Tag Archives: Joao Felix

Tales From Gus Mears’ Club

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Chelsea vs. Morecambe : 11 January 2025.

Before we hit a spate of home games at ridiculous times on ridiculous days, here was a traditional 3pm kick-off on a Saturday.

For the second time in five seasons, we were to play Morecambe in the Third Round of the FA Cup. Back in 2020/21, on Saturday 10 January, we beat The Shrimpers 4-0 at a closed Stamford Bridge. Four years and one day later, we were to meet again.

Our FA Cup run that season ended in defeat at Wembley, but the start of it seemed to be themed around the comic Eric Morecambe. We played a home game against his hometown team in the third round and then the side, Luton Town, that he developed a deep love for, eventually becoming the club president, in round four. We defeated Luton Town 3-1, but Frank Lampard was sacked the very next day.

Us against Morecambe in 2021?

Kepa

Azpilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Emerson

Gilmour – Mount

Hudson-Odoi – Havertz – Ziyech

Werner

So much has happened since, eh?

There are none left in 2025.

On the drive up to London in the morning, I said to my fellow passengers that there would be no players from the afternoon’s game who would still be playing in four years’ time.

Controversial? I am not so sure. Let’s hope I am wrong. We need some sort of continuity, or modern football becomes even more difficult to appreciate and respect.

Over to you, Chelsea.

While PD and Parky were re-acquainted with “The Eight Bells” and Ron – more FA Cup games, 64, than any other Chelsea player – and Glenn headed off to Stamford Bridge nice and early, I had some time to kill.

I had set off from Frome at 6.45am and three hours later I had arrived at my new parking spot on Charleville Road. I fancied a new routine on this cold but pristine morning in West London. I wolfed down a tasty breakfast at a new spot – “Hazel Café” – on the North End Road and then took a tube from West Kensington to Earl’s Court.

For a leisurely hour I walked south from Earls Court to Stamford Bridge, and my path took me through Brompton Cemetery, where I was keen to locate the final resting place of our club’s founder Henry Augustus “Gus” Mears, and to hopefully capture a few wintry photographs of the gravestones with the bulk of the East Stand behind. I have only walked through Brompton Cemetery once or twice before while en route to a game at Chelsea, and I remember being struck by its gothic undertones.

I fired up my ‘phone to find the exact location of the final resting place of our founder, and luckily it was just off the main walkway. Just before, I spotted the ornate art-deco tombstone of Emmeline Pankhurst, the leading light in the suffragette movement.

I made my way south.

Looming to the west, the steel roof supports of the East Stand at Stamford Bridge were almost lost in the glare from the winter sun.

The gravestone of Gus Mears is unpretentious and did not strike me as being particularly ornate or over-fussy. There are simple words to describe, in our eyes, his most formidable achievement in his thirty-eight years.

HENRY AUGUSTUS MEARS

FOUNDER OF THE CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB

He is buried with his son, Henry Frank Mears, who died in the First World War aged just nineteen.

The tombstone might be plain and understated, but the edifice which it faces more than makes up for it.

Stamford Bridge has been our home since 1905.

What memories lie within.

As I edged closer to the East Stand, I walked over to the railway-line and tried my best to take some photographs of our stadium from a never-previously photographed viewpoint. It was lovely to do so. It reinforced my love for this little piece of real estate in London SW6.

I popped into the hotel, very briefly, to chat with Ron and Glenn, but then zipped down to southern Fulham, arriving in the pub at 12.15pm. The day, thus far, had been magnificent. A cold fresh Saturday morning skirting Stamford Bridge. What could possibly be any better?

There were laughs with the usual suspects in “The Eight Bells” but the pub was a lot quieter than usual. I had spotted many Morecambe fans, in town early, and bedecked in red scarves, looking for watering holes around Stamford Bridge, and a couple had made it to our local, although with any club colours clearly hidden.

PD, Parky and I were joined by Dave, Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Leigh, Jimmy the Greek, Ian, Nick the Greek, and Nick the Greek’s good lady.

Ours, of course, was not the only FA Cup tie in London on this day. Brentford were at home to Plymouth Argyle, also at 3pm, and there was to be the Leyton Orient vs. Derby County game at 6pm.

Mark – a guy from Frome, but now living in Derby, and a Derby County fan – was off to the latter game and wanted to call in to have a chat with PD and myself before they moved over to East London. I met up with him at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town game in October, the first time that our paths had crossed since school days. However, on his way into London in a mini-bus with friends they heard that the game at Leyton Orient was called-off. However, Mark and his two Derby mates spent a nice while with us, and we chatted about all things football.

I had to laugh a while back when Mark told me that the Ram logo from the old main stand roof at the now dismantled Baseball Ground is currently in his shed. As far as stadia memorabilia goes, that must win some sort of award.

We left the three Derby lads to it and set off for the game. I was inside at 2.30pm.

During the afternoon, I chatted with Rob and Scott – friends in The Sleepy Hollow – about our plans for attending the FIFA World Club Cup in June. Rob, along with his wife Alex and his mate Rob, will be alongside Glenn and little old me in Philadelphia. I had to laugh when Scott explained how he had an even bigger nightmare buying tickets than me. The procedure via the FIFA website wasn’t too clear, nor easy. Each applicant had to set up their own account. It didn’t help my cause when I realised that I had inadvertently used Glenn’s access code for my two tickets, and so I had to gamble that my code would work for him. After a nervous ten minutes, he was in.

We were in.

See you in Philly.

The minutes ticked down and I looked at the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen.

Us against Morecambe in 2025?

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Lavia

Neto – Nkunku – Felix – George

Guiu

Or something like that.

Pedro Neto was the only player retained from the game at Crystal Palace, and it surprised nobody.

I prefaced the day’s activity with a photo and a nod to Eric Morecambe on “Facebook.”

“We’re playing all the right passes, but not necessarily in the right order.”

The game began.

Well, I was tempted to call this “Tales From The Cemetery And The Morgue”.

I know it was “only” Morecambe, who were second-from-bottom of League Two, but the atmosphere at the game, throughout virtually every second of it, was bloody terrible. I felt sorry for any long-distance Chelsea supporter who was attending this as their first-ever game at Stamford Bridge.

There. I have got that out of my system.

All eyes were keenly focussed on the returning Reece James, and it was from his free-kick that Axel Disasi headed over the bar in the first two minutes. Despite the likelihood of Morecambe defending deep (1996), Parking the Bus (2004), using a low-block (2021), they surprised us with a quick counter-attack down their right that Filip Jorgensen did well to parry. There was another Morecambe attack and shot soon after.

The away fans could be heard in the far corner.

“Football in a library.”

I guess “morgue” didn’t scan.

The Chelsea chances kept materialising in a packed penalty area in front of The Shed. A shot from Joao Felix, off for a corner, then over from the resulting corner from the same player.

Another header from another corner.

A Tosin header crashed against the bar from a Pedro Neto corner.

Disasi over the bar too.

Alan and PD alongside me were getting frustrated with a lack of drive, and a lackadaisical approach, but in the defence of the players it is sometimes difficult to raise a tempo when there is simply no space to move.

It wasn’t brilliant stuff, but chances were being created.

On twenty-eight minutes, Neto attempted to turn back the ball from the goal-line, but a defender jumped up and the ball hit his arm. The referee had no choice but to point to the spot. Sadly, Christopher Nkunku’s penalty save was at an easy height for the Morecambe ‘keeper Harry Burgoyne to save. The ball ran out to Nkunku, but the ‘keeper blocked again. Burgoyne had been the star of the show thus far. For Chelsea, Felix was often involved and was piling up scoring chances. On the wings Tyrique George and Pedro Neto were industrious but without end product. Marc Guiu and Nkunku were yet to get involved.

Just after, Disasi clouted a ball from his own half towards a totally non-existent run from a non-existent Chelsea player. It had my vote for the worst pass of the season thus far.

An effort from Guiu went close. Yet another effort from Felix, but Burgoyne met it with a very fine save. There was a tidy spin from George out on the left, but Nkunku’s header flew over the bar.

On thirty-nine minutes, with the place still silent, a move broke down and the ball spun out to Tosin. There was a semi-audible whisper of “shoot” and the centre-back moved the ball on and did so. After so many misses from players further up the field, there was almost laughter in the air as his shot was deflected past the hapless Burgoyne to give us a 1-0 lead.

I looked towards Alan. I saw him pause. At the same moment, we had the exact same thought. I took off my glasses and was just about to offer them to him. Instead, he donned his own glasses.

Eric : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Ernie : “Come on my little fat hairy legs.”

We laughed.

“God, we have been together too long.”

Just after, the same scenario. Tosin on the ball, shouts to “shoot” but the long shot whizzed just past the post.

From the Morecambe fans :

“1-0 up, you still don’t sing.”

Half-time arrived and everyone was rather non-plussed. I wondered what the mood was like at half-time at our FA Cup game against Wigan Athletic, at Stamford Bridge, on Saturday 5 January 1985. During that game, which I did not attend, we had somehow contrived to let in two first-half goals to the away team – Paul Jewell, Mike Newell – but thankfully we managed to even up the score in the second half via goals from Pat Nevin and David Speedie.

Us against Wigan Athletic in 1985?

Niedzwiecki

Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Rougvie

Nevin – Spackman – Thomas

Davies – Dixon – Speedie

There would be a replay later.

The gate was just 16,220. It had been a mixed day for FA Cup crowds; 36,000 at Liverpool vs. Aston Villa, 32,000 at Manchester United vs. Bournemouth, 29,000 at Tottenham vs. Charlton Athletic, but just 11,000 at West Ham vs. Port Vale.

My 1984/85 retrospective over, we return to 2025.

At the break, the manager made three changes.

Malo Gusto for Reece James.

Marc Cucarella for Lavia.

Jadon Sancho for Neto.

The introduction of Cucarella seemed to be the catalyst in a much-improved second forty-five minutes. It was his burst down below us that set up a shot for Renato Veiga after the Spaniard’s cross was cleared. Veiga’s shot was parried by Burgoyne but Nkunku was on hand to smash in the rebound.

No balloon. I guess he some respect for the opposition. Fair play. In fact, the celebration was very muted indeed. Nkunku doesn’t look the happiest camper at the moment.

The chances stacked up again. Yet another Felix effort flew over. Cucarella came inside and saw his right-footed shot hit the side netting. A Disasi header at a corner came close.

The away team had given up attacking in any form at all by now.

On seventy minutes, the ball was played inside by the improving George, and Sancho must have heard a shout from Tosin as he let the ball run through his legs.

Another “shoot!” and this time Tosin’s effort was quite magnificent, the ball curling and crashing into the net from twenty-five yards.

His run towards my waiting camera was euphoric.

Five minutes later, George played a ball square down below us and Felix took a touch and delicately aimed a slow but precise roller into the Morecambe net at the near post. His goal was well-deserved. Another muted celebration.

Two minutes later, The Sleepy Hollow was treated to more excellent build-up play below us. That man Cucarella – his energy had revitalised us – passed to Felix who danced and weaved ahead of his marker and then unleashed a curler past Burgoyne at the far post.

Beautiful.

There was a late rally from the away team with two shots on goal – one a tired roller at Jorgensen, one wildly over – but Chelsea were good value for the 5-0.

The referee, perhaps wisely, played only two seconds of injury-time.

Game over.

Into Round Four we go.

Our next smattering of league games at Stamford Bridge were finalised using a random date generator, copious amounts of acid and a British Rail train timetable from 1974.

Tuesday 15 January : Bournemouth.

Monday 20 January : Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Monday 3 February : West Ham United.

Wednesday 26 February : Southampton.

Have I ever mentioned what I think of modern football?

Outside : Brompton Cemetery.

Inside : Stamford Bridge.

Tales From A Different Corner

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Southampton vs. Chelsea : 4 December 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

I was so happy.

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

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

The first fackinell of the report.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect timing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The teams appeared.

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

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Disasi – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Nkunku

Or something like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YES!

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

Southampton 0 Chelsea 1.

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

Southampton 1 Chelsea 1.

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

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

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

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

Fackinell.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 2.

“It’ll be 6-5 at this rate, Al.”

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

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

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

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

The Chelsea end roared.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 3.

The game seemed safe now.

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

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

Me : “It’s fucking Salomon!”

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

Oh boy.

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

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

Scott from Lancashire.

Darren from Cheshire.

Mick from Yorkshire.

Rich from Leicestershire.

Heroes all.

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

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

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

Ugh.

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

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

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

He forced two saves from Lumley.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced him.

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

GET IN.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 4.

At last a second-half goal.

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

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

“Oh when the saints go marching out.”

On seventy-nine minutes, more changes.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

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

Southampton 1 Chelsea 5.

There were a flurry of songs.

“Oh, Enzo Maresca. Oh, Enzo Maresca.”

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

…mm, must do better.

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

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

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

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

This one was a good one.

Loved it.

Next up, Tottenham away.

What else you gonna do on a Sunday afternoon?

“WE’VE GOT OUR CHELSEA BACK.”

Tales From A Night Of Balloons, Berkshire, Bromley And Barrow

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Chelsea vs. Barrow : 24 September 2024.

The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.

There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.

The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.

I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.

That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.

Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.

I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.

We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.

PD soon called.

“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”

I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.

This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.

My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.

It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.

I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?

Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”

I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.

Barrow, eh?

It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.

Crewe Alexandra.

Sheffield Wednesday.

Aston Villa.

Port Vale.

Halifax Town.

Workington.

Southport.

Stockport County.

Barrow.

Chester.

Chesterfield.

Rochdale.

Bury.

I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.

PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.

It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.

Us?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga

Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall

Neto – Felix – Mudryk

Nkunku

It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.

Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.

To their credit, the away team began the livelier.

With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.

Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.

The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.

There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.

Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.

“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”

PD laughed.

It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.

Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.

On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.

“We need Zola here.”

I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.

I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.

Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.

The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.

There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.

At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.

Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.

On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.

Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.

I am sure that more people stood for that one.

We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.

It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.

I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”

For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.

Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.

The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.

“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.

Just after the hour, a double substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Disasi.

Tyrique George for Neto.

This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.

With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.

Just after, more changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.

Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.

There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.

In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.

Come on Frome!

Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.

At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.

85 minutes : 0-0.

90 minutes : 0-0.

96 minutes : 0-0.

98 minutes : 0-0

With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.

I smiled.

“GET IN.”

It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.

I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?

Next up, Brighton at home.

See you in the pub.

OUTSIDE

INSIDE

Tales From A Happy And Victorious Afternoon At The Vitality

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 May 2023.

Yet another crazy Chelsea season was nearing completion. There were five games left; three away, two home. The next match was Bournemouth away, the easiest of trips for me.

With PD resting at home and out of action until the new season, we called in a last minute replacement. Mark, from nearby Westbury, was able to pick up a spare ticket and would join Parky – recovering after his own hospital appointment this week – and little old me as I made my way from Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset, via the slightest of incursions into Hampshire.

I left home just after 7.30am. I knew that a few fans had already travelled down on Friday to make a weekend of it. I collected Parky at 8am and I picked Mark up in the Market Place in Westbury at 8.25am.

This brought back memories from almost forty years ago. The first time that I ever met Mark was on a trip up to London to see Chelsea play Leeds United in April 1984 when we went up in the same car. The driver was Mark’s mate Gary, but he has not been seen for years. Also in the car was PD and Glenn who obviously still go. Thirty-nine years later, four out of five ain’t bad, is it? We beat Leeds 5-0 that day and on the way back to Frome, we stopped off at the Market Place in Westbury and enjoyed an evening pint in “The Crown”.

My route from Westbury was simple enough; down the A350 to Warminster and then down the A36 to Salisbury, then the A338 – via a brief stretch on the A331 – to Bournemouth. As the crow flies, from my house, it is an hour and a half. With my two pick-ups, it took me two hours and ten minutes.

I had not seen Mark since the away game in Milan, so we had a good old catching-up session while I ate up the miles. We agreed on lots of things.

“Why hasn’t Badiashile featured at all? He was calm and efficient in his starts. Since then, nothing.”

“Can’t understand what Frank sees in Sterling. Hope he doesn’t start today.”

“Mudryk is a raw talent and needs game time.”

“In a four, no reason why Chalobah can’t play right back.”

“I like Enzo, though.”

For some reason, I fancied us to win at Bournemouth. I told everyone that I met before the game that “we surely can’t lose all our matches this season?” Although I was never sucked into believing that we had a bona fide relegation fight on our hands, we knew that a win would make us mathematically safe.

In fact, deep down, I suspected that those in our support that were genuinely worried about relegation had not really understood the complexities involved in a relegation struggle. I also think that some of our newer fans were almost revelling in a mock concern about this alleged relegation fight to help them get some “sufferance” brownie points among their peers.

For those who have been reading about 1982/83 this season…now then…THAT was a relegation fight.

I dropped Parky and Marky off outside “The Moon In The Square” and joined them a few minutes later. We breakfasted like kings while many in the pub sat watching the royal coronation on TV.

We met up with a few friends and the time soon passed.

At 1.30pm, we drove the ten minutes out to the Vitality Stadium, spotting a few Chelsea fans along the way. I squeezed my car into the allotted “JustPark” space on Holdenhurst Road and made my way towards the away end. It was ironic that while we have enjoyed many fine days out in Bournemouth since 2016, from October to April, here we were in May and there was drizzle in the air.

I stood alongside Gal, John and Al in the fifth row.

Just before the teams appeared, the noisy and overly-enthusiastic PA announcer pleaded for each of the individual four stands in turn to make “noise for the boys” and my eyes continually rolled.

The teams stood at the centre-circle and “God Save The King” was sung with gusto by all.

As the players lined up in readiness of the kick-off – we attacked our “end” in the first-half, not usually the case here – I absolutely loved Frank’s choice of a starting line-up.

I checked position by position. It was the team that I would have picked in a 4/3/3.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell

Kante – Enzo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Havertz – Madueke

Did Frank read the comments in my Arsenal blog?

I relaxed knowing that Raheem and Pierre-Emerick were not involved.

The drizzle had mostly petered out but the floodlights were still on. I noticed a surprising number of empty seats in the home areas. Sadly, a fair few were not filled behind me in our section. I find it inconceivable that one of the top fifteen clubs in Europe can’t fill all 1,200 tickets for an away game just one hundred miles away.

It was an open start to the game. The home team – ouch, those nasty zig-zag stripes – created a couple of tasty chances, but Kepa spread himself at his near post to save our blushes while another flashed past a post.

There were a couple of positive chants in support of Frank in those first few minutes.

“Super, Super Frank…”

“Scored two hundred…”

My man Noni Madueke had settled in well on the right flank, twisting and turning, running past defenders, a threat. On just nine minutes, from that right flank, Trevoh Chalobah touched the ball to N’Golo Kante who had time to cross. Conor Galagher moved towards its flight glanced it in at the far post past the marvellously named Neto.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

I just couldn’t bring myself to sing along to the “we are staying up” chants, nor could the young lad next to me. I get the desire for self-deprecation.

But.

Just.

Not.

Right.

Now.

Enzo set up Chalobah but Neto saved well. We looked neat on the ball, with Enzo looking to play in whoever he could whenever he could. Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Dominic Solanke and Ryan Christie set up Matias Vina who ghosted past defenders and, as he set himself up for a shot, I absolutely feared the worst. His lofted curler was perfectly placed beyond the reach of Kepa.

The game was tied 1-1.

I liked the way that Madueke feared nobody as he attacked down the right. His shots on goal showed confidence even if his shot selection and execution were awry. Down our left, seemingly within touching distance, a growing relationship between Gallagher and Mudryk was starting to flourish. The Ukrainian is certainly fast.

I glimpsed into the future at the potential of our very own “M & M” boys – “Mad/Mud” anyone? – causing havoc down the wings, the days of Arjen Robben and Damien Duff reincarnated perhaps, if not the days of Peter Rhoades-Brown and Phil Driver.

Ah, 1983.

Forty years ago, on Friday 6 May, I had an uneventful day at school but the twin nightmares of “A Levels” and a probable relegation were lying heavily on my mind. The very next day – Saturday 7 May 1983 – Chelsea were to visit Bolton Wanderers, one point and one place above Chelsea, in a pure “relegation six pointer”, and my diary noted that if we lost I felt that we would surely be relegated.

Despite seeing the game against Bournemouth being advertised by a few people, who really should have known better, as a “relegation six pointer”, this game wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

We were decent enough in that first-half and at the break I was quietly confident that my pre-game prediction of a Chelsea win would prevail. Kante was producing another 8/10 performance and while he is in the midfield, and Thiago Silva is in defence, we have a chance.

We lost our way a little at the start of the second-half, however, and while Bournemouth created a few chances, we slowed.

I turned to Gal : “Havertz always wants to take one touch too many, doesn’t he?”

This was a strange game now. There were patches of quality; we loved a magical twist out on the touchline from Madueke that made his marker look foolish. This had us all purring. But these were matched by moments of farce; an optimistic volley from Kante went high and so wide that the ball didn’t even leave the pitch.

The pro-Frank songs continued. However, on sixty-three minutes, he had us scratching our heads.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kante.

He was our best player. There was no midweek game to worry about. Was he carrying a knock?

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Oh bloody hell, Raheem…you again?

In the away section, things were getting a little testy. A chant for Roman Abramovich was loud, and an undoubted reaction to the substitutions that seemed to exemplify the current, failing, regime. A chant about the current owner was more forthright.

“Boehly – you’re a cunt.”

There were punches exchanged between two Chelsea fans a few seats behind me.

Christie blasted over. A superb sliding tackle on Solanke by Silva inside the penalty area went to VAR, but there was no foul. Havertz took an extra touch as he broke in on goal from an angle and the moment was lost.

The game rumbled on, with the mood seeming to change inside the away section every few minutes. Ben Chilwell pulled up on the far side and we feared the worst. Dave replaced him. At the same time, Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

The appearance of Hakeem didn’t thrill me, or many, with much joy, but he hugged the near touchline and looked to cause trouble with that tip-tapping style of his.

Vina was clean in on goal to my left, but Kepa made an absolutely brilliant shot, his arm outstretched, strong wrists, magnificent. A Ziyech cross found the head of Havertz, but the effort was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, a corner was headed back across the face of the goal but Dango Ouattara headed over from virtually underneath the bar.

At this stage, it seemed we had lost the momentum and that a Bournemouth goal would be the typical, obvious, sad conclusion.

“Why did I think we’d fucking win this?”

On eighty-two minutes, Sterling and Ziyech stood over the ball at a free-kick on the right hand side of their defensive third. Ziyech floated an in swinging curler towards the penalty spot. The cross had everything. It always looked like it might trouble the defence and ‘keeper. The trajectory, pace and dip were all to perfection. A few Chelsea players rose and the leg of my boy Badiashile flicked the ball past Neto.

The net rippled beautifully.

YES!

His joyous run and slide was lovely to see, his smile wide.

We were back in front.

Phew.

Another substitution, just after, Joao Felix for Havertz.

“How long to go, Gal?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s hang on.”

The Chelsea crowd were rocking now.

“We’re gonna have a party, when Arsenal fuck it up.”

On ninety minutes, a beautiful run by under-fire Sterling set up Felix who calmly slotted the ball low past Neto.

I screamed my joy at this one. The game was safe.

AFCB 1 CFC 3.

What a beautiful sight.

These were good times now at The Vitality.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

One win doesn’t make a season, but this bugger was a long time coming. After six consecutive losses, at last three points for Chelsea, and for Frank.

After the game, the players walked over to reciprocate our applause for them. We were happy. They were grateful.

Back in the car, we realised that we had risen to eleventh place.

I made a very quick exit out, and dropped Salisbury Steve off on the way back. I was home by 7.30pm.

Easy.

Next up, two-time European Champions Chelsea take on two-time European Champions Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge.

See you there.

Tales From The Bluebrick

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Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 8 April 2023.

After the 0-0 draw at home to Liverpool on Tuesday, things only remained quiet at Stamford Bridge for a couple of days. While rumours swirled around about potential new managers – Julian Nagelsmann and Luis Enrique being the favourites – by the time we reached Thursday, one name from out in left-field gathered momentum.

Frank Lampard.

Really? Yes, really, if only as a short-term stop-gap to last until the end of this season.

At first inspection, though, this seemed absurd. Why would Chelsea Football Club want to re-employ a former manager only two years and three months after dispensing of his services in January 2021? However, this would only be for nine league games, plus a stab at the Champions League, so there would not be much of a risk, at least to my eyes anyway.

I mulled it over. I was soon in favour, though many weren’t. I reminded a few that it was for just ten games or so. Hopefully, the move would inject some high-pedigree Chelsea DNA into our under-achieving squad, but would crucially give Todd Boehly and his team a few months in order to assess all candidates and to choose, this time, correctly.

Yeah, I know. Thus far, Clearlake have not impressed me with their – lack of – football acumen, but I live in hope.

I explained to a few friends that the Lampard move was so ridiculous it was ingenious.

If nothing else, the remainder of the season suddenly became a whole lot more interesting. Deep down, I am hoping that Carlo Ancelotti, so poorly treated by the previous regime in 2011, might fancy another stab at Chelsea. If he gave Everton a go in 2019, maybe he would fancy us four years later.

Watch this space.

One last comment about Frank Lampard, for now. I always thought that it was horrible that we never had the chance to say “goodbye and thank you” to Frank as a player. His last action for us involved being substituted at half-time in a dull 0-0 draw at home to Norwich City in 2013. He was then sacked as manager in the middle of the socially-distanced COVID season of 2020/21. Both instances must have weighed on his mind. At least, come May, we will be able to say “thank you” in the right way.

Our next game in this seemingly tortuous season paired us with Wolverhampton Wanderers at Molineux. Glenn had volunteered to drive to this one, enabling me my first game-day drink-up since Newcastle away in November. I looked at a few options for a pre-match venue and soon settled on “The Bluebrick”, a modern pub adjacent to a Premier Inn, just a stone’s throw from the city’s railway station but also very close to the football stadium too. It is also one of two pubs that are designated for away supporters. It ticked all the boxes.

On waking at 7am, my main objective was to convince myself to indulge in a few rounds of lager later in the day rather than stick to my usual dose of “Diet Cokes”; I was tempted to avoid alcohol for this game as I honestly have not missed drinking at all this season. This has to be a good sign.

However, I suspected that Frank Lampard had weightier issues on his mind.

Glenn, along with PD and his son Scott, called for me at 8am and Parky was on board soon after. We stopped briefly at Melksham for a bite to eat then made a bee-line for Wolverhampton. The plan was to arrive at 11am to give us three hours of drinking before the game. Coming in to the city from the south, by-passing Dudley, was a familiar route. The last couple of miles took us through classic Black Country scenery; passing narrow streets, climbing over bridges that took us over canals, shuffling through industrial estates, past small business, a few old-fashioned pubs, but also a few converted buildings now housing modern businesses. Glenn reached our destination just a few minutes past the eleven o’clock target.

“Good work, mate.”

We arrived just at the right time and claimed a sturdy table and bench combo outside the modern pub building. It was located just to the east of the city’s train station, alongside some railway arches, on a plot of land that has been the scene of recent urban renewal. I used to travel through Wolverhampton by train from Stoke to London on many occasions, and I have a feeling that the site of the current pub is pretty close to an old “Mitchell & Butlers” – a local brewery – illuminated sign that I used to spot in the ‘eighties. I always used to try to look out for the lofty Molineux floodlight pylons in those days too.

Talking of the ‘eighties…

Although there is no game to recall from 1982/83 in this report, as we are playing Wolves – one of our opponents in both that season and the current one – it would be apt to look at the fortunes of all teams that have appeared in both seasons. This briefest of summaries makes for quite alarming reading.

Chelsea since 1982/83

Major honours: 21

Highest position : Champions in 2004/5, 2005/6, 2009/10, 2014/15 and 2016/17.

Lowest position: 2nd in Level Two 1983/84

Crystal Palace since 1982/83

Major honours: none.

Highest position : 3rd in Level One 1990/91.

Lowest position: 21st in Level Two 2000/1 and 2009/10.

Fulham since 1982/83

Major honours : none.

Highest position : 7th in Level One 2008/9.

Lowest position – 17th in Level Four 1995/96.

Leeds United since 1982/83

Major honours : 1

Highest position : Champions in 1991/92.

Lowest position : 5th in Level Three 2007/8.

Leicester City since 1982/83

Major honours : 4

Highest position : Champions in 2015/16.

Lowest position : 1st in Level Three 2008/9

Newcastle United since 1982/83

Major honours : none.

Highest position : 2nd in Level One 1996/97 and 1997/98.

Lowest position : 11th in Level Two 1990/91.

Wolves since 1982/83

Major honours : none.

Highest position : 7th in Level One 2018/19 and 2019/20.

Lowest position : 4th in Level Four 1986/87.

What a momentous four decades, eh? And our honours do not even include the lesser-valued UEFA Super Cup ( x 2 ) nor the FIFA World Club Cup ( x 1 ).

The staggering piece of info here is that Newcastle United, always one of the best supported teams in England, have not won a single major trophy in forty years, and in fact their drought goes back to 1969, a period of fifty-four years. Additionally, Wolves our next opponents once dropped down to the old Fourth Division and are themselves trophy-less in these forty years too.

We had a grand time outside The Bluebrick. We were joined by many friends throughout the afternoon and the pints – of “Madri”, not “Diet Coke”, I buckled – went down well in the beautiful spring sun. Not too long into our stay, one young lad got things going with a “Super, Super Frank” chant and at one stage some old-school celery was flying around. I watched as one small piece flew through the air and hit me square on the forehead.

It felt like I had been chosen to be anointed by the Chelsea Gods.

Or something.

At 2pm, we set off for the stadium and I could not resist using the architecture of the old railways as a backdrop for a few photographs. Our walk took us under a railway line via a brief underpass and then over a canal using a narrow footbridge. Walking towards the away turnstiles, I stopped to chat with Neil Barnett who proffered a few differing opinions to mine regarding the return of Lampard.

There was just enough time for one more lager – a lovely “Pravha” – before reuniting with more mates. There was a riot of noise in the concourse. I hoped that the positivity seeped onto the pitch. I made my way into the elongated away section; my seat, alongside Scott, was way down towards the home fans in the once huge South Bank. PD was alongside Parky towards the middle. Glenn was away in the distance towards the North Stand. Glenn had visited the old Molineux with Bristol Rovers but this was his first visit to the remodelled version.

“The Wonder Of You” by Elvis Presley was followed by “Hi Ho Silver Lining” by Jeff Beck.

My jacket was draped on my seat; the temperature was rising despite occasional clouds. There were the usual flames before the players arrived on the far side.

I recollected my last two visits to Molineux. Back in August 2019, in the blinding sun, we put on a scintillating display under Frank Lampard as we won 5-2 with Tammy Abraham grabbing a hat-trick. Alas, in December 2021, in clinging fog, we stumbled in a desperate and dour 0-0 under Thomas Tuchel. You can imagine my thought process. Luckily, the weather was warming up.

Our team?

Frank Lampard chose these players :

Kepa

James – Koulibaly – Fofana – Cucarella

Gallagher – Kovacic – Enzo

Sterling – Havertz – Felix

I never really expected Mason Mount to start. I suppose that was a headline too far even in this crazy season; I am glad that Frank resisted. I personally would have preferred a 3/4/3 as I suspect would most. Who else was surprised to see Raheem Sterling start? Regardless of the formation, I just wanted way more aggression, much more passion, and an increase in efforts on goal.

Frank appeared in the haze on the far side. It was as if COVID had never happened. Just before play was cruelly halted in March 2020, we had beaten Tottenham 2-1, Liverpool 2-0 and Everton 4-0, and things seemed to be coming to fruition. I guess we will never know how that season will have ended up. But there’s no time for blue-tinted glasses; Fran’s managerial record has been hit and miss. Decent at Derby, mixed at Chelsea, mixed at Everton. The next instalment began.

What a let-down.

More aggression, much more passion, and an increase in efforts on goal?

It just didn’t happen.

In those insipid white and jade hoops, we attacked the South Bank in the first-half and generally had much more of the ball, but despite many corners, we rarely threatened Jose Sa – another Lavender Lad – in the Wolves goal. Our efforts on goal amounted to blocked headers, miss-hit shots and crosses zipping past knees, shins and ankles on the way through for goal-kicks. Joao Felix looked the only person who looked like he may or may not have been a top level player at some stage in his life.

The Wolves fans to my left were full of “rent boy” jeers.

The home team grew into the game as our early form soon faded. A few half-chances for them, but there was no real threat. Our attacking was as lethargic as ever. Sterling, away on the far side, did nothing of note.

A Mario Lemina effort from outside the box was blocked by Wesley Fofana. This was already a poor game of football. On the half-hour mark, a cross was headed out by Kalidou Koulibaly. The ball came towards Matheus Nunes, standing wide but just in the penalty box. A thought flashed through my head :

“This could go bloody anywhere.”

Well, it bloody well didn’t go anywhere. It was slammed with laser-like precision into the far top corner of Kepa’s goal.”

Fackinell Chels.

Just after, Diego Costa – still yet to score for Wolves this term – forced a save from Kepa. At this stage, Wolves were well worth their lead.

Just before the break, Felix – our best player I think – got a shot away, our first on target but it was easily gathered by Jose Sa.

The noise that had been present in the concourse before the game and at the start of the game had lessened and lessened. I commented to a friend in the break that this relatively decent set of players were proving to be as difficult to like as ever.

“Nobody can get a tune out of them.”

The second-half began. The sun was getting warmer and warmer. Thank goodness I had packed some sunglasses. But it was more of the same. More dull crosses, nobody making blind-sided runs into space, no movement up front, and nobody overlapping with pace down the flanks.

I hate to say it but it was as flat a performance as I have witnessed for ages.

I was so deflated that I only took twenty photos in that tedious second-half. I couldn’t even be bothered to make more than rudimentary notes on my ‘phone, not that anything was bloody happening anyway.

The support along that long lower tier soon petered out.

Reece James sized up a free-kick but it flew off target.

On the hour, Christian Pulisic replaced the hideously woeful Kai Havertz.

Wolves attacked sporadically but with purpose. We attacked more often but almost apologetically. It was as dire as it gets. A shot from Conor Gallagher after a counter-attack was blocked. The Felix effort in the first-half was the only one that Sa had needed to save.

My forehead was burning up.

On sixty-eight minutes, a triple substitution.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Felix.

Mykhailo Mydruk for Sterling.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella.

Our play continued to mystify, bewilder and annoy. I longed for a midfielder to spot James flying down the wing. I longed to see us chasing down second balls. I longed to see our players encouraging and cajoling each other to improve. I longed to see an occasional clenched fist.

This was bleak stuff.

We staggeringly picked up five bookings throughout the afternoon. Oh the irony.

It stayed 0-1.

I slowly walked out of the seats with no emotion on my face.

I met up with the lads and we slowly walked, forlorn, back to the pub. Glenn, bless him, had bought himself a coffee and had lined up four pints for us others.

There was the most solemn of most-mortems, but our spirits were raised when we called in, yet again, at “The Vine” at West Bromwich. There, I washed down my curry with a pint of “Thatcher’s Gold”, the eighth and final pint of my day.

Chelsea – it’s enough to drive you to drink.

We reached home at around 10pm.

May I wish all my friends a safe trip to Madrid during the next few days.

My next game is the home match with Brighton next Saturday; maybe we should steal their manager again?

See you there.

Tales From A Rough One

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 18 March 2023.

One of the markers that I use to gauge the progress of the year lies in the hedgerow opposite my house. A month or so ago, snowdrops appeared, blossomed and then slowly vanished. Recently, they shared the space with some newly-arrived daffodils which are now in full bloom. A few days ago, there were no more snowdrops left – only the stunning yellow blossoms remained – and in my eyes, winter had ended and spring was here.

Spring has been a winning season for us in fifteen of the past twenty-five years. It’s the business end of the football campaign. It’s when we, with amazing regularity, have gone to work.

But this one might be a little different. With domestic honours an impossibility in 2022/23, our only hope for silverware lies in Europe, but we were given a hideously difficult path to the final in Istanbul. First up, a tie with Real Madrid for the third season in a row. Unfortunately, I will only be able to attend the home leg as others in the office have already booked that Easter week as holiday. The same thing happened last year. It is grimly ironic that we chased a trip to the Bernabeu for years and have now drawn Real Madrid three times in a row, yet on all three occasions, I won’t be in attendance.

Bernabeu has become my new San Siro. One day I’ll get there.

Should we defeat Real Madrid, we then have to play Manchester City or Bayern Munich.

Yeah, I know.

With the kick-off for our home game with Everton at 5.30pm there was a relatively late start to the day. However, by 9.30am all of my fellow passengers had been collected and I then set off on our latest pilgrimage to London. At midday PD and Parky were settling down for an afternoon of lager and large laughs in “The Eight Bells” and I joined them at around 1.45pm. I had met up with my friend Bill from just outside Toronto at Stamford Bridge and by the time we arrived, our friends Diana and Ian, from Chicago, were already sat alongside PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve. Rene from Chicago, who I had not previously met, joined us too.

A table for eight at the Eight Bells.

We chatted about all sorts.

Bill told me that he felt that he already knew PD and Parky, through reading these rambles over the years, and was actually quite excited to be eventually meeting them for the first time. You can imagine my response.

I was amazed how easy it was for Diana – an Everton fan – to get a ticket for the away section. Her husband Ian and Bill would be sat together in the West Lower after I managed to secure tickets for them both via a reliable source.

Rene would be sat in the West Lower too.

The chat continued. I hadn’t been feeling great, though, for a few days. I had been suffering with a cold. As I chatted away to the friends from near and far I could feel my sore throat beginning again. I felt a bit groggy too. I hoped the players were in better nick than me.

I was able to personally thank Bill, at last, for helping me to obtain a ticket for the incredible Racing vs. Independiente derby that I witnessed over in Buenos Aires in February 2020. This feat of kindness came about when a friend of his, Victor – as featured a few weeks back – who he played football with in West Virginia a decade or so ago, was contacted and within an hour, I was sorted. I sent a photo of us to Victor, who lives just a few blocks from Enzo’s former home El Monumental, and eagerly await the opportunity to be able to return the flavour when Victor comes over to London in hopefully the near future.

Ironically, the bloke who I secured the two tickets from for Bill and Ian is currently in Buenos Aires himself on a football jolly.

It had been raining on the drive to London. Now, leaving the pub, the sun was out. However, walking up the steps to the platform at Putney Bridge, I suddenly felt knackered. At least the weather was mild. I was rough, but if it had been a freezing day, I would have felt even worse.

I reached my seat and still felt below par. I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be strongly participating in this one.

The team?

Kepa

Fofana – Kouilbaly – Badiashile

James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Felix – Havertz – Pulisic

The presence of Christian Pulisic surprised me. Surely Mykhailo Mudryk needed games more.

So, the McNally Derby.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Ian in the West Lower.

Everton in pink / grey / pink.

Diana in the Shed Upper.

The game began with us fizzing the ball around nicely. I must admit it did feel odd for us to be attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half. A half volley from Enzo was blocked. Not long after, a Ben Chilwell free-kick was worked to Mateo Kovacic who unleashed a volley that everyone in our section of the stand thought was goal bound. It whizzed just past the far post.

We dominated the first ten minutes almost completely.

But the atmosphere wasn’t particularly loud, nor even above average.

There was a “if you know your history” from the Evertonians every few minutes but that was about it.

Kalidou Koulibaly over hit a diagonal out to Pulisic to such an extent that I wondered if he had put his boots on the wrong feet. At least Pulisic looked full of running. Enzo looks a proper footballer doesn’t he?

There was a swift break that flew through the Everton defence but we were unable to finish. Kai Havertz was starting to come to life. On twenty minutes, undoubtedly the best move of the match took place down below me with great passing involving Reece James, Enzo, Havertz and Joao Felix but a lunging Pulisic was just unable to toe-poke a finish past Jordan Pickford.

Within quick succession, we purred at two pieces of sublime skill from Felix. Firstly, he showed complete calm and unerring presence of mind to contort his body to keep the ball from going out for an Everton throw-in down to my right. Next, a phenomenal spin into space after a remarkable first touch that left his marker consulting a “London A to Z” for his current whereabouts.

It was Zola-esque.

Magnificent stuff.

On the half-hour, I heard The Shed for the first real time.

Next up, a nice move but a weak effort from Felix right at the ‘keeper. On forty minutes, a terrible waste of a cross from Pulisic. His star had faded already.

Things were a bit edgier now, and although Everton had hardly mustered more than a couple of attacks on our goal in the entire length of the first-half, the support around me definitely became more nervous. There was desperate defending at times – much of the defending involving Koulibaly by definition looks desperate – and we were grateful, I think, that the first-half was nearing completion. In the last few minutes of the half, the only sound to be heard in the Matthew Harding Upper was that of plastic seats being flipped back.

One last free-kick, well-worked, a dummy, something from the training ground, but the eventual shot from Enzo did not bother Pickford one iota.

At the break, I grimly predicted a 0-0 draw at full-time. It’s not that we had played badly – far from it – but our lack of firepower in and around the box was haunting us yet again. I was still feeling rough and had not really joined in too many songs and chants in support of the boys.

I sat myself down alongside PD – Alan was unable to make it, Clive had shifted over to sit with Gary – and prepared myself for another half of attrition against a bleak but regimented Sean Dyche team.

Straight away we were on the attack. A couple of crosses were zipped over from our left with Chilwell having a fine game, and Havertz should have buried the second one with a virtually free header.

Eight minutes into the second-period, Enzo floated the ball perfectly out to our left wing-back. A first-time cross from Chilwell was not cleared and the ball reached Felix slightly to the left of the penalty spot. I looked on and hoped for the best as he dug a shot out. Miraculously, the ball was struck with such accuracy that it slowly crept just inside the far post.

The Toffees were becoming unstuck, as was my recent score prediction.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

The players cuddled underneath the TV screen and in front of the away fans in the far corner of The Shed.

At last some noise.

“He came from Portugal.”

And then a rousing “Carefree” – seemingly – from all four stands.

I joined in, coughed and spluttered, and soon stopped.

Arguably the best move of the game soon followed when a cute back-heeled pass from Felix set up Pulisic in a nice little pocket of space. He lifted a fine shot into the goal – similar to the Havertz disallowed goal against Dortmund – but the flag was raised for an offside. Ian and Bill must have got a good view of that decision.

“We need a second, Paul.”

“Yep.”

“A goal there would have killed them off.”

The prize for this win, with Fulham playing in the FA Cup this weekend, would be a step up to ninth position.

In the pub, Bill and I had laughed about the varying expectations of us Chelsea fans over the years.

“Back in 1983, we would have craved a safe ninth spot in the top division.”

Ah 1983.

Forty years ago, my mind was full of school discos and terrible “Mock A Level” results but it was also full of Chelsea’s nosedive down the Second Division table. The next game to be featured in my look back on the dreadful 1983/83 season, which took place on Saturday 12 March 1983, paired us against Carlisle United at Stamford Bridge. In the pre-amble in the match programme the game was described as a “six pointer as we skirt with the relegation zone.” I had predicted a bare 6,000 to show up at The Bridge. Both teams were mired in the bottom nine positions of the table with Chelsea just two points above the visitors. These were grave times.

The team’s two managers were both from the North-East; John Neal from Seaham in County Durham and Bob Stokoe from Hartlepool. Their two teams were now embroiled in a fight to avoid the drop. I mention these two fine fellows because, at the time, I was only seventeen and yet Stokoe and Neal, gentleman managers in every sense of the word, seemed decidedly ancient at fifty-two and fifty years of age.

And yet here I am, pushing fifty-eight.

There is no punchline here. And if there was, it wouldn’t be very funny.

At the time, Chelsea’s home record wasn’t too bad – 7 – 5 – 2, promotion form – but it was our away record – 2 – 3 – 11, relegation form – that was the root cause of our troubles.

A notable change saw our regular ‘keeper, the eighteen-year-old Steve Francis, being replaced by Bob Iles, a signing from non-league Weymouth a few years earlier. Despite going a goal down, Chelsea lead 2-1 at the break and we went on to win 4-2 The goal scorers were Paul Canoville with two, John Bumstead and Clive Walker. The gate was 6,667.

On the same day, Everton played at Old Trafford against Manchester United in front of a huge 58,198 gate in the FA Cup quarter finals with a Frank Stapleton goal giving the home team a narrow 1-0 win.

Back to 2023, and – I could hardly believe my ears – there was a strange sound emanating from the very upper echelons of the West Stand.

“Oh when the Blues…oh when the Blues…go steaming in…go steaming in.”

Fackinell.

Just after the hour, Conor Gallagher replaced Pulisic.

There was another scooped ball from Enzo. He is quickly becoming my favourite in this new assortment of players that we now find ourselves supporting.

Everton attacked. There was a free-kick from their right that caused nervousness. Then from a corner on the far side, a ball was floated in and James Tarlowski rose above Wesley Fofana, otherwise enjoying a fine game, and headed the ball down towards Kepa. Abdoulaye Doucore nipped in to flick the ball in. Havertz hooked the ball away but it was a clear goal. The buggers were level and they celebrated wildly down below me.

We got going again. There was a clean break down our right and Fofana found James. His ball inside enabled Felix to continue the move. The ball was played back to James, entering the danger zone for Everton, and as he galloped on, he came crashing down after a coming together of bodies.

Penalty.

I felt so rough that I just sat in my seat.

PD was up celebrating and he looked down on me with a look of disbelief.

More hesitancy on the run up from Havertz.

…oh bloody hell man.

Thankfully the soft shoe shuffle sent Pickford to the left and the ball was struck high to the right.

Chelsea 2 Everton 1.

Safe?

You would hope so, eh?

There was a loud and passionate chant for Gianluca Vialli and despite my sore throat, I had to show some respect and join in.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

With around ten minutes to go, our manager could not resist some typical pottering.

Kovacic, forging a decent partnership with Enzo of late, was hoiked off in favour of Ruben Loftus-Cheek and I felt a little murmur of concern.

Everton came at us again. A mistake from Koulibaly thankfully went unpunished.

With five minutes to go, two more substitutions and my head struggled to fathom it all out.

Trevoh Chalobah for Forfana.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Felix.

PD, his hip hurting, and needing a long time to walk back to the car, set off.

“See you soon mate. Here are the car keys.”

The game was very almost over.

Then, an Everton break down our right and Doucoure played in Ellis Simms, who still had a lot to do. Sadly, he breezed past a sadly immobile Koulibaly and slotted home with far too much ease.

Oh Kepa.

It was a terrible sucker punch.

The buggers celebrated in our faces again.

When Havertz had scored what we thought was our deserved winner, flags of many colours were waved enthusiastically in front of the West Lower and “equality” was observed on a few of them. Maybe our players had taken the word far too literally.

Five minutes of extra time were announced.

I shouted out : “Come on Chels, keep going.”

Almost immediately after, a bloke behind me repeated the exact same words.

“Come on Chels, keep going.”

It wasn’t to be. This was an evening when we flattered to deceive yet again. We will have to make it our new slogan.

Next up, a kick-off at the same time and in the same place, but not for a while.

In a fortnight we play Aston Villa at home.

See you there.

Tales From A Grey Day

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West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 11 February 2023.

You know what it’s like when the alarm sounds and there is a day of football that lies ahead, but you just don’t feel the love?

That’s what it was like on the morning of our game at West Ham United.

I had set the alarm for 5.30am and it took me a few minutes to summon the energy to get up and at’em. West Ham is probably my least favourite away venue. It’s a terrible stadium to watch football, eh? Additionally, in four previous visits for me there was still no win against my name.

But Chelsea were calling and so I picked up PD at 7am and Parky at 7.30am. As I approached PD’s house, a song by Yazoo from 1983, how appropriate, was airing, the suitably titled “Mr. Blue.”

“I’m Mr. Blue.

I’m here to stay with you.

And no matter what you do.

When you’re lonely, I’ll be lonely too.”

There was talk of Dortmund on the drive to London. The three of us leave early on Monday morning and are travelling over to the Ruhr by train.

A year ago to the day, PD and I were in Abu Dhabi, nervously awaiting our game against Palmeiras on the Saturday.

A year on, Saturday 11 February 2023 would be our last day of being rightfully termed World Champions.

It’s been the maddest of years since.

By 9.45am, we were settled into “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road, enjoying a fine full English and a strong mug of tea. Before the end of our fully enjoyable breakfast, a squadron of the Met’s finest had arrived and were getting into various plates of unequally unhealthy food. We wondered if they were soon to be deployed at Craven Cottage for the visit of Forest or at Loftus Road for the visit of Millwall.

On the drive up to London, I had asked PD about the FA Cup game at Derby County that I had featured in last week’s edition.

“You were there, right?”

“I was.”

“Is that right that some seats ended up on Chelsea fans in the terrace?”

“Yeah. The ones that didn’t reach the pitch.”

Forty years ago, as fate would have it, the very next game in Chelsea’s increasingly troubled season was at home to Derby County. Going into the game on Saturday 5 February, Chelsea were in fourteenth place with a 8-7-10 record. The visitors, however, were experiencing an even more disastrous season than Chelsea and were rock bottom of the twenty-two team division with a 3-11-11 record.

Here was a tussle that we could win surely? The previous game was a surprising 6-0 win against Cambridge United. I was hopeful that we could win this one and put our season back on track. Promotion was looking out of the question but there were still points to be won, and I prayed that subsequent Mondays in the sixth form common room would not follow the recent pattern of me having to take all sorts of flak that had been flying my way.

In the programme for the game, the tone was set by the editorial which had moved on from being called “The Talk Of Stamford Bridge” to “Forward Line.”

The subject was of the hooliganism the previous week.

“Thirty seconds can be a long time in football. With the score 1-1 at Derby last Saturday, with the Osmaston Stand clock reading 4.40pm and the ball safely in the hands of our goalkeeper, we looked certain to force a replay with County. The mood was optimistic as the team had fought back from being a goal behind and the fans had behaved well, out singing the home supporters to the extent that a plea was made at half-time over the public address in an effort to coax more noise from the locals.

Then, barely a minute later, we were out of the Cup, the hooligans we despise were out of their seats and throwing them onto the pitch and onto innocent Chelsea supporters standing below. January 29th will enter the history books as a Black Day for Chelsea Football Club; we aim to make it one too for those criminals by studying all the evidence available including photographs and video tapes. We are determined to bring to justice the perpetrators of Saturday’s violence.

The thousands of regular, law-abiding Chelsea fans at the Baseball Ground last week no doubt felt disgusted and ashamed at the scenes played out before them by followers of this club as the match drew to a close. For those excellent supporters, many of whom will be present today to watch the football peacefully and enthusiastically, we shall leave the subject of last week’s vandalism and concentrate on today’s match.

Anyone guilty of being involved in the Derby violence can stop reading this page as we are now going to talk about the football.”

Four contributors to the programme continued with the same subject.

John Neal.

“Last week’s result and the events at Derby have left a cloud over the club all week that we must try and remove with a good performance this afternoon.”

Ken Bates.

“Now that the dust has settled, I think we are agreed that last weekend was a disaster, in more ways than one. To be knocked out of the Cup in the last minute, after having more scoring chances than the England cricket team, was a particularly bitter blow but certainly no justification for the behaviour that followed.

We have asked for copies of all press photographs taken last Saturday and we are also seeking to obtain a copy of the video recording of the match, and intend to compare these with our own video recordings which we now take of Stamford Bridge to try and trace the culprits. I am not too hopeful that we will be successful as I have my doubts that the hooligans that caused the trouble are true Chelsea supporters – evidence of this is that I too had obscenities, rude signs and coins directed at me when I went on the pitch to try and calm things down.”

Micky Greenaway.

“The atmosphere prior to the final goal was tremendous and I realise and understand more than most the supreme frustration felt by all when Derby’s final goal was scored, but the actions of some supporters only hurt fellow Chelsea fans and this should not happen. So shape up Blues Fans, cheer on and support forever more, but avoid unsavoury incidents like that wherever possible.”

Seb Coe.

“A friend of mine from Sheffield once wryly commented to me after watching Chelsea in his area, how great it must be to watch your team at home every week. Long may that level of support last. The only sadness is that amongst the thousands of travelling loyalists, there are still a handful of trouble makers that embarrass the club and sicken the well behaved following.”

Forty years ago, looking back with gritted teeth, the events at the Baseball Ground was a perfect storm.

A huge away following. A crushing last-minute defeat. FA Cup dreams extinguished yet again. For many within the six thousand, there was only one response. If hand-to-hand hooliganism was impossible due to the lack of home fans in close proximity, thoughts turned to vandalism.

It was all sadly predictable.

And even though many to this day take pride in our performances off the pitch in games like this, at the time I was becoming just sick of it all despite the warped kudos of supporting a team with a violent hard core that I mentioned in the last edition. I just wanted to support a team in the top flight. And for our support to be loud and boisterous.

In the end, Chelsea succumbed to a woeful 1-3 home defeat against Derby County in front of a miserly 8,661. Colin Pates scored the only goal for us, and we even had the misfortune to score two own goals for our visitors, via ‘keeper Steve Francis and midfielder John Bumstead, in addition to the one Derby goal claimed by old warhorse Archie Gemmill.

These were becoming desperate times at Chelsea.

I’m getting depressed just remembering it all.

I include a piece that was aired on the “Nationwide” programme on the following Monday as the headline story. It mentions just fifty Derby fans on the wide North terrace at the game; a pitifully low number, and no doubt the result of their poor season but also the fear of retribution. Leaving the away end at Stamford Bridge in the early ‘eighties must have been a pretty terrifying experience.

Our breakfast consumed, I zipped over to park up at Barons Court and we then embarked on an hour-long train journey east. Via a couple of train changes, we pulled into Pudding Mill Lane – how Dickensian – bang on 11.30am, bang on plan. I looked over at the steel structure of the London Stadium, under a Tupperware sky, and my heart sunk.

I was back at this grim venue once again.

Just outside the station, we spotted a police van parked nearby, with the officers that had been sat next to us in the Hammersmith café stretching their legs outside.

There were two security checks and we were in, sharing views with many that we would probably struggle on this day in a grey London.

We soon heard that Ruben Loftus-Cheek was starting alongside Enzo Fernandez and it caught us all by surprise.

I could not believe how slowly the stadium filled.

The match day announcer spoke with Bobby Moore’s daughter on the pitch before the game, and there was another presentation involving West Ham “legends” Sir Trevor Brooking and, ahem – wait for it – Carlton Cole.

Our team?

Kepa.

James – Silva – Badiashile – Cucarella

Fernandez – Felix – Loftus-Cheek

Madueke – Havertz – Mudryk

At 12.20pm, with just ten minutes to go, I estimated that just 25% of the crowd were inside. At kick-off, bar a few thousand late arrivals, the place was full.

I had heard about a new screen that had been set up to block the view – and any subsequent “pointing and shouting” – between home and away fans between the away fans in the lower reaches of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand and the home support in the lower tier of the West Stand.

And there it was; a ridiculous addition, really.

West Ham were wearing their light blue shorts and it still didn’t look right; it was if there was an away game colour clash and they were forced to change. Their kit is a real dog’s dinner this season. We were wearing the thousand island dressing change kit.

“We’ve worn that before this season, right, John?”

“Brighton.”

“Fuck sake.”

But we began ever so brightly.

Despite the home team defending deep – please note how I try to avoid the wanky buzzwords like “low block” – we were able to find spaces with runners being hit via some cute passing from Enzo Fernandez and Joao Felix in particular.

On ten minutes, with Chelsea in the ascendency, a pass from deep from Reece James was played into space for Felix. It seemed to catch the West Ham defence off guard – to be honest there was a hint of offside – but our new loan-signing advanced and saw his shot come back off the far post but he tapped in the rebound.

A quick celebration was quelled by the linesman’s yellow flag on the far side, out near Essex.

“Fair enough. It did look offside, John.”

There was nice movement and intensity in these early stages. On seventeen minutes, the ball was well won with a tough tackle from Mykhailo Mudryk and there was a one-two- between Marc Cucarella and Enzo. I caught the Argentinian’s cross into the box and also, miraculously, the exact moment that Felix tapped the ball in.

The celebrations in front of the West Ham fans were a lot easier to capture.

Alan : “Thay’ll ‘ave ta cam at us na.”

Chris : “Cam on me li’le dimonds.”

Just after, another offside denied Kai Havertz a goal.

There was a lovely wriggle away from defenders from Noni Madueke, breaking in from the right. There were flashes of some decent football. The noise wasn’t great though. The two sections in the away end work against any united front.

It was all Chelsea in the opening twenty-five minutes.

The Chelsea choir summed it all up eloquently.

“How shit must you be? We’re winning away.”

There was a rare West Ham attack featuring the always dangerous Michail Antonio but Kepa blocked well. Sadly, poor defensive marking allowed a cross down below us from Vladimir Coufal and this was flicked on by Jarrod Bowen and we immediately sensed danger.

I whispered “here we go” under my breath.

At the far post, former Chelsea defenders Emerson, Lake & Palmieri scuffed the ball in.

Fackinell.

He did not celebrate.

We didn’t hit earlier peaks during the rest of the half, with Enzo showing less inclination to pass forward. Was he wearing Jorginho’s number five shirt a little too tightly? Was he being unnecessarily passive? We went into our shell a little.

At the other end, the under-fire Cucarella lost Bowen a few times.

However, there were chances. Fabianski saved well from Madueke. A free-kick from Enzo went close.

In the half that we were defending, seven or eight pigeons strutted around with little hindrance. As the first period came to an end, many Chelsea supporters drifted out for half-time drinks and visits to the boys’ and girls’ rooms. We – Parky, John, Gal, Al, Eck and I – were positioned in the very front row of the top section. It allowed me the chance to nod “hellos” to many friends as they walked out to the spacious concourses below. I took some photographs. It’s what I do.

It was especially pleasant to see Shari once again, over from Brisbane, and Ray, back from a year-long placement in Miami.

“Yeah, see you in Dortmund.”

I had to laugh when the highlights of the first-half were shown on the screens at the break but our goal was not shown.

“Righty-o.”

I turned to John and muttered “well, I don’t think many of us will be saying ‘we miss Mount’ will they?”

Sadly, the second-half was a very poor show and I won’t dwell too much on those second, woeful, forty-five minutes.

Twice in quick succession, we were all seething that Madueke stood next to Felix at corners, but the ball was not played to him, he just stood vacantly alongside. On both occasions, the ball was played way back by Cucarella to Kepa.

“Fuck sake. What is the bloody point of that? Get Madueke in the box, an extra body, an extra head, or get him to wait outside the box for a second ball.”

We were raging.

Nothing happened until half-way through the half when Graham Potter made three substitutions.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella.

Hakim Ziyech for Mudryk.

Mason Mount for Madueke.

Ziyech then stood next to Felx as another corner was swung in, and we all wondered about the collective IQ of our first team squad.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe we just possess thick footballers at this moment in time. They can seem to negotiate their way into a “TikTok” video but sadly come up short on the football pitch.

Fackinell.

Conor Gallagher for Loftus-Cheek.

I thought Ruben was perhaps our only half-decent player during the game thus far, but only by the thinnest of margins.

The atmosphere was horrific. So quiet. Absolutely abysmal. It went well with the football on show.

I turned to John.

“God, we could get walloped in Dortmund on Wednesday. They’ll have the Yellow Wall. We’ll have the Wailing Wall.”

A header for Havertz, wide.

Late on, I was pondering why the top balcony on their West Stand mentions “1964 FA Cup Winners”, “1975 FA Cup Winners” and “1980 FA Cup Winners”, but just “1965 European Cup Winners Cup” and if they ran out of letters for “winners.”

“Just no demand for it down these parts these days, governor.”

With that, my eyes returned to the pitch to see a West Ham leg prod the ball in.

Another late goal at this bloody place? Oh God.

Thankfully, after a delay – as always – it went to VAR.

John : “as long as it goes on, the more likely it is to go in our favour.”

Me, willing it to take forever : “keep going, keep going, keep going.”

No goal.

The game continued half-heartedly, but a flashpoint was just around the corner.

In the last few minutes, I snapped as Gallagher hit a low drive at goal. My photo shows Tomas Soucek going to ground. I did not see the handball, for that is what it was, but the five or six Chelsea players nearest the ball certainly did and raced towards the referee.

No penalty. No VAR.

I must not let myself believe that dark forces are at hand amid the Premier League’s power brokers but at times it seems that a narrative is at work.

Was it just an appalling – APPALLING! – decision?

Maybe.

If not, football is dead.

I will see some of you in Dortmund.

Pre-Match

First-Half

Half-Time

Second-Half

1982/83

Tales From Home And Away

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 12 January 2023.

When I was driving home from Manchester City on Sunday evening, mid-way through the packet of Fruit Pastilles maybe, I realised that I had acquired a sore throat. In these days of COVID and an apparently vigorous new ‘flu strain, I was obviously fearing the worst. As I drove on, I thankfully didn’t experience any other ‘flu or COVID symptoms, and in fact the sore throat thankfully lessened as time passed. It soon dawned on me that it was all due to the singing that I had done during the game at the Etihad Stadium. In a way, it made me happy, it comforted me. It confirmed that my appearance at the game had not been merely passive. It meant that I had been actively involved in cheering the boys on.

It often used to be like this.

Sore throats after football.

Often at work after games the previous day, I would be ridiculed for my first few utterances. But it was part of football back then.

Turn up. Have a beer. Pay your money at the turnstiles. Cheer the team on. And on. And on. And on.

I suspected that many Chelsea supporters were experiencing sore throats after Manchester. What a show of force and resilience that indeed was.

Top fucking marks.

Next up was a game at Craven Cottage, down in deepest SW6, against our nearest rivals Fulham. This was a game from September that was postponed due to the death of Queen Elizabeth II, and would now take place on a Thursday evening in January.

My alarm woke me at 4.45am. I was to work a “flexi” shift from 6am to 2pm, then drive up to London with Paul and Glenn, PD and Parky, P Diddy and Lord Parky, my match day companions for much of the last five years and beyond.  

During my shift at work I told a few football fans (sic) that I feared the result and that we’d lose. I may have said that I fancied Willian to score, just to rub it in. Fulham were faring well this season. This would not be an easy game. The previous evening, I had delved into the record books as I prepared some thoughts about what I should include in this edition of the blog. I knew that our recent record against Fulham – London’s oldest club – was excellent in recent times, but our dominance over them stretched back decades.

Since a 0-2 loss at Stamford Bridge in October 1979, we had played Fulham forty times across all competitions and lost just once. We had won our last seven games against Fulham. I saw all this domination and it made me gulp. Not only did I feel that a Fulham win was long-overdue I had a sixth sense of it happening later in the day. I explained these figures to a couple in the office and said “and I reckon tonight they will beat us for the second time” but their expressions suggested that I was being overly-dramatic.

I thought to myself…”mmm, they don’t know Chelsea like I do.”

I had pre-booked a JustSpace spot outside a flat in Putney, just south of the bridge. I made good time, the roads were relatively clear. I dropped PD and Parky outside “The Eight Bells” at around 4.45pm. My parking spot was from 5pm. I reached it at 5.05pm. I work in logistics.

Normally at Fulham – from memory, every time except once since 2004 – we drink at “The Duke’s Head” in Putney, but we would return to our local “The Eight Bells” on this occasion because it was just easy to meet others there to hand over tickets. We are pretty familiar with this particular spot now, the area both sides of the river, and as I donned my baseball cap – New York Yankees – and zipped up my rain jacket – Victorinox – it felt nice and secure as I walked north towards Fulham.

St. Mary’s Church was floodlit as I passed. The apartments at Putney Wharf were illuminated blue – pretty sure David Luiz used to reside here – and Putney Bridge itself was floodlit too. Craven Cottage was hiding behind a slight bend in the river.

I would soon be in the warmth of “The Eight Bells”, our home away from home at Chelsea, er Fulham – the borough, not the football club, confusing isn’t it? – the past four years. I always presumed that the pubs in this neck of the woods were Fulham pubs on their match days, but the landlady recently confirmed that the three nearest boozers nearest Putney Bridge – the tube station, not the bridge, confusing isn’t it? – were designated as “away” pubs. Thus, “The Eight Bells”, “The Temperance” and “The King’s Arms” were all Chelsea pubs on this night.

I reached the pub just at 5.20pm. It seemed odd, I must admit, to see an “Only Away Fans” sign on a window. It was crowded, lots of the younger element, virtually no colours, all Chelsea. PD and Parky were sat close to our usual table with a few other friends. As I squeezed out at 6.30pm to hand over tickets, a young chap entered and exclaimed “small, innit?” and I replied “and getting smaller.” There was no space anywhere.

The mood in the pub was mainly boisterous with a few songs being aired. For once, I wanted to reach Craven Cottage in plenty of time. It is usually a struggle to reach kick-off time due to the comforts of “The Duke’s Head” and a slightly optimistic guess of how long it takes to walk through Bishop’s Park. On this particular evening, it was just a few hundred yards less than a mile. As we walked through the park, the bright floodlights came into view to the north and I could not resist stopping to take a few atmospheric photographs of the gnarled silhouetted trees and the gnarled masses walking purposefully to the match.

The area outside the away turnstiles is by far the best part of Craven Cottage and, along with the narrow street adjacent to the main stand at Goodison, is my favourite away day location for photographs and ambiance. The red brick, the signage, the historic cottage itself, the hawkers, the Haynes statue, the floodlights. It’s magical but, I guess, in only a way that a football fancier would really appreciate.

This spot is the definition of the phrase “Fulhamish.”

I was in at around 7.20pm. I spoke with a few friends and some – the fools – thought that we would win. My mouth went dry and I found it hard to answer their obvious optimism.

This was my first visit since March 2019, a 2-1 win. Since then, Fulham have been relegated, promoted to a COVID-hit season, relegated and promoted again. They are the ultimate “yo yo” team, or if their much-derided middle class support might say, a “yah yah” team (Peter York, 1981, thanks for that.)

At last the new Riverside Stand is functional for match days, if not fully. I have been keeping tabs on its slow progress for years. On this night, the lower section and the outer flanks of the upper tier were able to be used.

My mate Nick, born in Battersea, called over to say that he saw his first-ever game here, back in the ‘fifties, when many Chelsea supporters used to pop over to Craven Cottage when we were away. Joe Cole and Gary Cahill, with huge BT Sport mics, walked past and were serenaded.

It was announced that our new loan signing Joao Felix was starting.

Kepa

Chalobah  – Silva – Koulibaly

Dave – Kovacic – Zakaria – Hall

Mount – Havertz – Felix

Chelsea in those crappy Tottenham navy socks. Why?

Willian was starting for the home team.

PD and Parky made it in just before the game began, PD having trouble getting in on a ticket that initially appeared to be null and void. There were six of us squeezed into five spaces; PD, Parky, John, Gal and Al, with me somewhere in the middle. It was our version of a high press.

Fair play to Fulham. As with Manchester City, they honoured the memory of Gianluca Vialli before the game – there was a minute of applause – and I thank them for that. Previously dry, the evening’s only rain thankfully came and went very soon into the game.

It felt odd to be attacking the Putney End in the first period.

We started so well, with Joao Felix involved in most of our attacking thoughts. He had started the game so positively and his touch and urgency shone like a beacon in those first moments of the game. I counted three efforts on goal in the opening fifteen minutes alone. He also drew fouls from two separate Fulham players who were both booked. This was some debut. Shots from him, and others, flew at the Fulham goal.

Halfway through the first-half, this was an open game, and the Chelsea crowd were buoyant.

As with Cucarella at Goodison Park, though, I was a little picky with a song for the Portuguese signing being aired so soon in his Chelsea career. Others wait years.

“He came from Portugal. He hates the Arsenal.”

This was a remake of the Tiago chant from 2004; I suppose it is better than nothing. There is no doubt that Felix was the spark in our team and it was so good to see a player with a constant willingness to go forward. It was a jolt to our system. Other players – I am talking about you Mount, Ziyech, Havertz, Pulisic – must have looked on and thought “oh yeah I remember now.”

We had enjoyed most of the attacks on goal. Fulham had been neat but mainly on the defensive, with only an occasional attack worthy of the name.

Out of nowhere, a shot from Bobby Decordova-Reid smashed against our bar. Soon after, on twenty-four minutes, Willian wriggled inside the box and I spoke to John next to me.

“You know he’s going to bend one in, there you go.”

Sadly, I had a premonition about a Willian goal before the match but found myself calling the goal in real time too. It is a habit that I need to get out of. Maybe I should stay stony silent all game.

Willian wheeled away but did not celebrate. Top man.

Soon after, my phone lit up with images of myself being featured on BT’s coverage of the game.

I looked depressed, eh?

We kept attacking with shots from Felix, again, and Hall causing concern for Bernd Leno in the Fulham goal.

There was a piece of sublime skill from Thiago Silva towards the end of the first-half, a cushioned caress of the ball and a prod to safety, that only I seemed to spot. In the ‘eighties, it would have drawn applause, I am sure, from everyone in our end.

Late on in the half, a shot from Dave was deflected over after good combination play involving the new man Felix and a seemingly revitalised Havertz, and then Havertz set up Felix – yet again – but his shot was blocked from my view by a bloke in front of me. I had not got a clue how it avoided the goal.

So, the first-half, Chelsea with decent attacking, five efforts or so from Felix, but we looked naïve at the back. Grumbles at the break? Oh yes.

In that chat about Chelsea’s fortunes at work during the day, a work colleague had mentioned that someone on “Talk Sport” had mentioned that Chelsea were third out of three in the “West London League” and I mentioned that we were bottom of the same league in 1982/83 too.

Right, 1982/83, let’s go.

On Wednesday 12 January – forty years ago exactly – Chelsea played Huddersfield Town in an FA Cup third round replay at Stamford Bridge, just a mile and a half away from the current location of Chelsea Football Club’s first team. We won 2-0 with two late goals from John Bumstead, who didn’t get many, and Mike Fillery, who got more, in a match watched by a decent enough gate of 14.417. My diary that evening was surprisingly gung-ho, predicting that we would go to Derby County in the next round and win. I must have been light-headed and delirious.

Two minutes into the second-half at Craven Cottage in 2023, I captured the lone figure of Mason Mount taking aim with a free-kick against the backdrop of the inhabitants of the Hammersmith End. I watched the ball sweep goal wards. There was a mighty kerfuffle in the six-yard box as there appeared to be a save, a shot, a save, but then a goal given. I had no idea if the ball had crossed the line directly from Mount or via another player.

We were level.

I looked over to spot Alan’s face, a picture of determination and involvement. Loved that.

The Chelsea choir were suddenly in a playful mood.

“We are staying up. Say we are staying up.”

Sadly, Denis Zakaria fell to the floor in front of the dugouts and looked in considerable pain. He would play no more and was replaced by the less-than-appetising sight of Jorge Luiz Frello Filho, who currently has more names than fans at Chelsea right now. Zakaria – yet another injury, we must be experiencing our worst-ever run – looked utterly dejected as he limped around the pitch.

Worse was to come. Barely a minute or so after, Kalidou Koulibaly struck a firm ball at Felix’ upper body – “fuck was that?” – and the Portuguese player lost control. In attempting to rob Kenny Tete, he scythed him down, and a red looked likely.

Yes, a straight red.

A debut to remember for Joao Felix.

Collective brains whirled back forty years.

Chris : “Al, didn’t Joey Jones get sent off in his first game in 1982?”

Al : “Yes mate, Carlisle away.”

A little later.

Rob : “I bet Joey Jones didn’t have six shots on goal before he got sent off at Carlisle.”

Now we were up against it alright. A man down, I really wondered where our attacks would originate. But we kept going. There was a chance for Havertz breaking on the left but his shot was somehow blocked by Leno.

On seventy-three minutes, the former Manchester United winger Anders Pereira sent over a teasing cross that had Kepa beaten all ends up.

More commentary from me : “Kepa’s nowhere.”

Our ‘keeper came but misjudged the flight of the ball completely, leaving Carlos Vinicius to head into an empty net.

The vitriol aimed at Kepa was intense.

Immediately after, the away end sent out the equivalent of a “thumbs down” to the current ownership.

A Roman thumb, if you will.

“Roman Abramovich. Roman Abramovich.”

At the break, I had moaned to a friend who was standing behind me that I honestly wondered if the new owners have a clue about football. There are certain aspects about this new lot that shouts desperation. And maybe naivety too. Hopefully the season will improve and I will be completely wrong.

Then, a chant that has been heard sporadically over the years.

“We want our Chelsea back.”

I wondered which Chelsea this was.

The 1905 to 1954 Chelsea that won fuck all?

The 1971 to 1996 Chelsea that won fuck all?

Or maybe just the last twenty years of Chelsea that have won rather a lot?

Regardless, the mood in the Putney End was a feral one now, with shouts and chants raining down from behind. But amidst all of this, “Three Little Birds” made a very surprising appearance.

“Don’t worry about a thing ‘cus every little thing is gonna be alright.”

On seventy-nine minutes, Graham Potter changed things.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chalobah.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Marc Cucarella for Hall.

Then, just after.

Hakim Ziyech for Mount.

We conjured up a couple of late chances for Havertz, but I think it is safe to say it was no surprise that we could not find the net.

For Fulham, our former player Nathaniel Chalobah came on in the last few seconds, thus missing his brother by around twenty minutes.

The final whistle blew.

Fulham 2 Chelsea 1.

I had sadly been right all along.

There were boos at the end, not from many, but from enough to make themselves heard.

“You’re not fit to wear the shirt.”

I was inwardly grimacing.

I’m still not a fan of booing after all these years.

At the end, I was keen to race back to my car. Both PD and Parky had struggled with walking the mile to the game and I did not want them to have to walk a mile and a half back to the car. I tried to leave quickly. I wasn’t able to pay too much attention to the interaction between players and our supporters. I was aware that a stern faced Mason Mount had the balls to come over to face the ire of some of our support. I believe, from comments that I would later hear, only Silva and Dave joined him. Many of my fellow supporters were yelling abuse, indiscriminately, though just as may were clapping the players off.

To boo or not to boo?

To clap or not to clap?

Answers on a postcard.

I raced back to Putney, walking close to the icy chill coming off the river. Walking over Putney Bridge, I overheard a middle-aged chap say to his friend :

“I guess I have seen some players down here over the years, but I think Willian is the best I have seen.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I thought back to Fulham’s last win against us, in March 2006, and walking over the exact same bridge, surrounded by jubilant Fulham fans – more so than in 2023 – and the memories were strong. Jose Mourinho oddly took off both Shawn Wright-Phillips and Joe Cole on just twenty-six minutes. Luis Boa Morte – who I had spotted on the touchline during the evening’s game, now a coach at Fulham – gave the home team their first win against us in twenty-seven years. Thankfully, the loss didn’t stop us winning the league in 2005/6.

Our eventual fate in 2022/23 is not certain.

My parking slot was to end at 10.30pm. I reached my car at 10.25pm. I work in logistics.

My car was pointed north once more, and I headed over Putney Bridge for the second time of the day. What a strange old evening it had been. An evening at home, but away, in this little part of SW6. Within ten minutes, I was able to park up on Finlay Road as it cut across Fulham Palace Road. PD and Parky soon found me. I edged up towards the A4 and we were away.

It had been an eventful evening for sure. What with the sending-off for Felix, the injury to Zakaria, the Kepa miss-hap, and the ultimate defeat, contrasting chants in the away end, it had been a typically chaotic Chelsea night of pain. There were half-serious concerns about relegation – “no, we have too much quality” – and I openly question those who yearn for a year in the second tier (mainly to flush out certain demographics in our support it seems) because as many clubs have seen over the years, promotion is never guaranteed.

Well, promotion is never guaranteed unless your name is Fulham – but not necessarily for all clubs that play in Fulham, confusing isn’t it? – of course. Those buggers seem to get promoted at every opportunity.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am, but I am never the best for dropping off to sleep straight away. It was while I was at home in the small hours that I learned that our scorer was given as Kalidou Koulibaly. I would eventually drop off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

It had been a fucking long day.

On Sunday, we head back to SW6 for a home game with Crystal Palace with the “Eight Bells” as a home pub once again.

See you there.