so much. It wasn’t a 0-4 game. Deep down, I silently feared some sort of hideous repeat.

I was to travel to London more in hope and expectation, and it was this phrase that was rebounding around the large void between my ears as I got ready on Cup Final morning.

It was an early start for me; thank goodness I set the alarm at the correct time this week. I was out of the house at 5.50am and was headed to collect Paul at 6am. As I drove through my sleeping Somerset village, I was met with a scene of arboreal beauty, with huge trees dominating the village’s main road. I decided to stop as I approached Rectory Corner and take a photo of the peaceful scene ahead of me and post it on Facebook as a scene setter for the day’s journey into London. It would be a day that would provide subtle and not so subtle variations between rural and urban vistas of England.

I captioned it appropriately.

“From Somerset to Wembley, we’ll keep the Blue Flag flying high.”

This song was born in that lovely 1993/94 cup run, and it is still sung triumphantly at key games to this day. Of course, that rain-drenched match was my first-ever Cup Final, coming a full twenty-four years after our previous one in 1970. It was the victory over Leeds United that was probably the catalyst for my support of the team, though the actualities are lost in time. In those intervening twenty-four years, we stood to one side as umpteen other teams played at Wembley in cup finals and wondered if we would ever get the chance to attend this most glorious of occasions. No less than eight London teams – Arsenal, Crystal Palace, Fulham, Queens Park Rangers, Tottenham Hotspur, West Ham United and Wimbledon – all played in cup finals from 1971 to 1993, whereas our beloved Chelsea did not.

You can tell it still hurts, right?

Without thinking, the photo that I took of Mells in Somerset on the way to London depicts the house – if you were to zoom in, it would be to the right of the cars, and opposite “The Talbot” pub sign – where I saw my first-ever FA Cup Final on TV way back in 1972 when I was six. It was my maternal grandparents’ house; the house where my grandfather was born in 1895 and where my mother was born in 1930. For the first five years or so, I always watched cup finals at their house. It’s amazing what I can remember from that day, and it didn’t even involve Chelsea.

1972 was a special year for the FA Cup; the year marked the centenary of this competition.

Leading up to the match, there was an Esso coin collection that my father and I completed over the preceding few months. These coins honoured all previous winners, and I was proud as punch that Chelsea were featured. I still have those coins, which are still housed in the special book that I have in my possession, to this day.

The final was between Arsenal and Leeds United and I liked neither. I don’t think I cared who won. I distinctly remember a parade of flags depicting all previous winners being held high by individuals as they walked around the perimeter of the huge Wembley pitch before the game began. Leeds United won 1-0 with a diving header from Alan Clarke from around the penalty spot, and it remains a rarity; a diving header from so far out. I also remember Mick Jones dislocating his shoulder as he fell near the goal-line, and him being wrapped up, painfully, in bandages – like a mummy – and the grimaces on his face as he ascended the steps to the Royal Box to receive his medal.

I mention this game in detail since it contrasts starkly with recent FA Cup Finals. I can remember so much from fifty-four years ago, yet I had completely and utterly forgotten that Crystal Palace beat Manchester City 1-0 in the final twelve months ago.

These days, FA Cup Finals are unfortunately seen as an inconvenience by many. In the office during the week, a couple of football fans didn’t even know it was on.

This would be Chelsea’s seventeenth FA Cup Final, and it would be my thirteenth, and – yes – of course I superstitiously looked at this as a bad, a very bad, omen.

Despite a run of four victories in 2007, 2009, 2010 and 2012 that gave us a decent 7-4 overall record, we lost three in a row in 2020, 2021 and 2022 to give us, now, an 8-8 record.

This one was to define if we were to go – in baseball parlance – “over five hundred” with a 9-8 record.

It seemed like the weight of football history was on our shoulders as I collected Paul and Parky. At Reading Services, I fuelled up and looked up at the number to see which pump I had used.

13.

Bollocks.

If I am honest, I was also perturbed by the number of single magpies that I had seen from my car on Friday and again on the drive into London.

“One for sorrow…”

However, it was a clean and easy car journey up to London; the plan was to reach “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 8.30am. I indeed was parked up at exactly 8.30am. Perfect.

The Cup Final Breakfast was perfect too.

Two rashers, a fried egg, liver, baked beans, black pudding, bubble, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea for just £11. And don’t worry; there weren’t sky blue ribbons on my mug.

I parked up near Queens Club and then joined the lads, who had been joined by Ben from Boston in Massachusetts, at Walham Green, the site of the old Fulham Broadway tube station entrance hall.

Despite the many awful decisions made by the FA in recent years regarding this fabled competition – the most heinous being semis at Wembley – I will give them praise for this being the stand-alone game throughout England and Wales on this day, with a traditional 3pm kick-off too.

The pub was an odd mixture of Chelsea fans going to Wembley but also Chelsea and Manchester United fans attending Stamford Bridge for the WPL game, which kicked off at 1pm.

From Fulham Broadway tube, we copied our “lucky semi-final” routine of a tube to Paddington, and an Uber to Marylebone.

We spent an hour or so out on the pavement outside the two station bars and were joined by Matt from DC – last seen in the US with Chelsea in June and July – and many other friends from various locales. The twin bars were not so busy as against Leeds United in the semi-final.

All ears were on the progress of Hearts at Celtic. We heard that the Jambos were 1-0 up but were then tied at 1-1. I was genuinely concerned for our great Hearts mates Kev, Rich, John and Gary. And I feared a repeat of a Saturday afternoon just over forty years ago.

On Saturday 3 May 1986, after I had watched Kenny Dalglish score the winning goal for Liverpool in a 1-0 win at Stamford Bridge – the 43,900 attendance is the biggest I have ever seen at home – I was utterly dismayed to hear, walking out over The Shed terrace, that not only had Celtic won 5-0 at St. Mirren, but Hearts – who only had to draw at Dundee – had let in two goals in the last ten minutes to throw the league title away. It was a hideous day; both Liverpool and Celtic were champions.

As the minutes ticked by, I said a little prayer for our Chelsea / Hearts quartet north of the border.

But time was ticking by. We downed our drinks and headed off to catch the rattler to Wembley Stadium. We hopped on the 1.45pm train on platform 3, just as a load of local lads from various towns in Wiltshire got on board. We were all sat together; Jack and his Dad Richard from Swindon, Les and his son Luke from Melksham, Jason from Melksham, along with us three from Trowbridge and Frome. We had seen Gary and Graham from Trowbridge and Devizes at Marylebone too. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

Well sadly, due to a fault with the train, which slowly pulled out at around 2pm, we weren’t flocking anywhere. The train had broken down, and after a few minutes of painful waiting, limped back to the station.

Time was moving on. We were going to miss the kick-off. I feared the worst for the whole day now. I also had this awful feeling in my gut about Hearts. I had this deepest fear that Celtic would prevail. I hated how one bad turn of fortune affected my whole mood; life, unfortunately, can be like this.

I feared for Chelsea. I feared for Hearts. I was going to be late for the match. Overhead, it was raining, and I was only wearing a T-shirt. Bollocks to all of it.

We scrambled off and tried to squeeze on another Wembley-bound train on platform 2, but the carriages were already full. I saw Paul and Parky try to squeeze on, but I ran on to other carriages. Alas, everything was full.

I glanced at my phone. Hearts had conceded one and then another, and my heart – excuse the pun – divebombed.

I still hadn’t given up on the train on platform 2. I must have sped up and down the length of the train four times.

I must have looked quite a sight as I scurried back and forth, and I had this image of both Paul and Parky, hemmed in against a window, watching me as I peered into the compartments for any potential space with an increasingly worried frown on my face.

“Look at that silly bugger. He was ahead of us as we got on the platform. How the hell are we on this train while he isn’t?”

“Maybe he went off for a pasty.”

I eventually gave up. The next train to leave was on platform 4, and so I rushed over to get on this 2.32pm train. Thankfully, there was room for a seat, just behind my mate Lee, from The Sleepy Hollow, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out at 2.30pm; in total, there had been a fifty-minute delay.

Unlike the tube journey to Wembley Park, the overland route to Wembley Stadium takes no time at all. We reached the station at 2.50pm. I knew I would miss the start, so I didn’t rush. I heard the national anthem as I approached the stadium; a few photos for good luck, a very quick ticket check, a non-existent security check, and up the escalators to the top level, just as my friends Nina and David arrived. We all had to quickly use the facilities, but once done, a quick check for entrance 522 and I was in.

It was 3.03pm.

Phew.

As I looked up towards row 20, I saw a gaggle of very familiar faces. It was the lads from Gloucester and Cheltenham who go everywhere with Chelsea and are undoubtedly good value for money. I even bumped into a few of them at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town match eighteen months ago. I shouted out to Richard, who had an empty seat next to him.

“Is that seat 244, Rich?” and indeed it was.

I shuffled past Andrew, Martin and the others and squeezed into my seat. I had to have a little chuckle to myself that among around 28,000 Chelsea supporters occupying the Eastern end at Wembley, I was sat among friends. I told Rich that I was humbled to be among such esteemed company.

“It’s like sitting in the Royal Box, this.”

Just after I arrived, Ryan from Stoke squeezed himself into a seat that wasn’t there and I quipped that I knew that there was safe standing at Wembley these days, but I wasn’t aware that they had unsafe seating too.

The three, and now four or five, minutes that I missed meant that I needed to play catch up and acclimatise myself to everything pretty sharpish. I had seen the team that Calum McFarlane had chosen while on the train. My only issue was trying to work out the shape.

My first real look at the action down below was of Chelsea recovering from a City attack, in which Marc Cucurella was very wide left, and very deep. If the formation that we believed that we had played at Anfield was being repeated here – and which both Chelsea and the BBC mentioned in their official match reports – then Cucurella would be as a pushed-on attacker ahead of a back four. But as the game developed, it seemed that we were employing a 3-4-2-1 formation.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – James – Caicedo – Cucurella

Palmer – Fernandez

Joao Pedro

I hoped that the players were not as confused as me, way up above the south-east corner flag.

What of the crowd? There were many red seats visible, especially in the “Club Wembley” mid-section, and it seemed that there were more unused seats in the City end.

Of course I had missed all of the pre-game displays and ceremonies and now the atmosphere seemed quite quiet. The sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky was Tupperware grey. This didn’t seem much like a Cup Final.

City, not surprisingly, dominated the early possession, and kept moving the ball around to test us, but we defended well, and I would soon be happy to see ten minutes on the clock. Then, a half chance, but Robert Sanchez was able to save easily from a flick from Omar Marmoush close in.

There was a quick break from Joao Pedro on the far side, but Abdukodir Khusanov slid in to nullify the opportunity.

Out of nowhere, the loudest chant of the game thus far, on eighteen minutes.

“Oh when the blues go streaming in, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

The chant was from our end.

The royal blues, not the sky blues.

One-nil to Chelsea, kinda.

Not long after, Erling Haaland poked the ball home after a low ball in from Matheus Nunes, and our world caved in, but thankfully the misery was short-lived; the linesman’s flag indicating that the Portuguese player had received a pass from Antoine Semenyo in an offside position.

The City support at this stage was shockingly poor, and it didn’t even seem that they yelped too loudly when Haaland appeared to score.

The Chelsea support was clearly on top, and we teased the City ranks with two barbs.

“Your support is fcuking shit.”

Which it was.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Which was probably true too.

On thirty-three minutes, a wild shot from Semenyo in the inside right berth after creating space against Cucurella went off for a throw-in on the far side.

Bloody hell.

Haaland, who had threatened rarely, was then sent in after a long searching ball, but his near post shot was well blocked by Sanchez.

In the closing moments, Joao Pedro was through, but he clashed with Khusanov. His fall was rather dramatic, and from so far away I could not ascertain the severity of the defender’s challenge. No penalty. I captured our striker’s cry for help on film, but I wished for more uplifting photos to come.

In the period leading up to the break, thousands of red seats appeared as a good proportion of the crowd disappeared for a beer and a wazz, or probably both.

The first half had hardly been a classic; far from it. City began strongest and dominated but we weathered the storm and carved a few half chances. My biggest fear was us having an off-day and getting humped. Thankfully that never looked like happening thus far. We had created a few attacks, despite no real efforts on goal, and at least we were still in it at the break. But we moved the ball slowly and with no thrust.

I wasn’t sure if we were witnessing Reece James’ best position. He seemed happy walking with the ball and pushing it out to others. Was that it? Both he and Caicedo were quiet.

But oh that City support was so silent; the worst support at a Cup Final that I can ever remember.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Eastern end. In the very first minute, a perfect cross from the left from Nico O’Reilly gifted Semenyo a golden chance but his free header flew over the bar.

At last, some City noise. Maybe they were waiting for their players to attack their end.

“City. City. We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

However, for the next fifteen minutes or so, we managed to obtain a better foothold, and the team was rewarded with some really excellent backing from the Chelsea crowd.

On the hour, a super-loud roar from us.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA. SUPER CHELSEA FC. WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

My voice was loud and I rasped along with the others.

But we never really created many chances. A Caicedo header was cleared off the line by Rodri, but for all of our wing play, and despite Cole Palmer trying to tease some gaps, we found it hard to break City down.

Our purple period – if you can call it that – came to an end, and with twenty minutes left, I began to wonder about extra time. Our defenders headed away dangerous crosses at one end and Joao Pedro went sprawling after minimal contact at the other.

On seventy-two minutes, a dangerous City break developed and as the ball was played to Haaland I yelled “don’t let that freak of nature have it.” He passed to Bernardo Silva and then Silva passed it back to Haaland, who peeled away out to the right.

Lo and behold, he crossed into the box, and Semenyo – with his back to goal – flicked the ball onwards. It flew in at the far post, with Sanchez beaten.

Now City roared. And they sung again.

“We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

A free kick was headed on by Levi Colwill, and Enzo instinctively swung a boot, but the ball flew over the bar.

On seventy-four minutes, Pedro Neto replaced Cucurella and we reverted to a four at the back.

There were two late substitutions.

Liam Delap for James.

Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro.

A slow-moving City attack meandered up our right flank and a shot from Nunes took a deflection, but Sanchez reacted well to nudge it against the post. There was another fine save from Sanchez from a Rayan Cherki effort late on.

A header from the hapless Delap went about six yards wide.

Sigh.

On this dull day in north-west London we had lost our fourth FA Cup Final in a row.

Fourkinell.

As I exited, the PA played “Blue Moon.”

Another sigh.

Considering the height from which I had to descend, I made it out pretty quickly. I waited for the gruesome twosome to exit and chatted to many friends as they headed away from the stadium.

“This bloody place. I never want to return.”

This phrase was uttered by both me and a friend.

There was time for one defiant team photo before we headed home.

We had planned on a repeat of the semi and wait for the crowds to fade away, but both lads, who walk with sticks, decided to head up Olympic Way to Wembley Park as the crowds seemed to be moving relatively quickly. The drizzle increased, and there was a hideous memory of the walk along the same stretch in 1994. Thankfully, we made it to Wembley Park in good time, at 5.35pm, and we then came up with a masterstroke. Instead of heading into town, we took a train out to Rayners Lane and then came back into Earls Court on the Piccadilly Line.

We never travel on this stretch of the tube network, and in an almost pathetic attempt to squeeze a little bit of enjoyment out of this most wretched of afternoons, I mentioned to the chaps as we passed through Park Royal that this was the tube station that my parents and I used on my very first visit to Stamford Bridge in 1974. For the next few stations, I was lost in time as I tried to remember my thoughts on that very special day all those years ago.

We grabbed some food at Earls Court, then took an Uber to where my car was parked.

I pulled out of Kinnoul Road at 7.45pm, and I drove nonstop back to Somerset.

My village was waiting for me as I returned at 10pm.

It had been a shite day.

Tales From Third Place

Posted on May 6, 2019 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Watford : 5 May 2019.

At around 7.30pm on a clear and sunny but occasionally chilly evening, Glenn dropped me off outside my house. It had been another excellent day out in London with some fine friends. For Glenn, it was sadly his last game of this ridiculous season. I reached over and shook his hand and thanked him for driving for the second home game in a row. We very briefly exchanged thoughts about the manager once more. I thought back to the very first match of the season and I smiled as I said the word “Perth.” How can the campaign be almost over? How can that game that Glenn and I attended in Western Australia in late July seem like it only happened a month ago? Time and life is accelerating away far too damn quickly for me, for all of us.

Glenn had collected me at 7am. PD was already riding shotgun, and Lord Parky joined us soon after.

Both PD and Lord Parky were rather tattered and torn after their European travels in the week. Due to a delayed flight from Cologne, they did not get home until 4.30am on Saturday morning. They were both – as the saying goes – “hanging.” It was such an odd feeling to be watching their activities via Facebook on Wednesday and Thursday, with me being confined to barracks, working the late shift in Melksham. But by forgoing the semi-final – I don’t always make European semi-finals, Madrid 2014 certainly springs to mind – at least I had engineered some time off for the potential trip to Baku for the final.

Yes, it was an odd one alright. PD, Parky and little old me have been joined at the hip for most of this season and it was strange not to be over there in Frankfurt. It reminded me of an occasion, which sticks very vividly in my mind, from my early teen years when my parents, my grandparents and I squeezed into my father’s Renault and drove down to visit relatives in South Somerset. It hadn’t been a particularly long journey. But at the end of, it while my father tried to locate a place to park, my mother – who had been sitting alongside me – got out of the car and walked behind the car as it drove away, in order to pre-warn the relatives that we had arrived. I looked back at my mother, now separate from the main party, and it felt odd. That all happened almost forty years ago. Why do I mention it? I don’t know. It was if a connection had been lost, that my mother was now adrift, that she was on her own.

Forty years on, I never ever thought I would be referencing it to a Chelsea game in Frankfurt, but there you go.

Just before 10am, we entered the now familiar surroundings of “The Eight Bells” once again. The bar staff recognised us. It is soon becoming my local, one hundred miles from home. We were joined by Ollie and Julien from Normandy. I have known Ollie for a few years and we bump into each other at occasional games here and there. He is well known in the Chelsea family. It was lovely to see him again. I had not previously met Julien, his cousin, and it gave me a chance to reel off a few loosely remembered phrases from French “O level” in 1981.

I thanked Ollie for being one of the first few subscribers to this blogarama. We chatted about our love of “old school” stadia and we are both looking forward to the trip to Bramall Lane next season. I’m pretty happy with Sheffield United and Norwich City’s promotion to the top flight. We have already spoken about staying over in those cities next season, depending upon kick-off times. Elsewhere in the Football League pyramid, there were some sobering developments. Somerset’s only Football League team Yeovil Town were returned to non-league football after a spell of sixteen years in the Football League, rising to one single season in the Championship in 2013/14. A sadder tale involves the world’s oldest professional club, Notts County, who joined Yeovil Town in the second relegation spot. It does not seem so long ago that while Chelsea were toiling in the Second Division, Notts County were enjoying a few seasons – 1981/82, 1982/83 and 1983/84 – in Division One. We were last in the same division in 1991/92. A college pal, Craig, went to the Notts game at Swindon Town on the Saturday. I felt for him.

Why mention this?

I remember Notts County getting promoted ahead of us in 1980/81 when our season fell away dramatically after Christmas. And now they will be playing non-league football next season. A lot of newer Chelsea fans have a dig at people like me, always harking back to the days when Chelsea Football Club were under-performing and that these days are, by comparison, nothing to get too overemotional about. But I don’t care. Chelsea’s history in those bleaker years have coloured my opinions over the past twenty-five years of sustained success.

And that ain’t going to change.

We were then joined by John, Kev and Rich, from Edinburgh, all Hearts supporters. I have a lot of time for all three of them. On the Saturday, John had taken his two-year-old grandson to Tynecastle for the very first time. The pictures on Facebook had made me smile. The young lad fared better than the Jambos who lost 1-0 to Steve Clarke’s Kilmarnock. Then the Kent lads showed up. It was all very pleasant. The pints of “Grolsch” were hitting the spot. I laughed as I turned to John and said “bollocks to the football, let’s just stay here.”

Ah, the football. After Tottenham’s calamitous performance against Bournemouth the previous afternoon – two sendings off and a late winner from Nathan Ake – we were now in a position where two more wins would secure us automatic qualification for next season’s Champions League.

Oh what a crazy bloody season.

In previous conversations, we had been worried about getting points at Leicester City, and Watford would hardly be easy pickings. But two wins. Just two wins. It seemed achievable, and yet…

The team?

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Luiz – Alonso

Jorginho

Kante – Kovacic

Pedro – Higuain – Hazard

As is the case these days, the last home game of the season gives the commercial team at Chelsea Football Club a chance to display the new home kit for the forthcoming season, despite the fact that we will no doubt revert to the 2018/19 design for the games against Eintracht Frankfurt and Leicester City. As for the potential final in Baku, I am hoping for a repeat of 2012 and 2013 – when kits from those seasons were used – and not 2008, with a kit which was destined to bring back awful memories throughout the following campaign.

So. The 2019/20 Chelsea kit.

Have you got a minute?

I didn’t spot too many supporters wearing the new shirt on the walk to Stamford Bridge. I, like many, have spent the past few weeks fearing the worst, ever since a photograph of a new design was shared on the internet.

My thoughts?

The notion of honouring Stamford Bridge on the home shirt is not a ridiculous idea. Way back in 1995, Umbro took the decision to go for a panoramic shadow print of Old Trafford on the Manchester United home shirt. I wasn’t a huge fan, but it sold by the thousands, and millions. At the time, we all joked that it was the nearest many United fans would get to Old Trafford.

Stamford Bridge has – let’s be honest – rather a hotchpotch selection of stands. The East Stand is probably the most iconic – the most recognisable – but the three newer ones are of varying heights, with differences in sizes, in shape, in impact. So, dear reader, if I was given the brief to design a new Chelsea shirt embodying our home since 1905, I may well have chosen other sights and motifs.

The Peter Osgood statue, on the fiftieth anniversary of the 1970 FA Cup Final triumph – when The King scored in every round – would be a good place to start. A subtle shadow print of a single image over the chest perhaps. Or if the mantra of “less is more” is not adhered to, and the brief was for multiple images, then how about the ivy on The Shed Wall, or the Gatling Gun weather vane from atop the East Stand? How about the “Chelsea Football Club” signage on the wall between The Shed and the West Lower, which in itself is a nod to the wording used on the old Leitch East Stand which welcomed supporters to Stamford Bridge for decades?

Or how about a single panoramic image – as subtle as possible – of that often-referenced sweeping black and white panorama from the ‘twenties?

Well, instead of this, the design team chose – as far as I can muster – repeated images of circular roof trusses, roof supports and side screens.

And not just a few subtle dabs here and there. The ramshackle design covers the entire shirt. It appears that random geometric shapes have been thrown together.

It is – let me be clear here – fucking hideous.

The blue of the shorts looks to me, from my subsequent match photos, to be a slightly darker hue than the main body of the shirt. And although the decision was to, thankfully, maintain the classic white socks, the design seems to be a year late. The current 2018/19 kit design is meant to reflect the 1983/84 kit, but next season’s socks are closer to the 1983/84 style than this season. And whereas both new shirts and shorts are solidly blue – albeit in three different tones – the socks have a red band, therefore not tying it in with either shorts or socks. Oh, apart from an oddly-placed red stripe under the rear of the collar. Additionally, the images of the rectangles and circles that make up the design appear to be smudged. Not crisp. Not clear. As a metaphor for the way parts of the club operates, it is – however – perfect.

It’s a bloody mess.

Why should I care, though?

Well, the sad fact is that I do care. It looks like a dog’s dinner. It looks like the sort of children’s pyjamas that are on sale in the bargain aisle at “Asda.” And, if the reaction of the vast majority of Chelsea supporters that I interact with is to go by, it is rated as one of the worst ever. And that means, ergo, that Nike won’t be getting the desired sales returns that they might have hoped. Which defeats the bloody object of designing a new kit in the first place.

I hate modern football part 259.

On the pitch down below me, Watford surprised us all with their attacking verve in the first-half. They were by far the more enterprising of the two teams. They buzzed about us like proper hornets in their waspish shirts. The highlight from our players was a truly magnificent save from Kepa as he flung himself to his right to tip over a Troy Deeney drive. The away fans in their yellow and black were enjoying their team’s early dominance. We, however, struggled to get a foothold on the game. Sadly, N’Golo Kante was injured within the first ten minutes and we missed his drive in the first-half. He was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek. Although I did not see the game on Thursday, many mentioned that he was our best player in Frankfurt. Gerard Deulofeu managed to find space to threaten our goal and shots were fired in from outside the box. We really struggled, and rarely carved out chances.

There was, at last, a nice little give and go between Gonzalo Higuain and Pedro. The Spaniard’s drive flashed past the far post.

There was an penalty shout for a foul on David Luiz. I wasn’t convinced.

At the break, although I am sure the people that I bumped into didn’t all offer this blunt, and hardly erudite, opinion, but the general consensus was :

“Fucking shit.”

Thankfully, the second-half was a vast improvement.

I am not normally a huge fan of short corners at all. However, after Eden Hazard forced a save from the Watford ‘keeper Ben Foster, the subsequent corner was played short to Pedro. Hazard clipped the return into the six-yard box and our Ruben rose virtually unchallenged.

A strong downward header, and we were one up.

Hazard blasted at Foster. We were all guns blazing now.

Two minutes later, another Hazard corner on the far side, but this time a direct approach. Another free header though, this time from the head of Luiz.

Two up and coasting.

Those three points were looking good.

This was more like it, Chelsea. With the confidence of a two goal cushion, our play looked a lot more appetising. There was one surging run from our Eden – possibly the last that I will ever capture on film at Stamford Bridge – which had the Watford defence back peddling and questioning their choice of career.

We went close with efforts from Pedro, Loftus-Cheek and Higuain. The dangerous Deulofeu would not be quietened at the other end. He slammed a low shot wide of the far post.

With fifteen minutes to go, Higuain – who had attempted a few tricky passes to others – saw a hint of space and lost his marker. He was set free inside the box by the excellent Pedro, and the Argentinian – we share the same shit barber – dinked a delicate lob over the ‘keeper.

Chelsea 3 Watford 0.

Game over. Almost.

Watford hit the bar. They deserved a goal to be fair.

Olivier Giroud came on for Higuain and contrived to bugger up a couple of chances. In the very last minute, Dave gave the captain’s armband to Gary Cahill, who replaced David Luiz. His season has been a painful one. It was lovely to see him in Chelsea blue one last time.

He’s won it all, you know.

A last jink from Eden and a last shot on goal.

It did not matter. A three-nil win was the final result.

Meanwhile, up in Huddersfield, the home team had – somehow – managed to hold Manchester United to a 1-1 draw. On the way home, all but the driver caught up on some sleep, and as we woke we heard that Brighton had drawn 1-1 at Arsenal.

That was it. The others had committed hari kari and Chelsea Football Club were guaranteed Champions League football in 2019/20.

What a bloody crazy season.

On Thursday, we take on Eintracht Frankfurt and some of their ten thousand-strong travelling army.

I will see some of you there.

I’ll be the one not wearing pyjamas.

Tales From Saturday Tea Time

Posted on January 13, 2019 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 12 January 2019.

This was another 5.30pm kick-off and so PD, Parky and I took the train to London once again. One subject dominated our chat on the journey; the decision to hold the FA Cup tie against either Sheffield Wednesday or Luton Town at 6pm on Sunday 27 January.

Six o’clock on a Sunday evening.

What a ridiculous time.

“And there was much wailing.”

But, the FA had made another crazy decision to play an FA Cup game at a similar time some seventeen years earlier. In 2002, Fulham objected to their allocation for the first-choice venue of Highbury for our FA Cup Semi Final against them. So – and I still can’t fathom the madness of this – the FA chose to send both sets of fans up to Villa Park in Birmingham for a 7pm kick-off on a Sunday. And then, the deepest irony, Fulham failed to sell out, and in fact sold less tickets for the Villa Park game than their initial allocation at Highbury.

Altogether now : “For fuck sake.”

I don’t dislike Fulham Football Club one bit, but this has really tested me over the years.

5.30pm on a Saturday tea time is OK, there is at least Sunday to recover. In fact, it is rather agreeable as it allows for a good session in various pubs beforehand. But six o’clock on a Sunday is just wrong. At best, I would not return home until 11pm – 11.30pm is a more realistic prediction – and I would need to be up early for work the next day.

So, did I get a ticket when they went on sale on Thursday?

Yes, of course I did, but I partially hated myself for it.

File under “I am a twat” ( sub-section two thousand, nine-hundred and seventeen).

Maybe we can walk in after ten minutes, maybe we can turn our backs for the first five minutes, maybe we can produce banners. Some sort of protest would be good. But I won’t hold my breath on this. It would be nice, just once, for the club to see how much these mistimed kick-off choices affect the rank and file Chelsea support. I note that the Chelsea Supporters Trust wasted no time in condemning the time. Let’s see what transpires over the next fortnight.

It was the usual routine; a Paddington breakfast, a tube to Putney Bridge, into “The Eight Bells” for 11.30am.

We had decided to visit the southern tip of Fulham for the fourth time this season as a few friends from Scotland had sorted out tickets and had chosen the Premier Inn opposite the pub as their base. We had met John and Gary in a fantastic pub before our game at Sunderland in 2016 – “that Courtois save” – and had stayed in touch ever since. They touched down at Stansted at 11am and joined us in the cozy boozer at about 1.45pm. They were joined by their two mates Dave and Colin. All four are Heart of Midlothian supporters. It was fantastic to see John and Gary again. We sat chatting about all things football, though not all things Chelsea, and then moved on to “The Kings Arms” around the corner.

After a very enjoyable pre-match sesh we caught the District Line tube back up to Fulham Broadway.

As I have so often mentioned, my first-ever game was against Newcastle United in March 1974. First, my grandfather in 1920 – I think – and then my mother and myself in 1974. I am a third-generation visitor to Stamford Bridge, and doesn’t that sound good?

We were inside Stamford Bridge with a good twenty minutes or so to spare. John was alongside us in The Sleepy Hollow. It was his first visit to the “modern” Stamford Bridge since the rebuilding was completed in 2001. He was enamoured with our seats. We are truly blessed with our view.

But how the stadium has changed over the years. I can remember getting to Stamford Bridge really early before our game with Newcastle United in 1984/85 with the sole intention to take some photos with my little Kodak camera before any spectators were present. I walked up the steps at the back of The Shed and took several photos of a Stamford Bridge lying dormant. From memory, it was a bitterly cold day during a bitterly cold winter. But I am so glad that I took those photographs; I only wish that I had taken more of the old stadium over the years.

The Geordies were at their usual three thousand level despite a solid block of around one hundred and fifty left unused in a top corner. But this was a fine turnout from them.

There was the usual darkening of the lights before the teams entered. More flags, flames and fireworks, which are at least better suited to a 5.30pm kick-off than a midday one.

We half-expected another “false nine” role for Eden Hazard. And Maurizio Sarri did not disappoint :

Arrizabalaga.

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Luiz – Alonso.

Kante – Jorginho – Kovacic.

Pedro – Hazard – Willian.

There was a reunion of former Napoli managers underneath the East Stand. But Benitez only flitted in and out of my consciousness; it is almost six years since he left us. If only those who claimed that they – still – don’t care about him would stop bloody singing songs about him.

Sigh.

I watched the Newcastle players down below me in a huddle on the pitch as the floodlights came on and the pitch was cleared of banners and the paraphernalia of the pre-match handshakes. It shocked me that I did not recognise many. Twenty years ago, I would have been able to spot a Warren Barton, a Robert Lee, a Temuri Ketsbaia, a Luis Saha, a Philippe Albert.

I have recently come to the conclusion that with so many overseas players – or specifically those signed from overseas teams – in our game these days, my identification of them has dwindled. I still find it easier to note, identify and track a player that has bedded down in the English leagues for a while and then moves, than a player picked from a team in Europe and parachuted in to a team here. Back in the days of when I used to collect football cards as a child, my knowledge of teams’ players was encyclopedic. This continued as I started attending games, reading ‘papers and buying magazines. And it certainly continued as I subscribed to “Sky” for the best part of ten years.

But these days, I am rather lost, and have probably entered the most recent of “phases” that I briefly mentioned a few weeks ago.

I find it easier to remember a youngster from Torquay United or Tranmere Rovers who joins a Premier League team – I think my love of geography helps, in that I can pinpoint names to places – but I am floundering, if for example a Spaniard playing for an Italian team signs for another top team. There is just something untethered about these players. Give me a player like Chris Wood who played for Leeds United before joining Burnley and I might have a chance. So, unless I make the effort, they are just names to me. Most importantly neither myself nor virtually any of my Chelsea mates spend endless hours playing “FIFA” either, which would – I suppose – aid my knowledge of players, but there are just some things that are best left well alone, like Star War films, the books of J.K. Rowling, cruises and Jeremy Clarkson. Of course, if players take my eye when I see them play and have that something about them – that unquantifiable “je ne sais quoi” – then that makes them endear themselves to me and I track them.

But, Lascelles, Lejeune and Longstaff? Who?

The away team were playing with black socks, which made them look like the Newcastle of old rather than the white-socked team we played at St. James’ Park in late August.

The game began with Chelsea attacking the northern goal for a change.

There was the usual probing from us in the first portion of the match but without too much end product.

Then, on just nine minutes, David Luiz sent a ball from deep inside the Chelsea half into a space where Pedro was running. For so long I have asked that we send in an occasional early ball, just to keep the opposition back-line on their toes more than anything else. A team expecting us to pass through them all the time will not be expecting a long bomb. And this certainly was a long bomb from Luiz. It was sensational. Luiz played it with an almost nonchalant air, a sideways sweep. Pedro took the ball out of the sky and clipped it over the startled Newcastle United ‘keeper Martin Dubravka.

Whatabloodygoal.

At least I captured the celebrations if not the goal itself.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at wo’ now, like.”

Chris : “Howay Pet, come on m’little diamonds, like man.”

With Arsenal suffering a surprising loss at West Ham United in the early-kick-off (it had been “on” in the pub but we did not bother watching), here was a fantastic start to our game. If we won, we would go a healthy six points clear of them. All of us have been well aware that we have an intimidating amount of away games to endure in 2019 and that we have to win as many home games as possible.

We still have to play at Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester City, Manchester United and, to a lesser extent, Everton and Leicester City.

Tough games all.

But we did not capitalise and there was growing frustration as we struggled to get past a resolute back five. Our corners were especially poor. There were rare forays up-field from the Newcastle United players.

After half-an hour of huff and puff, Azpilicueta was fouled just outside the box and Willian floated in a cross which Luiz headed over.

There was a shot from Lejeune, but straight at Kepa. Salomon Rondon – “I know him!” – received a ball from Christian Atsu – “I know him!” – but he blazed over. Pedro shot meekly at the other end and then Perez did similarly at The Shed End. But the warning signs were there. With five minutes to go until half-time, a towering corner from Matt Ritchie was headed home by Ciaran Clark. It was a free header.

Bollocks.

The Toon Army went Loony.

It was a rare goal for The Geordies at Stamford Bridge.

I have seen the last thirty consecutive league encounters with Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge – this was game number thirty-one, undoubtedly the longest stretch out of all the games that I have seen – and they had won only two of those. In the pub, I chatted briefly to three Toonistas and it did not take them long to mention the two incredible Papiss Cisse goals that gave them their first win at Stamford Bridge in twenty-six years when they beat us 2-0 in 2012.

But that was it. One win since 1986.

A meek effort from Willian and then a wild volley from Ritchie brought the first-half to a close. It was a very mundane performance from us and there was much shaking of heads at half-time. Eden Hazard had been especially ineffective.

Early in the second-period, Kante set up Pedro but Dubravka spread himself well to block. We looked a little more dynamic during the opening moments of the second-half and Kante was the one driving the team on. But we only had half-chances. A Luiz air shot and a scuffed Pedro effort did not worry the Geordies’ goal.

On fifty-seven minutes, the ball was worked over to Willian after some sublime skill from Hazard. He stood, with two defenders blocking his sight of the goal. Not to worry, his trademark hippy-hippy-shake bought him a yard of space and his curling missile found the net, just clipping the post before making the net bulge.

Whatabloodygoal.

With over half-an-hour to go, we obviously hoped for more goals, or at least more efforts, and indeed effort. Pedro had gone close with another chip, but the Newcastle ‘keeper did enough. And although the manager rang the changes – Barkley for Kovacic, Hudson-Odoi for Pedro, Giroud for Hazard) – no further goals followed.

Sarri is under the microscope now, and his man Jorginho is not particularly loved among the Chelsea match-going support. I am still trying my best to work it all out, I am trying to get my head around his philosophy, I am trying to give him the benefit of doubt.

It worked in Italy. Can it work in England?

Time will tell.

For all of the negativity during the game, the match game ended with a 2-1 win for Chelsea which solidified our fourth-place position.

Outside Stamford Bridge on the Fulham Road, after collecting some tickets for some upcoming games, PD and I bit into a couple of hot dogs with onions – the best of the season – as light rain dampened the evening air. Opposite us were a line of seven away coaches, taking the Toonistas back to Ashington, Long Benton, Swalwell, Byker, Jesmond and Gateshead. They would not get back home until 2am or 3am.

I tipped my cap to them.

“One win since 1986, bloody hell.”

We made our way back to Paddington where we met up with Parky. Although the game had been difficult to watch – I think it was John who called it “turgid”, a good word – we now enjoyed a healthy six-point gap on Arsenal.

And we play at The Emirates next Saturday tea-time.

I will see some of you there.