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Tales From Wrexham

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Wrexham vs. Chelsea : 7 March 2026.

The Football Gods had shone on us once more. After FA Cup away trips to Charlton Athletic and Hull City, we were blessed with another rare venue; a trip to North Wales to see us play Wrexham.

To be honest, there are so many different strands to this cup tie, it’s difficult to know where to begin.

How about a little bit of history?

Well, there isn’t a great deal. The two teams first met in the old Second Division in August 1979 and would do so again at that level for three seasons. This period represented the high-water mark in Wrexham’s footballing path at the time, and it hasn’t been matched until now. I saw Wrexham once in that period.

I visited Stamford Bridge for our game with them on Saturday10 October 1981. This was a memorable day for me as it was the first time that I travelled up to London by myself, by train from Westbury station, aged sixteen. It’s likely that PD – who would be travelling with Parky alongside me forty-five years later – was on the same Paddington-bound train that morning. I was in the Lower Sixth at the time, drifting along, with my love for Chelsea far outweighing my love for academic study. I had newly subscribed to the home match programme that season and every Monday morning I would be so excited to receive the latest edition. Chelsea won 2-0 on that autumn afternoon, with goals from Colin Lee and Mike Fillery in front of 14,710. It would be the last time I’d see Petar Borota in goal.

Later that same season, the teams met in three FA Cup games in early 1982. On 23 January, a crowd of 17,226 saw a 0-0 draw at Stamford Bridge. This necessitated a replay at Wrexham three days later. On this occasion, 8,655 witnessed a 1-1 draw with a goal from the much-maligned Alan Mayes. In those days, we had second replays and this took place five days later on 31 January. We triumphed 2-1 on this occasion, in front of a gate of 10,647. The goals came from Mayes, again, and Micky Droy. Incidentally, we met Hull City in the previous round that year, just as we did last month.

We went on to beat European Champions Liverpool in the fifth round at Stamford Bridge before losing to Tottenham at home in the quarters. The two gates for those games of 41,412 and 42,557 were huge at the time. Our average gate in the league that season was just 13,132.

Between those two games, we lost a run-of-the-mill league game 0-1 at the Racecourse Ground on 27 February 1982. By then, I think both sets of supporters were sick to the back teeth of seeing each other. Just 3,935 attended.

And that was our last game against Wrexham until those two recent hideous friendlies against them in the US. In 2023, we beat them 5-0 in North Carolina, and a year later we drew 2-2 in California. At the time, it felt that we were bit-part players to a reality TV show and those two games didn’t sit right with me. I remember watching the first few minutes of the first match on TV and I have never seen a more tepid atmosphere at a football match. Why the hell were we playing Wrexham? They were hardly at our level.

Oh yeah, I know why.

By then, of course, Wrexham was a global football phenomenon after the take-over by Messrs. Reynolds and McElhenney. Their rise through the football pyramid has been one of the “feel good” stories in recent years and although it is tempting to be churlish and mock this amazing story, there is no doubt that the town seems to have been energised since the two North Americans strode into town.

I just find it a little odd that Americans loved the connection between the Wrexham team and its community; they seemed surprised and shocked, as if this sort of bond doesn’t happen in the US. This was my big take on all this. But then I wondered if high school football teams have the same bond with their communities? And, if so, maybe that is the only comparable example. Maybe in US pro-sports there is no sense of belonging. No sense of local pride. Or a shared brotherhood. I can’t imagine a sporting culture like that.

When I was in the US last summer, I lost count of the number of Americans that mentioned the word “Wrexham” to me, and it all got rather tiresome.

And all because of a TV programme.

Crazy, tedious and amazing all at once.

Chelsea was given 1,330 tickets for the game and I must praise Wrexham for not hiking the price of tickets to silly levels. My ticket cost just £27, no doubt a lot less than those two games in Chapel Hill and Santa Clara.

I set off from Frome at 9am and the day stretched out in front of me. The kick-off wasn’t until 5.45pm, but I fancied a nice long day following the love of my life. Neither Parky nor PD had visited Wrexham before, so this had all the makings of a cracking day out. It was a misty and foggy start to the day. We wolfed down a McDonalds breakfast at Melksham, then headed up on to the M4, onto the M5, before stopping at Frankley Services just south of Birmingham. There, we bumped into Chelsea stalwarts Allie and Nick. We touched the M6 for a few miles and then veered off onto the M54. PD and I drove this way to a League Cup game at Shrewsbury in 2014. It is not used very often on my travels around the country following the team.

The traffic lessened as I headed north, and the countryside grew flat. Just over the Welsh border, we stopped at Bangor-on-Dee, just a few miles south of Wrexham. It was 1.30pm. This little village, with a quaint cobbled bridge over the River Dee had one pub, “The Buck”, and we stayed there for forty-five minutes. The Mansfield Town vs. Arsenal cup game from Field Mill was on TV and seemed to be entertaining the locals – somehow. Maybe they had been fans of “Robot Wars”. It seemed Arsenal were struggling a little but edged it 2-1.

A few summers ago, drinking with my mate Chris in Washington, County Durham – a lovely summer sesh at a sports bar – I met up with his mate John, a Wrexham fan. We spoke about the Wrexham and Chelsea connections; Eddie Niedzwiecki, Mickey Thomas, Joey Jones, John Neal. We got on like a house on fire; we stayed in touch. Over the past few weeks, John was able to tip me off with a few nuggets of local information for my day in Wrexham, and he had advised a pub to aim for, just across the road from the Racecourse Ground.

The Racecourse Ground. It first came into my consciousness one day in May 1980. I was playing cricket for my school team in Shaftesbury, Dorset, and was aware that England were playing Wales at Wrexham in the home internationals. Wales defeated England 4-1 that day; a real shock, back in the days when I cared about the national team. There was a memorable Mark Hughes volley at the Kop End against Spain in 1985, and a Mickey Thomas screamer for Wrexham against Arsenal in the FA Cup in 1992.

I had mentioned to John and Chris that while travelling up to Glasgow from Stoke to see Rangers in March 1987, three Wrexham nutters got on the train at Crewe, and they were on their way to support Celtic in a game at Hamilton. To be honest, they were proper psychos and were part of Wrexham’s Frontline firm at the time. I mentioned that the main lad, who I was sat opposite, had ginger hair.

Chris and John said at the same time “that was Neil.”

It must be a close-knit community in Wrexham. I figured that Neil was the leader. One of the three went with Chelsea a fair bit. A lad from Cardiff was on our table, on his way to Ibrox too. The conversations between them were quite an eye-opener. It seemed that they were totally and unequivocally devoted to football violence. John and Chris had mentioned that Neil had quite recently passed away.

Later that night in Washington, we were joined by John’s mate from Wrexham, Scoot, who is the lead singer in the Declan Swans, a local band that has featured in the Wrexham TV series. Having never seen the series, I was oblivious, but after meeting Scoot, I found myself playing their signature song “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” non-stop for a few days. What a catchy song.

We moved on and I headed into Wrexham. It’s a city of around 45,000 people, and I am a little annoyed that I didn’t really get to see too much of it. I dropped the lads off at “Maesgwyn Hall”, then parked up at the nearby university. My car was only around seventy yards from the away turnstiles; “tidy” as they say somewhere.

I fell in love with the angled European-style floodlight pylons as I navigated my way around three sides of the cramped stadium. The old Kop is no more; a void sits in its place, waiting for a new 7,500 structure that will bring the capacity up to around 18,000. I suspect that the local supporters would be happy to host games hosting such a number. It seems about right for a city of Wrexham’s size. Should the owners over-egg it, and aim for a higher capacity, one wonders if the indigenous support would be able to support it. A reliance on a global – OK, US – support should not be taken for granted. There’s a difference between supporters’ buses coming in from Llandudno and Rhyl and planes arriving from Los Angeles and Philadelphia.

Out on the Mold Road, the new Macron Stand isn’t particularly appetising; it’s cladding resembles that of a trading estate warehouse. However, tucked in a corner is the famous “Turf” pub – where the club was formed in 1864 and because of its many appearances in the TV series – which now boasts a lovely mural of the late Joey Jones on one of its walls. There is the famous clenched fist, so beloved by the Chelsea faithful when Joey played for us between 1982 and 1985.

I, like many others I think, was not too happy when Joey joined us in 1982, amid a terrible season, for just £34,000. He seemed well past his best – he was a European Champion with Liverpool, remember – when we picked him up from lowly Wrexham, with whom he played before his big move to Merseyside. I was even less impressed with him when he was sent off on his debut at Carlisle. However, over the next two-and-a-half years his passion and commitment to our cause, under former Wrexham manager John Neal, allowed him to become a Chelsea legend.

As I began taking some photos of Joey, who should appear but Allie and Nick. I took a photo of then in front of Joey. They took one of me.

Mission accomplished.

I was calling this game “The Joey Jones Derby” and I had my photo with him.

I was happy.

I made my way over to the pub at 3pm and we stayed the best part of two hours. It was full of friendly locals, many wearing Wrexham favours. I sat with PD and Parky and – a rare treat – I decided to reward myself with two pints of cider. Our friends Youth and his son Seb sat with us. There was a rugby union game on the TV, but I avoided it.

Tommie from Porthmadog dropped in for a short stay, buzzing that a Chelsea game – for once – only took him an hour and forty minutes to get to. I first met Tommie in Bratislava in 1997, and he is a good friend. Tommie and Chris are brothers. Tommie mentioned that Scoot had ‘phoned him earlier in the day and had teased him about “not singing about sheep-shagging”.

We had a great pre-match.

The team news came through. We weren’t happy. For some bizarre reason, Liam Rosenior had chosen us to line up in a 3/4/3 formation.

Robert Sanchez

Mamadou Sarr – Tosin Adarabioyo – Benoit Badiashile

Josh Acheampong – Andrey Santos – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Alejandro Garnacho

Just before I left, I shook hands with the two Wrexham fans next to me and said, “good luck in the next round.”

 I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not. We all smiled.

This honestly felt like a huge banana skin had been placed under our football boots.

Unlike at Villa, there was no bag search and my SLR was in. The stand at Wrexham was cramped, and I struggled to edge my way along to my seat.

It was 5pm.

So far, a perfect matchday…now, it was up to the lads.

Gulp.

The consensus among a selection of some very familiar faces next to me in the stand was that the new formation, and mass-changes, was a negative. My annoyance was Rosenior’s changing of the goalkeeper and centre-backs. They had played well at Villa a few days before. Change other personnel, but keep those three in place, to attempt to try to get some sort of continuity. Jorgensen, Fofana and Chalobah made way for Sanchez, Badiashile and Tosin.

The Chelsea section creaked with the closeness of 1,330 supporters. There were familiar faces everywhere.

Before the entrance of the teams from the off-centre tunnel down below, a mosaic on the far side was displayed, but the words were not clear. I only later realised that the cards spelled out “OH JOEY JOEY”.

So, the Joey Jones Derby was recognised by the home team; super. I had hoped for Mickey Thomas to appear on the pitch, at half-time maybe, but he never did. A shame.

Soon into the match, a chant from the locals in the Tec End to my right, a nice bit of banter.

“National League Champions, You’ll Never Sing That.

Off the pitch, there was a frenzied atmosphere, with the home fans bubbling over with enthusiasm. You felt their passion from the off. This felt like a classic Cup Tie already. There was an edginess to our play in the first quarter of an hour and we didn’t seem comfortable.

Being so close to the goal, I kept thinking back to that screamer from Mickey Thomas in 1992. It was lovely to be visiting a famous stadium for the first time after seeing it so often on TV through the years.

On twenty minutes, a catastrophe. A long ball out of the Wrexham defence from Callum Doyle was perfectly weighted for Sam Smith to chase. The twin centre-backs had been caught out and scurried back in desperation. There was no surprise when I saw the shot from Smith – through my camera lens – evade Sanchez and end up in the goal.

The home support erupted. To my right, bodies jerked and spasmed in all directions at once, and the home stands roared.

“Here we go” I thought.

A VAR check – new to this lot – did not stop the goal.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea 0.

Llffackwynll.

After the commotion had died down, out came a chant from the Tec End.

“1-0 to the Sheep Shaggers.”

And another one, heavy on self-deprecation.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

I had a little chuckle.

What of our play? We couldn’t get going and our passing was slow and lacked invention. I found Pedro Neto particularly frustrating; forever carrying the ball, but to nowhere in particular. It was if his Sat Nav was broken.

Leigh was stood behind me, and he had seen the manager and the team up close in a Chester hotel the previous night. He had mentioned that Rosenior looked unduly worried and nervous ahead of this match.

Perhaps he was right to be.

Wrexham were playing to their strengths; tight marking, tough tackling, direct when needed. Joey Jones would have approved.

Our chances were rare. There was only one half-chance involving Neto and Garnacho.

At the other end, the gaping void where The Kop once stood, there were a couple of Wrexham chances. On the half-hour, Smith slipped at the last minute, thank the Lord. Just after, a fine reflex push-away from Sanchez at the near post.

Phew.

Wrexham had undoubtedly produced the better football thus far, but we were slowly getting into the game in the closing section of the half. On forty minutes the ball was punched forward to Liam Delap by Andrey Santos. Thus far he had received service but had been woeful with what he had been given. On this occasion, he was fantastic, beating off a challenge and turning, running into space. He passed to Alejandro Garnacho who raced on and shot at goal. I captured his shot through my camera lens, but how the ball ended up in the net was a matter of confusion. Just after he reeled away – minimal celebration, good to see – there was an announcement that there had been an own goal from Arthur Okonkwo in the Wrexham goal.

So be it.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea.

There was great relief at the break. This game was, of course, being shown on free-to-view national TV on BBC1, and the viewing millions were surely enjoying this classic Cup Tie. Well, I am sure they were enjoying it more than I was. We had been poor, but now we needed to push on.

Lo and behold, the second half began with two chances from the home team in front of us at the Tec End. A shot over the bar, a shot at Sanchez.

Then, at the other end, on fifty-three minutes, Delap set up Garnacho on the left, but he fired wide.

I almost missed it, but the Tec End sang the chorus from “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham.”

“Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-one’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.”

On fifty-eight minutes, Rosenior made a change; Marc Guiu for Sarr, and I tried to work out the jigsaw puzzle of players and positions but soon gave up as the match became even more intriguing.

Sanchez erred, clearing to a Wrexham player, but the ball was hoofed away.

On sixty-two minutes, Neto set up Hato and the latter slammed a ball just wide of a post.

Just after, two more changes.

Marc Cucurella for Lavia, still to play a whole game.

Dario Essugo for Hato.

There was a run and a shot from Neto that went just wide. But Wrexham were creating chances too. I turned to Leigh and Ben and grimly admitted that “all this pressure is going to pay off, isn’t it?”

In the very next passage of play, a corner was swung in, and cleared, but only as far as a Wrexham player outside the box. Josh Windass kept the ball low, and it was deflected in via a neat touch by Callum Doyle.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea1.

Bwyllocks.

Seventy-nine minutes were on the clock. This was dire.

However, just three minutes later, a loose ball in the Wrexham box was won by Santos and he played in a teammate. I caught a shot on film, and saw the ball slam into the net, though was unsure of the scorer.

Wild celebrations now.

What a Cup Tie.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 2.

The scorer was Young Josh.

BOSH.

Just after, Sanchez saved well from George Thomason, and a header then flew wide from Windass.

Phew.

Two more substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Acheampong.

Joao Pedro for Delap.

On eighty-six minutes, Neto slammed a shot against the crossbar.

Ugh.

The game edged into six minutes of additional time. Soon into that period, Garnacho was chopped down on the left wing. The yellow for George Dobson was changed by VAR to a red. The defender was sent marching.

The home support screeched about VAR, and of course they have a point.

Just after, an absolute blooter was hit right at Sanchez.

On ninety plus extra-time, it was level and so the game continued for another thirty minutes. Here was a modern-day equivalent of that 1982 three-game marathon.

In the first period of extra time, it was all us. In the sixth minute, Essugo played the ball out to Garnacho, in a not-too-dissimilar position to where he struck before, and he volleyed at goal. From my angle, it looked like the ball had hit the near post. Nobody reacted. But we then saw Garnacho running away, his arms held high. The referee was pointing at the centre-circle.

Goal? What?

I don’t think the Chelsea support has ever celebrated a go-ahead goal as quietly as that ever before.

Very strange.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 3.

Now in front, the Chelsea support changed the tune from urging the team on to a dig at our own US-based owners.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.”

Jesse Derry replaced Neto.

As the second period of fifteen minutes began, I turned to Leigh and Ben.

“Boring half coming up.”

Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I?

Five minutes in, a Wrexham free kick was sent narrowly over.

Eight minutes in, a block from Tosin stopped Kieffer Moor’s goal bound header. From the corner that followed, Moore flicked the ball on, and Lewis Brunt, loitering on the far post – surely offside, ref! – poked the ball in. While the locals, and large swathes of the US, celebrated, we waited for the correct decision.

VAR.

Offside.

Yep.

There was still five minutes of injury time to play; this tie simply did not want to end.

One minute into this, a curler from Lewis Brunt swept just past a post. The looks on our faces told of relief and disbelief in equal measure.

I must say that Joao Pedro looked fantastic in his short cameo appearance, full of beautiful hold-up play – he’s not exactly Mark Hughes, but he knows how to shield the ball – and gentle prods to others.

Thankfully, he was on hand in the last minute to sweep a ball in, again on film, and we howled our approval.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 4.

Our deficiencies were never far away, but we hauled ourselves over the line, and into the hat for the Quarter Finals.

It was hard work, but what a pulsating Cup tie.

It was an absolute classic.

We were back at my car within two minutes, and I began the long drive south.

Thanks Wrexham.

What a great day out.

Joey would have loved it.

It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham

He ordered a medium doner kebab.

Saving a tenner to pay for his cab.

Seems no harm in jumping the queue.

Showing the owner his latest tattoo.

Guy in his forties is rolling a joint.

Pleased his team has rescued a point.

A wicked deflection in time added on.

Can see in his eyes he was totally gone.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

King Street was calm on a Saturday night.

Apart from the usual worrying sight.

Of zombie-fied corpses parading the streets.

Arched over flower beds slumped across streets.

Mass the bus stop for Moss and Brynteg.

Zombie apocalypse modern day plague.

A stone’s throw away or a two second ride.

Wetherspoons locals are smoking outside.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

Tales From Row Z And The Back Row

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Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 16 December 2025.

As I prepared for the trip into South Wales for our League Cup quarter-final at Cardiff City, I was relieved that I had finally caught up with the previous five blogs for games that I had attended. At last!

This was a huge weight off my mind

However, I couldn’t help noting that the viewing figures were significantly lower than average, and I guessed that was mainly due to the delays in publishing these. After the Everton game on the Saturday, I tried to improve my turnaround time and so published that match report in the small hours of Tuesday morning. For me, this is super quick. It usually takes a few days for ideas and themes to ferment. However, despite my relative rapidity, I was rewarded with the lowest viewing figures ever.

Yes, ever.

So, I don’t know.

Like some of Enzo Maresca’s team selections, I couldn’t fathom it.

There have only been two previous match reports involving away games at the Cardiff City Stadium – in 2013/14 and 2018/19 – but in the second one I went into quite considerable depth remembering our match at Ninian Park in March 1984. By a weird twist of fate, the games in 1984 and 2019 both took place on 31 March. The synchronicity was perfect.

I suspect that because the 2018/19 report included a big wedge of nostalgia from that iconic 1983/84 season, and the inevitable mentions of the football hooliganism of the era, it might well have attracted a different demographic compared to my normal readership.

Why do I mention this? It’s because the viewing figures for that match are particularly high. In fact, this game ranks at position number three in my all-time Top Ten views.

  1. Galatasaray vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,950
  2. Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,882
  3. Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 2018/19 – 1,678
  4. Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2014/15 – 961
  5. Preston North End vs. Chelsea : 2009/10 – 948
  6. Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur :  2015/16 – 898
  7. Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 1) : 2020/21 – 881
  8. Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 2016/17 – 812
  9. Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 2 ) : 2020/21 – 775
  10. Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 2018/19 – 767

Despite the falling-off of views over the past few weeks, I am not disheartened one little bit. All the individual game stats that I mention above are via clicks on game specific links that I share on Facebook.

As a comparison, the last five games have these totals.

Burnley vs. Chelsea – 99

Chelsea vs. Arsenal – 84

Leeds United vs. Chelsea – 73

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea – 65

Chelsea vs. Everton – 61

But the good news is that far more people click on my homepage to access the match reports; a huge total of 10,070 in 2025.

This signals to me that most of my readers don’t need individual Facebook reminders to keep in touch.

And I love that.

So, I’m doing OK.

Total clicks – including clicks on photos – are up from 53,888 in 2024 to 84,395 in 2025 so far.

I’m very happy with this.

Thank you.

For the game at Cardiff, I worked 8am to 4pm, and I collected PD and Parky at the latter’s house in Holt at 4.15pm. I envisaged reaching my pre-paid parking spot on Sloper Road, right opposite the away entrance, at around 6pm, but hideously slow-moving traffic in Cardiff itself meant that I wasn’t parked up until 7pm.

I had arranged to hand over a couple of tickets to Brad, a work associate, outside the ground but he was running late too. So, I had some time to kill. While the other two hobbled over to the away end to sort out ticket issues of their own, I joined a long queue at a burger hut just ten yards away. Although it was very convenient geographically, the £5 double cheeseburger and onions was one of the worst ever, but I was starving and gobbled it down regardless.

Needs must and all that.

It was a cold evening, but I was wrapped up warm.

I bumped into loads of mates outside while I waited. It always amazes me that there must be close on six hundred or more that show up at every single domestic away game, no matter where or when. I must know a fair proportion of these. Same faces, game after game; it’s incredible.

I spoke to Dave, who now also pens his own match-day notes.

“A nice little friendly competition, Dave.”

While I was waiting for Brad, the team was announced.

I dubbed it “The B Team plus Moises.”

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

George – Buonanotte – Gittens

Guiu

Brad and his young son Finley arrived at about 7.30pm.

“Let’s get in.”

I had decided to gamble getting my SLR in, but an over-zealous steward halted my progress. It was 7.45pm. The kick-off was at 8pm.

Not to worry, I walked the two minutes back to the car where, unlike certain managers in our recent past, I had a “Plan B” and replaced my Canon for my Sony “pub camera” and thankfully remembered – just – to swap over the memory card. I made it inside the large concourse and then the seats of the stadium as the teams were doing their “huddles.” While I made my way up the steps to my seat in “Row Z” – two-thirds of the way up – the game kicked-off.

I had left work at 4pm yet still only made it into the game by the skin of my teeth.

Just in time logistics is the name of the game these days.

The home side, flying high and on top of League One, contained such typically “Anglo”-Saxon names such as Trott, Lawlor, Chambers, Wintle, Colwill, Turnbull, Ashford, Davies and Robinson, plus the intriguing Ng.

Chelsea’s list of players sounded ridiculously exotic in comparison.

Cardiff in blue shirts with pinstripes, a memory of that 1984 game, white shorts and blue socks.

Chelsea in white with the green shorts and socks.

I spotted a fair few empty seats in our end. In the row behind me, for example, there were seven empty seats together. It had been a strange away game. For a week or more, there had been spares floating around yet many had not yet received their tickets by matchday and so had to get reprints at the home ticket office. Maybe this persuaded many from travelling.

The home team engineered the first real chance of the game at the end where the 3,200 Chelsea fans were stood. Callum Robinson’s header was thankfully weak.

Soon into the contest, a homophobic chant from the home areas aimed at us.

“Chelsea Rent Boys, you know what you are.”

Tut tut, and tut tut again.

Josh Acheampong arrived late on a tackle on Davies out on the Cardiff left but the referee played the advantage.

On thirteen minutes, a super cross from Tyrique George out on the right-wing raced across the box but nobody was on hand to get a touch.

Just after, a feisty retaliation tackle by Davies on Acheampong resulted in a yellow card.

Half-chances were shared, but no ‘keeper was stretched.

We had started off with a good tempo but soon reverted to type.

Pass, pass, pass, yawn, yawn, yawn.

Chances didn’t inspire much enthusiasm.

George had a shot blocked.

Davies was easily the home team’s biggest threat and an effort from him flew over the bar.

Marc Guiu’s shot from an angle was saved.

Then, a shot from Davies spun off perilously close to the corner flag.

A few songs were aired in our section.

“It’s Salomon!”

Chelsea also aired a very old song about sheep, and I almost split my sides laughing.

On thirty-five minutes, a ridiculously overhit cross from George evaded everyone. Just after a lovely sweeping pass by Moises Caicedo reached Jamie Gittens, but with only one person marking him rather than the usual two, he fluffed his lines with a dreadful touch and the ball embarrassingly spun away for a goal-kick.

 On forty-three minutes, Davies was again the danger man as his attempted cross took a deflection and was aiming for the net until Filip Jorgensen reacted s well to push the ball off for a corner at the near post.

Just after, the home team set up a header that was straight at our ‘keeper.

No, not a great half, and Cardiff had edged the number of chances created. Our two wide men were especially poor, and it meant that Guiu was given hardly any ammunition. Facundo Buonanotte looked neat but didn’t set up Guiu with many touches either.

At half-time I spotted Nat with Rob and Martin at the rear of my section so joined them, with me standing in the very back row. I never watch a game at the top level from two different perspectives, so the superstitious part of me was a little concerned.

At the break, Enzo Maresca changed things.

Joao Pedro for Guiu.

Alejandro Garnacho for George.

To accommodate the Argentinian, Gittens disappeared off to the far side – our right – where he had such an ineffective first half. Maybe it was to keep him away from the away fans.

This change brought a little Chelsea pressure at the start of the half. Eight minutes in, a great Buonanotte break set up Garnacho, in the inside-right channel for a change, whose shot was saved by the Cardiff ‘keeper Nathan Trott. A shot from Joao Pedro was blocked just after.

I struggled to understand how or why Cardiff’s Davies was substituted.

We were well on top now.

On fifty-seven minutes, Buonanotte intercepted a poor pass out of defence and ran at the goal. A selfless flick out to Garnacho and the ball was calmly passed into the goal.

GET IN!

The scorer did his trademark celebration, and I just about captured it.

Alan in South London : THTCAUN, isn’t it.

Chris in South Wales : COMLD, look you.

I was so pleased for the scorer; he needed that goal.

The Bluebirds’ support goaded us.

“You only sing when you’re winning.”

A shot from Buonanotte was surely going into the top corner but Trott finger-tipped it over superbly.

On sixty-six minutes, two more changes.

Pedro Neto for Gittens.

Malo Gusto for Buonanotte.

We kept up the continued pressure.

Shots from Gusto, Santos, Caicedo and Neto rattled into the danger zone. Joel Bagan almost ran the ball into his own net as he tried to clear. This was surely one of those fabled games of two-halves, and the Chelsea support were enjoying this second-half onslaught.

But football can be a crazy game and on seventy-five minutes the match took a surprising twist.

An excellent cross from Perry Ng on the Cardiff right, that curled into the penalty box, found the leap of David Turnbull. Chelsea’s defenders had switched off. He was unmarked. He steered it in magnificently, the header beating Jorgensen all ends up. In fact, our ‘keepers’ dive was so late he still hasn’t landed.

Bollocks.

The Cardiff fans livened up now.

The thought of, perhaps, penalties made my heart sink. Thankfully, seven minutes later, in the eighty-second minute, a lovely bout of passing on the edge of the Cardiff box resulted in a low angled drive from Neto, and we were all relieved – no, over-joyed – when the ball crept in at the far stick.

YES!

Soon after, with the home fans silent, we goaded them.

“You only sing when you’re winning.”

There was a slight scare at the other end when a bouncing effort from a Cardiff player ended up on the top of our net.

Just after, a neat ball in from the dominant Garnacho, a turn from Joao Pedro, but another Cardiff block.

The Chelsea choir aired a favourite from fifteen years ago.

“Three Little Birds”.

But the Bluebirds were worried; they doubted if everything was going to be alright.

The gate was announced as 33,027, a fine attendance.

In the third minute of injury-time, a little head tennis out of defence lead to Joao Pedro setting up Garnacho. This time, his right foot steered the ball home. It was another great finish from the Argentinian.

I was so pleased for him. He has been one of the plusses over the past six weeks.

I had enjoyed my time with Nat, Rob and Martin, and won’t be so nervous about changing positions at half-time – “ooh, er, matron” – in the future.

As the home fans made a quick exit, the blue seats of the neat stadium were soon exposed, but the top tier of the surprisingly huge stand to our right looked like a huge flesh wound, a cruel reminder of that insane decision in 2012 by the chairman Vincent Tan to change the Bluebirds’ shirt colour to red.

Outside, I met up with PD and Parky. PD had been sat just behind Paul Merson and his son. Despite his association with lesser clubs, Merse remains a staunch Chelsea supporter, and I bloody loved the idea of him in among the rank and file of our normal support.

We weren’t allowed to move out onto Sloper Road until the area was clear. This took about thirty minutes. This allowed the local police to flush out a mini-army of Stone Island-wearing fooligans to stumble past us. Eventually, we could move. I gave Nat a lift back to her hotel – past Cardiff Castle, past the Christmas lights, lovely stuff – but even this took an age. We reached Nat’s hotel at 11.30pm.

On the way back, the new Severn Bridge was closed and so I drove over the original one, the first time for decades.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am.

It has been a decent little run in this season’s League Cup.

Three trips to Lincoln City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, Cardiff City.

Where next?

Tales From Our European Playground

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Chelsea vs. Real Betis : 28 May 2025.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.

We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.

We were in Wroclaw.

I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.

Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?

“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”

Parky immediately chimed in.

“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”

Howls of laughter followed.

Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?

Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.

Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?

It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.

Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.

We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.

Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.

We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.

On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.

On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.

I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.

We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.

With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.

We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.

After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.

In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.

We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.

The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.

Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.

Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.

You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.

Enough of these history lessons.

On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.

Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.

For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.

I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.

RIP Stephen Rouse.

The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.

Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.

The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.

Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.

Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.

We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.

Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.

When in Rome.

Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming  up with the Tyrique George song.

At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.

At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.

At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.

Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.

PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.

Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.

My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.

I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.

I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.

The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.

We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.

It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.

Fackinell.

Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.

I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.

The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.

“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”

To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.

We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.

At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.

At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.

That made me laugh. What a small world.

We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.

Michelle led the way, and we followed on.

It was her finest hour.

We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.

I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.

If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?

At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.

At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.

Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?

Everyone wins. Everyone wins!

I hate modern football.

But here we all were.

Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.

Why were we here?

To see us win it all. Again.

Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.

Result.

I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.

The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.

Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.

Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.

The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.

Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.

Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.

I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.

I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.

The minutes ticked by.

There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.

The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.

Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.

I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.

“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.

Fantastic.

The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.

It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.

It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.

It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.

The desire was seemingly with them, not us.

Sigh.

Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.

The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.

“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”

“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”

On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.

At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.

Time to check the team again.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.

Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?

Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?

Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.

I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.

At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.

I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.

On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.

Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.

They were together at West Ham United.

The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.

Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.

The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.

Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.

Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.

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

We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.

We looked poor.

There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.

Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.

But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.

Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.

Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.

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

On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.

The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.

Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?

Oh boy.

At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.

It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.

On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.

Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.

On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.

From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.

We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.

On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

Jadon Sancho for Neto.

No complaints from me.

We pushed on.

On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.

We were level.

GET IN.

Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.

Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.

On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –

“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”

He didn’t let me down.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.

We erupted again.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.

We were ahead.

Fackinell.

Our end boomed now.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The World has ever seen.”

Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.

Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.

“Get up, you fool.”

On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.

Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.

In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.

And we were 3-1 up.

More beautiful noise.

The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :

“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”

Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.

With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.

Lovely.

There was still more to come.

With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.

Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.

What a feeling.

Phew.

We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.

At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.

“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”

The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.

At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.

I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.

Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.

I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.

And what a night.

We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.

If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.

Europe really is our playground.

And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.

We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.

PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.

In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.

And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.

Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…

I will see some of you in Philadelphia.

Phackinell.

REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : “WE’VE WON IT ALL”

THANK YOU WROCLAW

“TYRIQUE GEORGE“

“OUR HOUSE”

Tales From The Benches, The Anfield Road And The Sleepy Hollow

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 May 2025.

We were in for an alluring climax to the season. With two straight wins in the league on the bounce – not anticipated by me and probably many more – we were right in the thick of it in the scramble for Champions League and Europa League placings. Our next match, our ninth league game in London on the spin, was against newly crowned Champions Liverpool.

While huge parts of our Chelsea nation obsessed about the guard of honour, I shrugged my shoulders; it would all be over in less than ten seconds.

What with the closure of the District Line south to Wimbledon, there was a change of plan for our pre-match. “The Eight Bells” was jettisoned in favour of “The Tommy Tucker”, a mere Ian Hutchinson throw-in from the West Stand forecourt on Moore Park Road. I dropped PD and Parky right outside at just before 11am and then switched back on myself and drove over to my favourite breakfast spot, “The Half Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road. If the other two lads could enjoy a four-hour session, then at least I could enjoy a full English.

I made it inside the pub at around 12.30pm, and the highlight of the time spent inside this busy boozer was the realisation that 1972 Olympic gold medallist Mary Peters was a few yards away. I can well remember watching her hop, skip and jump her way to her a gold in the pentathlon all those years ago.

For Mary Peters and Chelsea Football Club, Munich will always be a special city.

I left the pub earlier than the rest and reached the concourse just as Newcastle United scored a late, VAR-assisted penalty, to equalise at Brighton. Still, not to worry, a draw there did us a favour.

I reached my spot in The Sleepy Hollow, having smuggled my SLR in yet again. Before I settled in my seat, I took the camera out and took a few shots. However, a steward had evidently seen me and rather apologetically said “I have been told to tell you not to take use a professional camera.”

I smiled and replied “OK.”

At the end of the game, I would have taken 127 photos, but it was OK, I don’t get paid for any of the buggers.

I guess I was inside with a good forty-five minutes to go. There seemed to be many more obnoxious half-and-half scarves in the MHU than normal, and I feared the worst. I suspected an infiltration by you-know-who. Way atop our little section of seats, a father sat with his four-year-old son, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt under his jacket. I tut-tutted and tried to find someone else to be annoyed at. I didn’t take long. Sat behind me were four lads, two with half-and-halves, who seemed to be ignoring Chelsea’s pre-match kick-in down below us, instead focussing on the Liverpool players at The Shed End. By now Clive was alongside me, and we suggested to them that they were Liverpool fans. Their reply wasn’t in English, but they seemed to intimate that they were fans of football and soon dispersed. They must have had seats dotted all over the MHU.

The build-up to the match seemed to be rather low key in the stadium. The Liverpool fans were massed in the opposite corner, and one banner caught everyone’s attention.

IMAGINE BEING US.

Righty-oh.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. My light rain jacket kept out the chilly gusts.

By some odd twist of fate, forty years ago to the exact day, Chelsea were also pitted against Liverpool, but on that day in 1985 the match was at Anfield. More of that later.

The week before that game, on Saturday 27 April, Chelsea played Tottenham Hotspur at Stamford Bridge.

Let my 1984/85 retrospective recommence.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 27 April 1985.

For all of the big names coming to play us in matches at Stamford Bridge in that return to the topflight, none was bigger than Tottenham. It was the one that was most-eagerly awaited of all. And yet the problems of that era contrived against us. After the near riot at the Chelsea vs. Sunderland Milk Cup semi final on 4 March, there was a full riot at the Luton Town vs. Millwall FA Cup tie on 13 March, and football hooliganism was the talk of the front and back pages. Considering the history of problems between the two teams, the league game with Tottenham was made all-ticket with an 11.30am kick-off.

The result of this, much to my complete sadness, was that this crunch match against our bitter rivals only drew a crowd of 26,310, a figure that I could hardly believe at the time.

Sigh.

I watched from the back row of the West Stand benches with my match day crew and took plenty of photos.

Before the game, as a celebration of our ninetieth birthday – admittedly a month and a half late – we were treated to some police dogs going through some manoeuvres on the pitch (how apt) but also the Red Devil parachute display team, and if I am not mistaken one of them managed to miss the pitch and end up on the West Stand roof. I am sure some wag wondered if the guilty parachutist was Alan Mayes. Some blue and white ballons were set off in front of the Tottenham fans and we all looked on in bewilderment.

“Let’s just get to the game.”

Ski-hats were all the rage in 1984/85 and one photo that I took of Alan, Dave, Rich and Leggo has done the rounds on many football sites over the years.

The match, in the end, wasn’t that special. Tottenham went ahead via Tony Galvin in the first half but a Pat Nevin free kick on seventy-five minutes gave us a share of the points.

A week later, the action took place two-hundred or so miles to the north.

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 4 May 1984.

In 1984/1985, I only went to five away games due to finances, and the visit to Anfield was one of the highlights for sure. Liverpool were European Champions in 1984 and reigning League Champions too. They were in their pomp. Growing up as a child in the ‘seventies, and well before Chelsea fans grew tired of Liverpool’s cries of history, there were few stadia which enthralled me more than Anfield, with The Kop a beguiling wall of noise.

No gangways on The Kop, just bodies. A swaying mass of humanity.

Heading up to Liverpool, on an early-morning train from Stoke, I was excited and a little intimidated too. Catching a bus up to the stadium outside Lime Street was probably the nearest that I came to a footballing “rite of passage” in 1985. I was not conned into believing the media’s take that Scousers were loveable so-and-sos. I knew that Anfield could be a chilling away ground to visit. Famously, there was the “Cockneys Die” graffiti on the approach to Lime Street. My first real memory of Liverpool, the city, on that murky day forty years ago was that I was shocked to see so many shops with blinds, or rather metal shutters, to stave off robberies. It was the first time that I had seen such.

The mean streets of Liverpool? You bet.

I was deposited a few hundred yards from Anfield and took a few photos of the scene that greeted me. The local scallies – flared cords and Puma trainers by the look of it, all very 1985 – were prowling as I took a photograph of the old Kop.

Travelling around on trains during this season from my home in Stoke, I was well aware of the schism taking place in the casual subculture at the time. Sportswear was giving way to a more bohemian look in the north-west – flares were back in for a season or two, muted browns and greens, greys and blues, even tweed and corduroy flares – but this look never caught on in London.

At the time, I always maintained that it was like this :

London football – “look smart.”

Liverpool and Manchester football – “look different.”

I walked past The Kop and took a photo of the Kemlyn Road Stand, complete with newly arrived police horses. You can almost smell the gloom. Note the mast of the SS Great Eastern, which still hosts a fluttering flag on match days to this day.

The turnstiles were housed in a wall which had shards of glass on the top to deter fans from gaining free entry. Note the Chelsea supporters’ coach and the Sergio Tacchini top.

I paid my £2.50 and I was inside at 10.15am.

To complete this pictorial tour of Anfield before the game and to emphasise how bloody early I was on that Saturday morning – it was another 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive drinking and, ergo, hooliganism – there is a photograph of an empty, waiting, expectant Anfield. I guess that the photograph of the Chelsea squad in their suits was taken at an hour or so before kick-off. This is something we never see at games now; a Chelsea team inspecting the pitch before the game. I suspect that for many of the players, this would have been their first visit to Anfield too. Maybe that half-explains it.

My mate Glenn had travelled up with the Yeovil supporters coach for this game and we managed to find each other, and stand together, in the packed away segment at Anfield. My mates Alan, Paul and Swan stood close by. We were packed in like sardines on that terraced section of the Anfield Road that used to meet up with the Kemlyn Road, an odd mix of angles. Memorably, I remember that a lot of Chelsea lads – the firm, no doubt – had purchased seat tickets in the Anfield Road end, mere yards away from us, and a few punches were thrown. Even more memorably, I remember seeing a lad from Frome, Mark – a Liverpool supporter in my year at school – with two others from Frome only yards away in those very same seats.

The look we gave each other was priceless.

I see Mark at lots of Frome Town games to this day.

This was a cracking game. We went behind early on when Ronnie Whelan headed past Eddie Niedzwiecki and we soon conceded two more, both via Steve Nicol. We were 3-0 down after just ten minutes.

Welcome to Anfield.

We then played much better – my diary noted that it was the best we had played all season – and Nigel Spackman scored via a penalty at The Kop. Our fine play continued after the break, and Kerry Dixon slotted home in the six-yard box. Alas, a quick Liverpool break and a cross from their right. Ian Rush stuck out a leg to meet the ball at the near post and the ball looped over Niedzwiecki into the goal. My diary called it an exquisite finish and who am I to argue? I suppose, with hindsight, it was apt for Rush to score a goal at The Kop in my first ever game at Anfield. Writing these words forty years later, takes me right back. I can almost remember the gnawing inevitability of it.

Five minutes later, on about the sixty-fifth minute, Gordon Davies volleyed a low shot into the corner down below us.

Liverpool 4 Chelsea 3.

Wow.

We played so well in the remainder of the match but just couldn’t squeeze a fourth goal. We had outplayed them for a large part of the game. I remember being really surprised that Anfield was so quiet, and The Kop especially. Our little section seemed to be making all of the noise.

“EIO, EIO, EIO, EIO.”

“Ten Men Went To Mow.”

In that cramped, tight enclosure, this was a big moment in my life. I left Anfield exhausted, my throat sore, my brain fizzing with adrenalin, my senses heightened, drained.

We were all forced to take buses to Edge Hill, a train station a few miles out of Lime Street. Once there, I spotted a Chelsea lad that I recognised from Stoke, waiting with the rest of our mob, and preparing their next move, back into the city no doubt.

It took me forever to wait for a train that took me back to Crewe, where I needed to change for Stoke. I was, in fact, one of the last two Chelsea fans to leave Edge Hill that day.

These are some great memories of my first trip to Anfield.

Over the following forty years, I would return twenty-seven more times.

Back to 2025, and this was my fiftieth game against Liverpool at Stamford Bridge.

We lined up with a very strong formation, with the return of Romeo Lavia squeezing Moises Caicedo to right back and keeping Reece James on the bench.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

Liverpool were a mixture of familiar names and not-so-familiar names. I think I can name every single one of their 1985 squad, much less their 2025 version.

There were boos as both teams took to the pitch. I just stood silent with my hands in my pockets.

Within the first thirty seconds, or so it seemed, a pass from deep from Virgil Van Dijk set up Mo Salah. He attacked us from the right before attempting a low cross that was well gathered by Robert Sanchez.

This was a noisy Stamford Bridge, and the game had begun very lively. After just three minutes, we witnessed a beautiful move at pace. Romeo Lavia came away with the ball and slipped it through to Cole Palmer. The easy ball was chosen, outside to Pedro Neto. He advanced and I looked over to see Nicolas Jackson completely unmarked on the far post. However, after moving the ball on a few yards, Neto spotted the Lampardesque run of our current number eight and our Argentinian was able to kill the ball with his left foot and stroke it home with his right foot, past the diving Alisson, and Stamford Bridge went into orbit.

This was an open game, and Madueke’s shot whizzed past the post while Robert Sanchez saved well from Cody Gakpo.

Liverpool enjoyed a little spell around the fifteen-minute mark, but we were able to keep them at bay. I loved how Lavia and Caicedo were controlling the midfield. On twenty-three minutes, a magnificent sliding block from Trevoh Chalobah robbed Liverpool a shot on goal.

As the half-hour approached, I felt we were riding our luck a little as balls bounced into space from defensive blocks and clearances rather than at the feet of the opponents.

On thirty-one minutes, Noni Madueke played a one-two with Marc Cucurella, and his shot was inadvertently blocked by Jackson. The ball ran on to Caicedo, who dropped a lob onto the bar from the byline down near Parkyville.

On forty-one minutes, a snapshot from Neto hit the side netting. Just after, Jackson played in Madueke, who rounded Alisson to score, only for the goal to be chalked off for offside.

By now, the Liverpool lot, despite a flurry at the start, were quiet in their sunny corner of the stadium.

Liverpool did not seem to be creating as many threats as expected, and I was quietly confident at the break that we could hold on for a massive three points. I loved how Neto was playing, out wide, an old-fashioned winger, and Lavia, Caicedo and Enzo were a solid, fluid and combative three when we had the ball. Some of Jackson’s touches were, alas, woeful.

Into the second half, a magnificent burst from Madueke down in front of us – just a joy to watch – but a weak finish from that man Jackson. Just after, Nico slipped in the box. Just after, a fantastic dummy by Madueke out on the line, a little like Jadon Sancho at Palace, but he then gave the ball away cheaply.

Wingers are infuriating buggers, aren’t they?

At the other end, we watched a lovely old-fashioned tussle between Salah and Cucurella on the edge of our box.

Only one winner, there.

“He eats Paella, he drinks Estrella.”

On fifty-six minutes, Palmer shimmied into the right-hand side of the box and sent over a low cross towards Madueke. He touched the ball goalwards, but in the confusion that followed Van Dijk slashed at the ball and it ricocheted off Jarrell Quansah and into the goal, not that I had much of a clue what on Earth was going on. I just saw the net ripple.

It was an odd goal, in that nobody celebrated too quickly, as the spectre of VAR loomed over us all. The build-up to the goal included so many instances of potential VAR “moments” that I think it conditioned our thinking.

To our relief, no VAR, no delay, no problems.

But – VAR 1 Football 0.

Sigh.

Not to worry, we were up 2-0, and I had to ask the lads if they could remember the last time that we had beaten Liverpool in a league game at Stamford Bridge. Nobody could.

On the hour, Jackson worked himself into a great position but selfishly tried to poke the ball in from a very tight angle.

Liverpool, coming out of their shell now, enjoyed some chances. A great diving header from Levi Colwill denied them a shot on goal, and then they wasted a free header from a Salah cross.

On seventy minutes, another great slide from Our Trev denied them a shot. He was enjoying a magnificent game.

Another Liverpool header went wide.

This really was an open game.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Nico, who is soon to enrol in the parachute regiment.

More Chelsea chances came and went. A shot from Madueke was blocked, a rasper from Sancho was saved well by Alisson, Palmer wriggled free and somehow hit the post from a ridiculously tight angle.

This was breathless stuff.

Another shot from Palmer, who looked rejuvenated.

“He wants it now.”

On seventy-eight minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Lavia, who had been a revelation.

On eighty-five minutes, a free header from Van Dijk, from an Alexis Mac Allister corner, and they were back in the game.

This caused our hearts to wobble, and as the game continued, we watched with increasing nervous concern. Just after, the next move, Palmer forced another save from Alisson, who was by far the busier ‘keeper.

A fine move, but Neto shot over.

On eighty-eight minutes, Reece James took over from Enzo, who had enjoyed another fantastic match.

The battle continued.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

Fackinell.

Not to worry, in the very final minute, Liverpool attempted to play the ball out from the back and Caicedo closed down and got to the ball just in front of a defender. The defender, however, got to Caicedo just before the ball.

Penalty.

Cole Palmer stroked it home, his first goal since January.

He ran towards the goal and turned towards the East Stand but I summoned up all of my psycho-kinetic powers to entice him over to us, under The Sleepy Hollow.

It worked.

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

Just after, the final whistle.

Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1.

I spotted two of the four foreign lads sitting close by, full of smiles, and I felt I owed them an apology for thinking that they were Liverpool fans. I gave them the thumbs up. They reciprocated.

This was a lovely day and a lovely match, and perhaps the best performance of the season thus far. We bounced out of Stamford Bridge and I subconsciously found myself singing Chelsea songs on the stretch from the West Stand forecourt to the tube station, just like in the old times.

Tales From A Night Of Ultras And Anti-Football

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Chelsea vs. Legia Warsaw : 17 April 2025.

For a long time, it looked as though I would not be able to attend the return leg against Legia Warsaw at Stamford Bridge. I had been selected to attend Bristol Crown Court for jury service from Monday 7 April, potentially until Friday 25 April, and if I couldn’t go, neither could Paul nor Parky. If my attendance at court on the day of the game was required, our three tickets worth £85 would be wasted.

Thankfully, on the Wednesday, I was released from duty, and I was able to walk, a free man.

I worked from 6am on the day of the game, but due to a variety of problems, I couldn’t collect the two of them until just before 2.30pm. With another 8pm kick off ahead, this would be another long day for me. I was up at 4.45am and I predicted getting home around 1am.

Despite the late start, I still dropped the lads near “The Eight Bells” at around 4.45pm. They were happy; they went off for a few scoops with Salisbury Steve, while I drove away to park further north in my usual spot just off Lillee Road.

On the slow drive through Fulham, I spotted some Legia supporters outside “The Brown Cow” pub on the Fulham Road, the first sighting of the day. First a girl in her late teens wearing a replica shirt, then two chaps with two young boys, the boys wearing Legia shirts, the two grown-ups not. I presumed that they were headed to the game.

There had been a lot of talk in the media, and on social media, about the presence of Legia supporters in and around Stamford Bridge on this night. Both Chelsea Football Club and the Fulham Police were, shall we say, concerned.

Chelsea had been on the front foot and offered Legia a much-reduced allocation of around 1,000 instead of 3,000. Legia retaliated with an allocation for us of just 740. Thankfully I heard of no trouble in Poland. It seemed that the local police kept the away support well protected. Additionally, despite a once fearsome reputation, the supporters following Chelsea in Poland were hardly battle-hardened hooligans. I suspect that the locals soon realised this and opted to give us an easy ride, a free pass. There would have been no kudos in attacking our – aging – band of supporters.

But that’s not to say that the game at Stamford Bridge would go without incident. I believe that ticket sales were restricted to people who had previously purchased seats this season, though of course there is a rather fluid purchasing pattern evolving of late. Touts who masquerade as Chelsea supporters would be purchasing tickets to then sell on to any Tomasz, Dariusz or Henrik.

As I drove past Fulham Police Station, I spotted a couple of police vans heading up to Stamford Bridge. I wondered what checks would be in place on the Fulham Road and at the turnstiles before the game.

I had a flight of fancy and wondered if there might well be a re-enactment of the famous scene in “The Great Escape” involving Gordon Jackson as he boards a train, and a sly German soldier says “good…luck” but this time the conversation takes place a few yards before tickets are due to be scanned around the Stamford Bridge stadium. I wondered if the phrase “powodzenia” would be answered with a reply in Polish, a surprised smile, a wink or befuddlement and a stony silence.

After parking at the same spot as on Sunday, I quickly visited “Koka” on the North End Road and gobbled down a four-cheese pizza. While I was eating, a medley of ‘eighties songs were being aired in the restaurant.

Which brings us nicely to 1984/85.

On Tuesday 16 April 1985, Chelsea played a home game against Aston Villa. I spent the day in my home village in Somerset and did not attend. My diary tells me that I hoped for a gate of 16,000. In the end, just 13,267 attended. We won 3-1 with goals from John Bumstead, Mickey Thomas and a Villa own goal. Our form was starting to improve after a poor month of results.

I rolled into the pub at 6pm and stayed until just after 7pm. On the Tuesday night, I had gambled and booked flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw for the potential final in this competition. Salisbury Steve had already booked seats a while ago, and now PD, Parky and yours truly were on the same flights. Should we reach the final, we would get to Wroclaw at just after midnight on the Tuesday and would leave at 10.35am on the Thursday, a stay of three nights. The price was just £105.

I feel that as a fan base we have an odd relationship with this new-fangled Europa Conference competition. When it first appeared in 2021/22, there was general scorn from us and from elsewhere in the football world. This seemed like a needless competition. Should teams finishing far from the top of their leagues really be rewarded with participation in a pan-European competition that would add games and travel to an already busy schedule?

I thought it too pathetic for words.

And yet, you look at the teams that have won it; Roma (under Mourinho, oh the irony of him poo-pooing teams playing in the Europa League, let alone this…), West Ham United, Olimpiacos.

Big clubs for sure.

When we qualified for this competition at the very end of last season, my main thoughts were : firstly, new cities, new stadia, new countries, new experiences. Secondly, I wasn’t massively bothered about winning it. In essence, it offered some potentially new life experiences, and I am all for that. And then I thought of our “we’ve won it all” boast, and I realigned my thoughts about winning another competition. Yes, let’s win it.

Almaty in Kazakhstan in December was a bloody magnificent experience, no doubt, but I have shied away for other destinations thus far. In the pub, we discussed heading over to Vienna for a semi-final against Rapid even though I have visited the city before, but Stockholm didn’t thrill us too much. Expenditure-wise, I have the two games in Philly to take care of, so this has been a major factor in me attending just one away game in Europe thus far.

The pub was quiet, and when we arrived at Fulham Broadway just before 7.30pm, it was as quiet as I have known on a matchday for years. On the walk up the Fulham Road, a group of around thirty policemen were assembled in three lines near the Oswald Stoll. That’s a rare sight indeed at Chelsea these days. There were more dotted around and about.

We had seen a glimpse of the team in the pub, and considering we were 3-0 up from the first leg, the strength of the team surprised me. It certainly felt odd to see Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson in the starting eleven, especially since they had started against Ipswich Town.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Dewsbury-Hall

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Jackson

I was in at 7.35pm to the sound of “Our House” by Madness, a lovely welcoming song. Above, not a single cloud in the sky. Opposite my corner, around a thousand away supporters were assembled, mainly in the upper tier of The Shed, but a little group of around thirty in the lower tier. The balcony wall was full of flags. Their dress code was black, white, grey. I soon came to the conclusion that those five Legia fans outside “The Brown Cow” were not in this section.

As kick-off approached “Blue Day” was played and then at 7.50pm, the Legia ultras, who had been virtually silent until then, started. For just a choir of just one thousand strong, they made a massive noise.

Then came “Blue Is The Colour” and I found myself joining in automatically, as if I could not stop myself. However – correct me if I am wrong – it seemed too short, an abridged version perhaps.

Then “Parklife”, then “Liquidator” – and this seemed like we were returning to our roots.

In the East Stand there were huge swathes of seats unused, the section of the upper tier towards The Shed especially. There were clear gaps in all other parts of the stadium too. What was the reason for this? An incorrect pricing structure? Were Chelsea fans content we would get through so there was little point in attending? A stringent admission process for this one game? One game too many?

The result was a surreal, odd, feel to the game.

European nights at Stamford Bridge in April and May used to be the stuff of legend.

That Hughes winner against Vicenza, the place wet but rocking. Going three-up against Barcelona in 2000. The tense struggle against Liverpool in 2005 and then in so many subsequent games. Iniesta in 2009. Barcelona again and a Drogba goal in 2012. A penalty shoot-out against Frankfurt in 2019. The list of games goes on.

This seemed like it was a lot less important. And European games should not be like this. These nights should be the pinnacle. And there lies the problem with the UEFA Europa Conference.

Dear UEFA,

Less is more.

More is shite.

Thank you.

Chris.

We attacked The Shed, and within two minutes, there was a horrible repeat of Sunday’s start. Cole Palmer was sent through, one on one with the ‘keeper. I sensed that he took a breath and relaxed – a good sign – but his effort was off target, and I murmured “here we go again.”

Not so long after, Palmer headed at the Warsaw ‘keeper Vladan Kovacevic after a shot from Christopher Nkunku was saved.

Alas, on ten minutes, a Legia player was able to run unchallenged and played in Tomas Pekhart. He pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen, no doubt inviting a lunge, and the result was a clear penalty.

In it went, despite our ‘keeper getting a good hand to it down low.

Bollocks.

I was surprised that there was no noise nor activity from anywhere in the stadium apart from the thousand in the far corner and a group of around a hundred in the middle tier of the West Stand, an area that is often used by visiting European teams. I guess it housed the Legia club officials, associates and executive club members. There didn’t appear to be any Legia fans in The Sleepy Hollow, though it would have been probably difficult to tell.

After the goal celebrations had ended, virtually all of the Legia fans – supporters, ultras, call them what you will – took their shirts off. Soon, the whole away section had turned pink, coloured with occasional deep blue ink.

I remember Leeds United having a fad for taking their shirts off at half-time at games a few decades ago, but this was clearly on a different scale.

The ultras are an odd phenomenon in Europe. The Legia lot put on a show at the first leg last week, and my friend Jaro – who grew up in Poland as a Legia fan but is now solidly Chelsea – was able to attend the game. He explained to me that the Legia ultras see themselves as the dominant partner in the player / fan relationship, that it is all about them, and woe betide any Legia fan who does not share their views.

It was so noticeable that the Legia support was 99.9% male.

Although impressive to watch, I am not much of a fan of the highly choreographed routines that they, and other ultra groups elsewhere, put on each game. Often, they ignore the actual game taking place in front of them. Capos will often turn their backs to the action and face their disciples. It is all about them.

I class this as backward thinking.

I much prefer our organic way of supporting the team in the UK, and the fact that we tend to favour more spontaneous, and humorous, shows of affection. We focus on the players and the game, and our chants rise and fall accordingly. If we hit a poor match, and the players need us. We get behind them.

Or we used to. In theory.

And humour is such a huge part of our game.

The reaction of The Shed to the sight of the pre-planned removal of shirts on the tenth minute of “get your tits out for the lads” is a great example of this.

On the pitch, there was nothing to get us excited. We were struggling. Sensing the need for some sort of positive input, Alan reached for the Maynards wine gums and shared them out.

On nineteen minutes, a dart behind our lines and the dangerous Ryoya Morishita drove a shot just past the post.

This was not going according to plan. We were poor. The passing was slow, nobody was moving for each other, the play was all in front of the Legia team.

However, on thirty-three minutes, Jadon Sancho advanced down the right and played a nice ball in to the feet of Marc Cucurella who easily stabbed the ball home.

I sat.

It was my least enthusiastic response to a goal for years.

Still, it was now 1-1 on the night and we were 4-1 up on aggregate.

With Rapid Vienna 1-0 up from their first game, it looked like we might be following up games against Panathinaikos (green), Shamrock Rovers (green), Legia (green) with them (green) and possibly Real Betis (green) in the final.

Claude Goncalves attempted an optimistic lob from maybe forty-five yards but was off target.

Our play was laborious and without pace nor imagination.

It was our version of anti-football.

I commented to Alan that “you wouldn’t cross the road to watch this shite if it wasn’t your team, would you?”

With that – seconds later – a brilliant ball from the otherwise quiet Palmer found Cucurella on the far post, with Nkunku alongside him. Between the two of them, we fashioned a chance that Cucurella tapped home.

Again, no celebration from me.

However, VAR wiped out the goal anyway.

As the first half ended, there were boos.

At the break, I chatted to a few friends and acquaintances.

“So shite.”

“If they were playing in your front garden, you’d close the curtains…”

At the break, Tyrique George replaced Nicolas Jackson who had been quite abysmal. I quite expected to Nkunku to take up a central space, but the substitute played in the middle.

We continued to struggle. I moaned to Alan that “we never play the unexpected pass” to which he replied “apart from to each other” and I laughed, but I knew exactly what he meant.

A white, red and green chequered flag was floated over a section of Legia fans in the far corner.

Down below, a twice-taken corner kick was floated in towards the back stick, where Goncalves was lurking. His shot bounced up off the turf and Steve Kapuadi was able to nod in from very close range with no Chelsea player close.

We were losing again.

Fackinell.

On fifty-seven minutes, a substitution that annoyed virtually ever Chelsea supporter present.

Off came Cucurella, our best player on the night by a country mile.

On came Malo Gusto.

Noni Madueke also replaced the virtually anonymous Palmer.

The home crowd, that had been sitting and standing without much in the way of positive support, was possibly riled by the treatment of Cucurella and decided to wholeheartedly roar the team on with a defiant rendition of the old second-half favourite, “Amazing Grace”.

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

It’s appearance at the game was much needed.

We had our best spell of the match, around the hour mark, and two shots came in quick succession, one from Madueke, one from George.

Then, the away section upped the ante and turned bright red with the appearance of around fifty flares. I, along with others, looked on in awe. In a sobering moment, I realised that the once feared – and fearsome – Chelsea home support had been reduced to watching in silent admiration at the latest in a long line of European opponents that had brought along thousands of loud and energetic supporters. We had seen it before with the likes of Olimpiacos, Napoli, Malmo, Frankfurt and Dortmund among others.

And here we were.

Our mouths were open, metaphorically, as we watched on.

I may not really agree with the ethos behind the Ultra movement but there is no denying that they certainly put on a show.

But I felt uneasy. I felt awkward that we had nothing in reply. It felt like we had been neutered. It felt like we were a passive bunch of voyeurs at some sordid party, onlookers with not a clue how to behave.

Dumbfounded.

Found out.

Was this what it was like to be passengers on a cruise ship full of middle-aged dullards passing by a Croatian nudist beach?

Not sure where to look, nor how to react.

Fackinell.

On seventy-three minutes, a great ball out of defence from James found Madueke who advanced and had two choices; to hit the ball at goal himself or pass square to George. He chose the latter, and the youngster tapped it in. Sadly, an offside flag had been raised, and I felt Tyrique’s pain as he looked to the sky in disgust. Madueke was the guilty party.

On eighty-three minutes, Pedro Neto took over from Sancho.

Just after, a shot on goal at The Shed End from an unknown Legia player was booted so high over the crossbar that I severely wondered if anyone in one-hundred and twenty years had been so far off target in a game at Stamford Bridge.

At the final whistle, there were boos and it surprised nobody.

This was, truly, one of the dullest Chelsea performances that I have ever seen. I have never warmed to Enzo Maresca, and my patience with him is at an all-time low. If I am honest, I am fearing our next match at Fulham on Easter Day, and I honestly do not expect us to win any of our last six league games.

The gate was just 32,549.

In the Conference League, we learned that we will be paired with Djurgarden of Sweden.

See you at Craven Cottage.

Tales From The History Book

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Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

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

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

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

Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”

Ugh.

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

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

Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.

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

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

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

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

What a buzz.

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

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

Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.

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

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

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

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

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

Speedie then got himself sent off.

I was heartbroken.

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a sunny day in SW6.

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

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

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

Lovely applause for them all.

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

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

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

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

Anyway, enough of this bollocks.

The two teams emerged.

Us?

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

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

Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.

The game began.

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

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

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

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

“Oh for two. Here we go again.”

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

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

Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.

Sigh.

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

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

Bollocks.

“Oh for three.”

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

Throughout this all, I heard circus music.

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

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

I spoke about Vardy.

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

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

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

Pah.

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

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

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

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

I joined in.

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

Bloody cheating footballers.

He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.

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

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

“Get in Cucurella.”

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

We were 1-0 up.

Phew.

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

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

Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.

Tyrique George for Palmer.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

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

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

A minute later, a final substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.

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

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

It ended 1-0.

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

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

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

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

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland

Tiverton Town vs. Frome Town

Chelsea vs. Leicester City

The Goal

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

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

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

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

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

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

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

The Setting Sun.

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

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

A Little Bit Of America.

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

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

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

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

It got me thinking.

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

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

Pre-Match Razzle.

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

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

1985, eh? More of that later.

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

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

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

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

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

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

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

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

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

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

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

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

Wigan Athletic Away.

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

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

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

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

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

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

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

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

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

It was the done thing.

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

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

Brilliant times.

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

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

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

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

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

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

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

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

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

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

Blimey.

That must be a record.

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

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

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

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

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

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

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

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

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

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

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

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

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

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

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

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

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

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

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

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

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

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

Well done.

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

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

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

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

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

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

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

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

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

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

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

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

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

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

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

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

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

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From Two Firsts

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Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea : 30 December 2024.

This was a new ground for me. In my fifty years of following Chelsea at various locations, I had never yet ventured as far as Portman Road in the Suffolk town of Ipswich. In fact, I had only ever visited the town twice before, for work in 2003 and 2009, and on both of those occasions I was based to the south of the town, so this was to be my first visit to the town centre itself.

Once it was eventually decided when the game was to be played, I booked up a hotel close to the stadium. I didn’t fancy an “in and out mission” on the day, and I also fancied a drink. This would be my first domestic drink-up at a game since Newcastle away last season.

A few years ago, the two biggest stadia within the English and Welsh professional pyramid that I had not visited were Ipswich Town and Huddersfield Town. I crossed off the latter on opening day 2018, and now it was the turn of Ipswich. What are the remaining major stadia that I am yet to visit? Notts County, Bradford City and Millwall immediately spring to mind as being the three biggest on the list.

Talking of “firsts”, there was a huge “first” that occurred just over forty years ago on Saturday 29 December 1984.

On that day, I saw Manchester United play for the very first time.

Following our promotion to the old First Division in May, Chelsea were starting to find our collective feet in the First Division. Although there had been dropped points along the way, there had been an excellent away win at Everton, creditable away draws at Arsenal, Tottenham and Sheffield Wednesday, and two fine home wins against West Ham United and Liverpool, amongst others.

This was a glamour game for sure. Although United had last won the league in 1967, they were the biggest-supported club in the country and were a decent-enough team at the time. From a fan’s perspective, I was very keen to see how many supporters they would bring and how the numbers would compare with Liverpool who had visited three weeks earlier.

It was a familiar routine for me for my pre-match; a visit to West End shopping areas – purely window shopping – and a spin down to Fulham Broadway. My diary informs me that I darted into the long-gone Pie & Mash shop at the southern end of the North End Road, and I then met up with two pals outside the ground who advised me to nip along and buy myself a Benches ticket for £4. I have no recollection of this. I imagine I was previously unaware of the need to get a ticket. Was the Benches ticket-only for this one game? I am not sure.

On a cold day, we were inside as early as 12.15pm. There was no spare money for pre-match drinks in those days. I was a poor student, but just happy to be at Chelsea as often as possible.

There were nine of us in a row at the very rear of the Benches.

My diary called us “the Back Benchers.”

From the North to the South :

Paul from Brighton, Alan from Bromley, Dave from St. Albans, Richard from St. Albans, Simon and his brother Andy from Sandridge, me, Leggo from Bedford, Mark from Sunbury.

Simon and Andy were momentarily famous twenty years ago when the video of them at Highbury for the Champions League Quarter-Final went as near to viral as 2004 would allow.

I still see all eight lads at Chelsea to this day.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Joey Jones

Nevin – Keith Jones – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Davies

My notes said that United brought about 4,000 but Liverpool had brought more. There was a little “mixing” in the centre pens and a few punches were inevitably exchanged. It’s sad to admit to it now, but I remember being awkwardly thrilled to see the red shirts of the United players as they walked out from the East Stand tunnel.

Chelsea began on top in the first twenty minutes. The ex-United midfielder Mickey Thomas set up Gordon Davies who volleyed home. Mass celebrations, what noise, another scalp for this exciting team?

Sadly, the visitors went 2-1 ahead by half-time. Frank Stapleton crossed for Mark Hughes to head home and then Bryan Robson slipped a pass through to Remi Moses who slotted the ball in. David Speedie came on as a substitute for Keith Jones at the break. A scrambled third goal by United, with Frank Stapleton getting the final touch, was met with groans, and there was added ignominy as Kerry Dixon missed a penalty with ten minutes remaining. My notes said that Mike Duxbury should have been sent off at least twice and that our best player was, perhaps, Nigel Spackman.

In Frome that night, I bumped into PD and Glenn, and I am not wholly sure why Glenn didn’t join us in the Benches. He travelled up with the Frome / Manchester United coach though, so he may have arrived late. He told me that he almost got hit as he approached the United coach after the game by some Chelsea lads.

So much for 1984.

With dropped points against Everton and then Fulham, I set off for Suffolk rather concerned for our health, despite Ipswich still waiting to win their first game at home in the league this season.

I called for PD bang on 7.30am and I called for Parky not long after. There was a sub-standard breakfast at McDonalds in Melksham, but we were on our way.

On this day, Chelsea was set to announce loyalty point thresholds for access codes for the FIFA World club Cup games next summer. These were to be shared at 9am.

At 9am, I stopped at Membury Services in Wiltshire and my 110 points meant that I was to be given a 10.30am time slot. At 10.30am, or rather just a minute after, I was stopped at South Mimms Services in Hertfordshire where I accessed the Chelsea ticket page.

I was in.

I hoped that the rest of everything else Chelsea-related would go as well later.

The drive to Suffolk was fine. The M25 was clear, the A12 was clear. The skies were clear too. It was a glorious Winter Day. It felt good to be seeing different roads for a change, different scenery. We drove right past Colchester United’s stadium by the side of the A12.

At just after midday, I was parked up at our hotel around half-a-mile from Portman Road.

I had been given a seemingly decent plan of pubs by a friend, Rob, who would meet up with us later. We caught a cab down to the marina and at just after 12.45pm we were supping our first lagers of the day at “The Lord Nelson.”

On the trip to Ipswich, I had tried to think of players that had played for both teams.

Colin Viljoen. Kevin Wilson. Jason Cundy. Craig Forrest.

I posted this on “Facebook” and a few more followed.

Omari Hutchinson – oh damn, of course.

Mark Stein – I had forgotten that.

Trevoh Chalobah – and that.

“The Lord Nelson” was a great little pub, and it dated from 1652.

I began with a couple of “Amstel” lagers.

From there, we trotted over to “Isaacs” on the marina. Just as Kevin, a Chelsea fan from Ipswich itself, came out to take a photo of us outside the glass-fronted pub, Kalvin Phillips waited behind the wheel of his huge car. His career stalled after his move from Leeds United to Manchester City and he is now part of Keiran McKenna’s squad at Portman Road. He is the player that Gareth Southgate pined for recently.

Yeah, I know.

We met up with Noel, Gabby and Paul, enjoying the mid-afternoon sun as the “Madri” lagers went down well.

Next up, at 3.45pm, was “The Thomas Wolsey”, another decent pub in the town centre. This one used to be run by Alan Brazil. The pubs were not, yet, particularly busy, but that did not matter.

“A Cruzcampo please barman.”

From there, a five-minute walk to “The Plough” where we arrived at 4.15pm. There were a few familiar faces here; Lee from Essex, Jimmy the Greek, Dave and Glenn the brothers, Liam and his father, Pete – last seen everywhere – but pride of place goes to Rob, the guy in charge of the pub crawl, and our mutual friend Steve, who goes all the way back to that 1984/85 season as he was on the very same Human Geography course as me in Stoke-on-Trent.

“Peroni please barman.”

Apparently, this pub was meant for “home fans only” but I didn’t see any signs. Everyone was on fine form, what a great pre-match.

Incidentally, talking of “firsts”, Steve – with his twin brother Sean – travelled up with me in 1986 from Stoke for my first-ever visit to Old Trafford, but that’s a story for another day.

At about 7pm we strolled off to the game. It was only about a fifteen-minute walk.

On the drive up to Ipswich, I had joked with the lads that despite us arriving in Ipswich at around midday, we should not be too surprised if we were huffing and puffing our way through the turnstiles with five minutes to go before kick-off. Well, on this night, we surpassed ourselves. Despite a delay getting in, I was inside with a whole fifteen minutes to spare.

Portman Road was as I expected it really, although the double-decker stands behind each goal have been additions since the team were in their heyday in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties. My mate Steve has a season ticket at Portman Road these days, although I am sure he won’t mind me reminding him that he favoured Derby County when I first knew him.

Chris : “More clubs that Jack Niclaus.”

Steve : “More clubs than Peter Stringfellow.”

Rob : “More clubs than Tiger Woods.”

Before we knew it, Portman Road was engulfed in the heavy sulphurous fumes from the fireworks that seem to be a pre-requisite of many top-level match days in 2024.

We had none of this shite in 1984.

Portman Road was full to the rafters, just a little shy of 30,000. It’s a nice and neat ground, well-proportioned, and – whisper it to Steve – not too dissimilar to Derby County’s old baseball Ground.

Us in 2024?

Jorgensen

Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Felix

Nkunku

I loved the Ipswich Town pinstriped shirts, so reminiscent of the good old days of clean and crisp shirts by Adidas and Le Coq Sportif. This one is by Umbro, and it’s a cracker.

We were in a solid block of three thousand in the upper tier of the East Stand, the Cobbold Stand. I was stood with Gary and John, just a few rows from the front, a fine view. This stand was named after the family who presided over the Alf Ramsey League Championship season of 1961/62 and the Bobby Robson cup triumphs in 1978 and 1981. However, I always think that unless we are behind the goal at away venues, the involvement – and noise – is never as good. It’s just something about being stood en masse at one end.

We looked a bit edgy – “not at the races” – and it was the home team that forced the upper hand in the early exchanges.

After twelve minutes, the ball was pushed forward by Leif Davis, whoever he is, and it met the run by Liam Delap, who pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen. To our horror, the referee John Brooks pointed to the spot, and Delap drilled home the ball into the left-corner, just beyond Jorgensen’s dive.

Fackinell.

Ipswich Town 1 Chelsea 0.

Jorgensen made an absolute stunner of a save soon after, tipping a rasping effort from that man Delap over the bar.

Halfway through the first-half, a sweet low curler from Cole Palmer smacked the base of a post from a free-kick, and the ball was hacked away before a Chelsea player could pounce.

A cross from Palmer cut out everyone and Joao Felix smacked the ball in to the goal, but our celebrations were cut short with a signal that we all dread : VAR check.

A long wait.

Sigh.

No goal.

Chelsea created a few half-chances, but the home side dug in and covered space, tackled hard, and looked more organised. Marc Cucarella shot wide, Moises Caicedo shot over.

Another Delap and Jorgensen shoot-out, thankfully our ‘keeper saved.

Delap was a real handful though.

Just before the break, a curler from Palmer was expertly saved by Christian Walton in the home goal.

The first half hadn’t been great, and I was frustrated with our support, many of whom were standing in silence. It reminded me of the League Cup tie at Middlesbrough last season and we were along the side on that night too.

Sigh.

What of the second-half, then?

We actually began strongly, with efforts from Felix and Madueke.

Alas, on fifty-three minutes, a disastrous pass from Axel Disasi was intercepted by Delap  who kept the ball before passing to Omari Hutchinson. Our former youngster cleanly wrong-footed Jorgensen with a drilled shot back across the goal.

Ipswich Town 2 Chelsea 0.

Oh God.

The rest of the game was a blur really.

55 minutes : Nicolas Jackson for Joao Felix.

Christopher Nkunku had looked ill-placed to play upfront, to lead the line, and he hardly got a sniff, and we hoped that Jackson might inject some life into the team as Nkunku was shifted wider.

We just looked tired and jaded, without ideas, without energy.

65 minutes : Jadon Sancho for Nkunku.

Moving Nkunku out wide had not worked. If anything, the ever-willing Cucarella was more of a threat.

The Chelsea fans had almost given up by now.

To be fair to Sancho, he looked the liveliest of the lot during his cameo.

77 minutes : Malo Gusto for Disasi, the less said the better, and Pedro Neto for Madueke, average at best.

We conjured-up a couple of half-chances, no more than that, and there was still time for a lung-bursting run from Delap down in front of us, as if to rub it in. It has been a while since I have seen such an old-fashioned striker ply his trade in the topflight.

It ended 2-0 and we sloped off into the night.

Outside, next to a statue of Sir Bobby Robson, we gorged ourselves on hot dogs and burgers. We needed to be warmed-up, somehow.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United :

Pre-Game :

Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea :

Post-Game :

Postscript 1 :

After I had dropped Lord Parky off on Tuesday afternoon, and only around six miles from home, I was zapped by a policeman with a speed gun in the village of Rode. It was just what I needed. After our terrible results over the past ten days, I turned to PD in the passenger seat and said :

“Well, it looks like I will end up with more points than Chelsea this Christmas.”

Postscript 2 :

Well, I finally got through those nine Chelsea games in December. Five trips to London, one to Southampton, one to Almaty, one to Liverpool and one to Ipswich. I’ve seen the games, I’ve taken the photos, I’ve caught the flights, I’ve driven the car, I’ve written the blogs. It all resulted in over 10,000 views in one month, by far the highest monthly total since this site hit the newsstands in July 2013.

Thank you all so much.

See you at Selhurst Park next Saturday.

Tales From The Grand Old Lady

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Everton vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2024.

Last season, the Everton away game was again just before Christmas, on Sunday 10 December, and at the time it was to be our last-ever visit to the Grand Old Lady on Goodison Road. I went into that game expecting it to be so and took tons of photos to commemorate my last-ever visit. Yet, between the time of the game and the day of posting my match report, five days later, it was announced by Everton Football Club that they would be staying one more year at the revered old stadium and would move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025.

Ironically, another recent visit had the feel of a potential “last-ever” game too, the match in May 2022, when Everton were deep in the relegation mire. On that day, Frank Lampard’s Everton squeaked home 1-0 and lived to fight again.

It seems like Everton, or rather Goodison, has been messing about with my brain for a few years now. God knows what actual Everton fans have been experiencing.

I was pretty happy with the 105 photos that I posted for last season’s match and I had a feeling that I might well match this high figure on this occasion.

Goodison Park and I go back a long way, to a match that was shown on ITV “live” on Sunday 16 March 1986, but many fans of my generation first experienced Goodison on Saturday 22 December 1984 – forty years ago to the day – and it is the one game that I wish that I had seen. The visit in 2024 would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea game at Goodison, but the game on that Saturday forty years ago was arguably our best performance there in the past four decades.

At the time, I was so annoyed that I was not able to attend the game at Goodison in 1984. I had returned home the previous weekend from my college town of Stoke, and would be listening-in on the portable radio as I did a shift in my father’s menswear shop in Frome’s town centre. I occasionally helped out at Xmas time when things got a little busier. But I was so annoyed that I was back in Somerset. It would have been easy to travel up by train from Stoke to Liverpool had I still been in The Potteries.

My diary from 1984 explains “the saga” at Goodison Park, and how I “went wild” every time we scored, especially when a score of Everton 3 Chelsea 1 was corrected to 2-2. We won the game 4-3, with Gordon Davies getting a hat-trick and Colin Pates getting one. Graeme Sharp scored two for the home team and Paul Bracewell scored the other. I had predicted a gate of 24,000 so was very happy with the attendance of 29,800. I went out in Frome later that night and had way too much to drink. It was our first away win in the league in 1984/85 though. These things have to be celebrated surely. Those that went to the match in 1984 often tell the story of all sorts of missiles being launched at the tightly packed Chelsea terrace and the seats high above the goal from the home enclosure in front of the main stand; pool balls, flares, golf balls with nails. Friendly bunch, Everton.

For the game in 2024 we set off early. I collected PD and his son Scott at 6am and Parky at 6.30pm. We breakfasted at a deadly quiet Strensham between 7.30am and 8am. I was parked up at the usual Stanley Park car park at 10.30am – a £13 fee – but as we made our way north to Goodison, the wind howled, and the rain fell. In Almaty there was no wind chill and there was no dampness in the air, and I coped OK. After a minute of being exposed to the bitter chill of Stanley Park, I was shivering like a fool. The rain seemed to seep into my bones. I was reminded of Turf Moor in 2017. We came off the vast expanse of the park and walked alongside more sheltered and tree-lined roads.

While the others went off to find shelter in “The Abbey” pub on Walton Lane, I met up briefly with a photographer pal of mine, David. We had bumped into each other at last season’s game and had kept in touch ever since. He often takes photos pitch side at the four grounds in Liverpool and Manchester. He was queuing up, hiding from the rain, underneath the towering main stand that rises dramatically from the pavement on Goodison Road like no other stand in England. Only Ibrox come close in the entire UK. He was after a good “speck” – Scouse slang for “spot” – behind the Park End goal. We had planned for him to take a few photos of my pals and I during the game.

As I made my way to the pub, I spotted a former Everton player from my early years, Mike Lyons.

“Hello Mike.”

No answer.

That’s because I quickly realised it was Martin Dobson.

Fackinell.

I dodged the rain and made my way inside the pub that was surprisingly quiet. We stayed inside from 11pm to 1pm, and the small, thin, cosy pub soon became rammed. We were made welcome, though. I chatted to some Evertonians from Aberdare in South Wales who were staying over. Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and Doncaster Pail had joined us, and Ian then arrived with two random Evertonians he had met on the train and who had subsequently shared a cab together from Lime Street.

They are a lot more friendlier in 2024 than in 1984.

If anything, the inter-city rivalry between Merseyside’s blues and reds has heightened and intensified and turned nasty since 1984. I joked with Jimmy and commented that Evertonians hark on about Liverpool’s fan base now residing in Norway, and Liverpool bite back by saying that Everton’s global reach now goes as far as North Wales.

David, the photographer arrived with a programme for me, but reported that his “speck” was in front of the Gwladys Street, so no candid photos of us on this day.

Tommie and Chris – the brothers Grim, Tommie Chelsea and Chris Everton – arrived in the rain and I passed over spares. Then, I got drenched on the short walk to the ground, where I was serenaded by a “Town Called Malice” – an odd choice so far north – by a band playing in the fan park behind the impressive Dixie Dean statue.

There was time for one final, sad, circumnavigation of The Grand Old Lady.

The Winslow Hotel, where I popped in with my mate Francis for a drink before a game at Anfield in 1994, and if my fictional piece from 2012 is to be believed, where my father visited on his one visit to Goodison Park in around 1942, mid RAF training on The Wirral.

To the left, Jock spotted the frosted glass windows of a local hostelry. Without any words being exchanged, Jock quickly headed inside, his two friends left outside in his wake.

“A quick pint, Half Pint?” asked Hank to Reg. “It appears our Scottish friend is in need of liquid refreshment.”

They spotted Jock dart in the bar to the right of the main entrance of The Winslow Hotel and they quickly followed suit.

“Jock’s at the bar, Half Pint – this is a rare sight indeed. Let’s hope he doesn’t forget us.”

The cavernous bar was incredibly noisy and the three pals struggled to hear themselves be heard above the din of orders being taken, jokes being shared, vulgar belly laughs, shouts and groans. A young lad strode through the bar, bedecked in Everton favours – the blue and white standing out against the dismal colours of wartime England – and attempted to sell match programmes. He was not faring well. The locals were more intent on drinking. An elderly gent, with glasses and a pencil thin moustache, spoke engagingly to Reg about Dixie Dean, the great Everton centre-forward, who once scored 60 goals in a 42 game season.

As his knowledge of football wasn’t great, Reg wasn’t sure if this was the same Dixie Dean who had been ridiculed in the schoolboy poem of his youth –

“Dixie Dean from Aberdeen.
He tried to score a goal.
He missed his chance.
And pee’d his paints.
And now he’s on the dole.”

Talk of the imminent football match was minimal, though. It seemed that just being in an alien environment, so different from each of their hometowns, was amusement enough. Hank looked at his watch and signalled to the others to finish their drinks. Outside, the rain had started to fall. The three friends quickly rushed across to the stand and did not notice that the narrow street, darkened under the shadow of the structure, was busy with an array of match day activity; grizzly old men selling programmes, young boys selling cheap paper rosettes, wise-cracking spivs selling roasted chestnuts and cigarettes and young girls selling newspapers.

The main stand, and the elevator that I took to watch a game from the top balcony with my mate Pete in 1992 when Robert Fleck scored. The church of St. Luke the Evangelist, with its café and memorabilia shop that I visited in 2022.

The huge images of Dean, Sharp, Latchford, Royle, Young and Hickson towering over rooftops.

The Holy Trinity statue.

The pavement alongside where some local scallies had eyed me up and down on my second visit in late 1986 and sneered “that jacket is so fookin’ red” and I thought I might be in for a hiding.

Gwladys Street, where I walked with Josh and Courtney in October and where Courtney took a photo of two lads, in red and blue, playing football outside two houses with red and blue doors, a perfect image.

A turn into Bullens Road and the away end. Memories of a beautiful visit with my then girlfriend Judy’s young football-mad son James, aged just ten, his first-ever game in 1998, and then a repeat in 2006 with him, the 3-2 cracker.

The rain was bucketing down and the stewards just wanted us inside, so there was no camera search.

For one last time, I was in.

The familiar steps, the crowded concourse, the wooden floorboards of the Archibald Leitch Stand, our seats in Row B, effectively the front row.

I love Goodison. It’s obvious, right? But some hate it. I thought of them when I realised that a roof support was right in front of my seat, blocking a good deal of the pitch.

Fackinell.

I was lined up with Alan, John and Gary to my left and with Eck and Steely from Glasgow to my right. After being given a word of warning about using my SLR by both the chief steward and an over-zealous ambulance woman (!), I played cat and mouse with them all game long, and Eck was able to step in front of me to avoid me being seen. I am pretty sure I relied on Eck for this superb defensive partnership against prying eyes last season too.

Like Nesta and Cannavaro in their prime.

Eck and I found ourselves lip-syncing to “If You Know Your History”, it’s easily done.

Then, the big big moment…the sirens and “Z Cars” for one last time at Goodison.

Chills.

There is nothing better.

I have no doubt that Everton will keep this tune as a key part of their match-day routine at Bramley Moore. I am sure when it is played at the first-ever game, it will seem like the torch has been handed on.

Incidentally, the new stadium :

I love the location.

I am a little worried about parking and traffic flow.

The outside looks fantastic.

The inside seating bowl looks rather bland.

But I like the steepness of the rake of the terraces.

I like that – at the moment – the blue seats are not spoiled with sponsors names or other silliness.

How I wish that a few Leitch cross struts could be repositioned at key places on the balcony wall at the new digs.

With the kick-off time approaching, I checked our team.

Sanchez

Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Everton were a mixture of footballers and former footballers, some familiar, some not and how on Earth is Ashley Young still playing?

Both teams wore white shorts. Brian Moore would be turning in his grave.

Everybody standing, the rain starting to get worse, the game began.

Whisper it, but a win at Goodison would send us top, if only for a few hours.

We began the livelier and attacked the deep-sitting Everton lines in front of the Gwladys Street. There was a shot, wide, from Cole Palmer, and a couple of attacking half-chances involving Nicolas Jackson and Pedro Neto.

The rain was heavier now and seemed to be aimed right at us in the Bullens Upper. I sheltered behind Eck. The wind was blustery and seemed to change direction at will. Playing conditions, although not treacherous, were difficult, and it made for periods of messy football. The Everton crowd, not exactly buoyed by the news of the latest take-over, soon quietened down.

Neto had began the game as our liveliest player on the right and, after good play by Moises Caicedo, he fed in Palmer, and there was a low cross towards Jackson, but Jordan Pickford saved well.

We played well in short spells, and from a corner, Jackson smacked the post from close range and Pickford closed angles before Malo Gusto could attack the rebound.

Everton had been very defensive and offered very little. It was so noticeable that the Everton support were cheering defensive clearances.

“God, I know everyone loves their clubs and their teams, but imagine turning up to watch this every two weeks?”

At last, an effort on our goal; someone called Orel Mangala forcing a very fine stop from Robert Sanchez. Just after, another Everton effort, and Sanchez thwarted Jack Harrison from close range.

It had been a poor first-half and was met with moans and grumbles by the Chelsea faithful at the break.

Neto had been my favourite, and we loved the audacious piece of skill when he controlled the ball by knocking it back over his shoulder to fox his marker. Caicedo was strong. Sancho had a lot of the ball but was finding it difficult to get the best of Old Man Young. Disasi touched the ball so many times it honestly felt like he was our main playmaker. We cried out for a little more urgency.

Just before the second half began, Eck, Steely and I were now lip-syncing to “True Faith” by New Order and we hoped our faith would be truly rewarded.

“That’s the price that we all pay.
And the value of destiny comes to nothing.
I can’t tell you where we’re going.
I guess there was just no way of knowing.”

The weather was still wild. There were hints of a blue sky and sun, but only fleeting. At times the sky over the huge main stand roof took on a lavender hue. This was Goodison Park in the depths of winter, in the depths of Liverpool, in its unique setting. The wind grew stronger and the rain came again.

Football. There is something about it, in these old weather-beaten stadia, that absolutely stirs the soul.

Bizarrely, to me at least, it was Everton who created more chances of note in an increasingly worrisome second-half. On fifty minutes, a huge jolt to our confidence as Everton really should have scored. At last the home crowd made some noise that the old ground deserved.

Although Sancho looked a little more lively down below us – in an area of the Goodison Park pitch that always invokes of Eden Hazard twisting and turning – as the second-half continued, our link-up play was poor. Palmer was having a very average game, and this seemed to affect our confidence.

Some substitutions on seventy-five minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Everton attacked down our left, and a shot from Martin Gore lookalike Jesper Lindstrom was expertly stopped by Sanchez, but the block on the follow-up effort from Tosin was exceptional.

It was at this stage that we all began thinking that we would be happy with a 0-0, a point, and consolidation of a second place finish.

There were minimal minutes added on at the end of the ninety. It was if the referee Chris Kavanagh was happy to save us any more pain.

It ended 0-0.

As the legions of home and away fans departed, I loitered with my camera and tried my best to capture a few haunting images of my final ten minutes in a stadium that I have so enjoyed visiting over the past thirty-eight years.

My final Everton vs. Chelsea record at Goodison Park :

Played : 24

Won : 8

Drew : 7

Lost : 9

For : 23

Against : 26

I took some inevitable shots of the trademark Leitch cross struts on the balcony wall, and I was reminded of when I pinned my “VINCI PER NOI” banner on this section for our last great game at Goodison, the 3-0 triumph late in 2016/17. My words illustrate the joy of that day.

At the final whistle, a triumphal roar, and then my eyes were focussed on Antonio Conte. He hugged all of the Chelsea players, and slowly walked over to join his men down below us, only a few yards away from the touchline. With just four games remaining, and our lead back to seven points, the joy among the team and supporters was palpable. Conte screamed and shouted, his eyes bulging. He jumped on the back of Thibaut Courtois. His smiles and enthusiasm were so endearing.

Altogether now – “phew.”

The songs continued as we slowly made our way out into the street. A message came through from my good friend Steve in Philadelphia –

“Chris, the image that just flashed on my screen was beautiful. A shot of a cheering Antonio Conte, cheering the away fans, with the Vinci banner in the background. Absolutely perfect shot.”

There was time for one last photo of me with the Gwladys Street in the background, and then one last shot of the exit gate in the Bullens Upper, a photo that I had taken just over twelve months earlier.

But now, it was final.

Thanks Goodison, for the memories, from Reg Axon in around 1942 and from me from 1986 to 2024.

Tales From Forty Years Apart

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1

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 December 2024.

The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.

“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”

My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.

I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.

You know what’s coming up, right?

Saturday 24 November 1984.

It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.

Saturday 1 December 1984.

On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.

I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.

Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.

I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things.  There were around four thousand Scousers present.

Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.

This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.

Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.

Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.

Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.

I was ecstatic.

My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.

The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.

Altogether now :

“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”

On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.

Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.

And it was exactly forty years ago.

Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.

My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”

The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.

I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.

Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.

Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.

I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.

The minutes passed until kick-off.

I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.

It made me want to cry.

Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?

Fackinell.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.

The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.

The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.

I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.

Chelsea 1 Villa 0.

Get in.

Just seven minutes had passed.

The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.

I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.

There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.

There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.

Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.

On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.

Chelsea 2 Villa 0.

How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”

Oh we were all very happy at half-time.

Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.

Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.

I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.

And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.

There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.

On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.

Villa made changes themselves.

The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.

Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.

Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.

On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.

Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I spoke to Max, from LA :

“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”

The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.

On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.

It’s a good job he works in ballistics.

Chelsea 3 Villa 0.

Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.

One last change.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.

This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.

Everyone was happy.

We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.

Happy times for Al.

After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.

A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”

“Beatrix.”

“Ivo.”

“Otterley.”

It was the perfect end to a fine day.

Next up, a quick jaunt down to Southampton.

See you there.

1 DECEMBER 1984

1 DECEMBER 2024