Tales From A Game Of Real Stupidity

Posted on February 28, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Burnley : 21 February 2026.

After missing the Hull City trip the previous weekend – a professional performance, a lovely trip to Wrexham next – the home game with relegation-threatened Burnley was therefore my first Chelsea match in eleven days. From the very off, this felt like the very definition of a “bog standard” / “run of the mill” match at Stamford Bridge, and it didn’t exactly get our pulses racing as we all converged on SW6.

I was inside the ground at 2.30pm and I soon glimpsed over at the away end to see what allocation Burnley had managed to bring. As I suspected, it was the lower of the two amounts: 1,500 and not 3,000. This was no surprise. Wolves are already down and the claret and blues from Lancashire are surely not far behind them, or above them to be exact. I would have been really surprised had they opted for the full amount.

My mate Alan soon arrived and showed me a photo in the match programme that honoured Gary’s father Ron who had passed away before Christmas, aged ninety-one. For many years, he had a season ticket with Gary in the front row of the East Upper. What a view that must have been.

Paul showed up a little later after being spotted down in “Jimmy’s” with – er – Jimmy, as they both enjoyed an extension of their pre-match drinking session that I had joined at around 12.30pm in “The Eight Bells.” Before that, I had shot over to London Bridge Road to treat myself to a “double double” at “Manze’s” pie and mash shop, the oldest in London. It was my third visit, and the grub was as good as ever. The place was very busy and rammed full of Millwall before their home match with Pompey. I had shared my table with a local and there was a little small talk before I left.

“Have a good day, mate.”

“And you. Goin’ football?”

“I am, yes, but not the same game as you. Chelsea vs. Burnley.”

Years ago, such an interaction might not have been so forthcoming, but things have relaxed a lot in the past couple of decades.

“Might see you in the topflight next season.”

“Yer. We’ll add something to that division.”

I thought to myself “you’re not wrong there, mate” as I squeezed past him and his mound of mash, pies and liquor.

On the way into London Bridge Station, the Portsmouth lot were just arriving, full of song, and I was surprised that there were no police, yet, on show. I have always had a little soft spot for Pompey, and I remembered a Frome lad, Rob, who supported them but sadly took his own life in the summer, a fact that I am still struggling to accept.

I had enjoyed my little dip into another corner of London; Bermondsey Street especially looks a lively stretch, full of pubs and cafes, all under the shadow of The Shard. It brought it home to me how London is smothered in football clubs, each with their own catchment areas, pre-match drinking regimes and habits, their own rituals, and their own rivalries. Imagine London with just two professional clubs; how dull would that be?

In the pub, I joined up with the lads, but all was not well. Jimmy the Greek was suffering with lower back pain, and Ian had pulled a calf muscle. As for me, after my traipse to and from underground stations and on to “Manze’s” I needed a sit-down.

The game against Burnley would mark the first appearance of the new shirt sponsor, IFS, an AI company, and Jimmy said, “it should be FFS” and I had a little chuckle.

AI, eh? I almost saw it coming. I must admit that I am not a fan of artificial intelligence, as I have already witnessed how it can be used to stir up hatred on social media. It also has a detrimental impact on the environment, using ridiculous amounts of water to cool its super servers, plus copious amounts of electricity of course. Will it eventually lead to employment losses? I think we all know the answer to that. But that’s a debate for another day. Meanwhile, I am consciously trying to stay away from it.

However, I am sure that the people that run Chelsea Football Club will increase their use of AI as the future unfolds, especially in increasing revenue streams.

“How can we fleece as many possible punters as possible, while convincing them that we are doing them a favour?”

And I am sure AI has found its insidious way into assessing the agglomeration of data that exists in football these days.

“What is the most efficient way to score goals in football?”

I suspect we all know the answer to that one too; pass, pass, pass, wait for an opponent’s error, shoot but only when within ten yards of the goal.

Sorry, but in these days of fake everything, I prefer life and football with a little more authenticity. And fun.

In the pub, I gulped down two pints of refreshing “Diet Coke” and it was then time to depart. Alas, this was a bittersweet moment. The current landlords are moving away, and this was the last time that we would see Aga and her team. We all hoped our love affair with “The Eight Bells” can continue under the new regime.

Dear reader, it was a pitiful sight as the troops slowly ascended the stairs at Putney Bridge tube station, what with PD and Parky and their dodgy hips, Jimmy with the excruciating pain in his back, and Ian limping like he had been on the receiving end of a “difference of opinion” with Ronnie Harris.

Compared to them, I relatively flew up the three flights of stairs.

We liked the look of the team; we knew that Marc Cucurella was still out, and so his place was taken by Malo Gusto. I hoped that this would be a seamless adjustment, rather than a maladjusted one.

So, here we were :

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez

Joao Pedro

On the way into the Matthew Harding Upper, I had been thoroughly dismayed to see every single TV screen showing the England vs. Ireland rugby game.

“Why are they showing that crap?”

We were here for Chelsea. For football. Had Chelsea run out of Chelsea stuff to show the punters?

There was the usual pre-match routine, some of which felt right, but most of which still felt odd, artificial, and forced upon us.

Chelsea songs, crowd-surfing flags in the Matthew Harding, flags being waved in The Shed, flames in front of the West Stand, fireworks fizzing into the air. I am sure there was none of this prefabricated nonsense at Millwall.

The game began, but it again felt odd to see us attacking the Matthew Harding in the first half. While we were chattering away to ourselves, we took an early lead. And it came from un-likely move. Rather than passing to the nth degree, something that frustrates most of us, an incisive ball played early from Moises Caicedo that exploited an early gap in the Burnley defence. His ball was perfectly paced and placed for Pedro Neto to gather and then smack a low cross towards the six-yard box where Joao Pedro arrived to bundle the ball over the line.

We were up and celebrating as the scorer raced across to the far side.

But then, the rancid odour of VAR swept over Stamford Bridge and a potential handball was reviewed. Alan and I vented our displeasure. We had already spoken about the authentic nature of the matchday experience at Millwall, and the absence of VAR in the division below was referenced as we spoke about the differences between the two games being played out only a few miles apart.

I know a few fans of clubs in the Football League who absolutely love the fact that their games do not involve the passion killer of VAR. For that is what it is. It has muted the adrenalin rush of goals, as I always said it would.

Thankfully the goal stood.

We dominated the next twenty minutes of play and although we managed to create a reasonable supply of chances, much of our play was slow and methodical. Burnley had a couple of pot shots at our goal at The Shed.

A quarter of the match in, I noted to Alan that I hadn’t heard a peep from the Lancastrians in the far corner.

Shots from Enzo and Cole Palmer were either struck over or blocked.

It then went awry for ten minutes, and we lost what momentum we had developed, and just couldn’t carve open the Burnley defence. It felt that we were sitting on our laurels at a time when we really should have taken the game to them. It was a frustrating period.

Alan commented that it felt like we were waiting for them to score, as if we need an outside dynamic to inspire us and galvanise us.

A weak free kick from Marcus Edwards went wide of Robert Sanchez’ goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, Cole Palmer was presented with a one-on-one with Kyle Walker, a good old-fashioned sprint, with just daylight between the ball and the Burnley ‘keeper Martin Dubravka. Palmer raced ahead and shot early, but the ball was parried easily by the ‘keeper.

This was the last attacking threat of the first period, and such is our support these days, that Alan and I spent the closing moments debating whether or not we would get booed off at the break.

Thankfully, there was nothing.

At the break, I heard that Frome Town were 1-0 up at near neighbours Larkhall Athletic who play in Bath. On the Saturday before, the weekend of the Hull City game, I had watched my local team beat Brixham 2-0 at home to solidify our position at the top of our division. That night, PD, Glenn and I met up at the main music venue in town to see tribute acts to The Specials and The Jam. This was another lovely day of football and music, and over the course of it I chatted to three fellow members of the Oakfield Road Middle School team from 1976 to 1978. Fantastic.

The second half started with a jolt to wake us from our first-half stupor. Within the first few seconds, the ball was played forward by Joao Pedo to Palmer, but just as it seemed he was about to unleash a shot on goal, a leg of a defender swiped away at him. We hoped, optimistically, for a penalty but the referee Lewis Smith was having none of it.

On fifty-one minutes, sustained pressure on the Burnley defenders allowed Palmer to intricately set up Joao Pedro, but his shot was blocked. A shot from Neto was similarly blocked.

Would that second goal ever come?

On fifty-five minutes, a rare Burnley effort on goal, a strange looper that dropped like a stone at the far post, but the ball was ushered away.

I liked how we applauded Lesley Uguchukwu off as he was replaced by James Ward-Prowse.

I sometimes make a mental note of how soon into the game the various parts of Stamford Bridge’s home areas get it together and chant or sing as one. On this day in deepest SW6, that moment came on sixty minutes.

Bloody hell, what a disaster.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” – you know how it goes.

In Bath, near Solsbury Hill, Frome conceded an equaliser.

As we struggled to progressively move the ball towards its target, I moaned “is this fucking rugby? Aren’t we allowed to pass the ball forward?”

Frome then went 2-1 up.

Get in Dodge.

On seventy-two minutes, a clash in the middle of their half, and we watched in horror as Wesley Fofana was shown a yellow, his second of the day, and then of course a red.

Fofucksakefofana.

Ironically, maybe this would be the outside adversity we needed?

Liam Rosenior chose to replace Cole Palmer with Tosin Adarabioyo.

“Answers on a postcard.”

In this adversity, the crowd responded with another “Amazing Grace” – the loudest of the afternoon and my faith in humanity was temporarily restored.

On eighty minutes, more changes.

Jorrel Hato for Malo Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

I really wasn’t sure all these late changes would work in our favour. This seemed to be change for the sake of it. This seemed to be a panic reaction. Why not let those who had experienced the movement of the Burnley players, their strengths and weaknesses, throughout the entire game be trusted to see us over the line?

Meanwhile, Frome went 3-1 up.

On eighty-two minutes, a super dribble from Pedro Neto, but the shot was saved and the rebound from Hato went high and wide.

On eighty-four minutes, a great cross from the Burnley right was punched out at full stretch by a horizontal Sanchez.

“Well, I’ve never seen that before…”

More substitutions made me, and others no doubt, more nervous.

Josh Acheampong for Reece James, our captain, our bloody captain no less.

Mamadou Sarr for Pedro Neto.

So many late changes were madness.

Ashley Barnes header dropped onto the top of the net from a Ward-Prose free-kick.

Frome went 4-1 up, but I was ridiculously nervous by now. It seemed we were all expecting a late equaliser.

Six minutes of added time were signalled.

Burnley were awarded a corner after three of these minutes.

The whole stadium took a deep breath.

One of my pet hates of the game these days is the constant pushing, shoving, grappling, holding and – to use a well-used football term of late – “shithousery” that goes on in the moments before a corner is taken.

I just wish referees would clamp down on all this nonsense. It’s ugly, it’s pathetic, it detracts from the game.

Well, as Burnley waited to the corner from the far side, I witnessed no end of pushing and shoving, yet again, in the cramped six-yard box. But after all that, or perhaps because of it, and despite our late injection of height in our defence, the ball in from Ward-Prowse was met by a free leap and a free header from Zian Flemming.

The ball almost apologetically dropped into the goal.

Ugh.

What a desperate, but oh-so expected, moment.

I was crushed.

Unbelievably, two minutes later, a copycat corner from Ward-Prowse was met by yet another free header, this time by Jacob Bruun Larsen, but – thank the high heavens – the header flew over the bar.

In a mad final moment, the ball broke for Delap just outside the Burnley box, but his powerful effort flashed over the bar.

It was the very last kick of the game, and it felt like a final kick in the goolies.

How to sum up this match?

We had it in our hands in the first half, and for huge parts of the second half. But our reluctance to push on and grab more goals just infuriated everyone. The sending-off was a personal disaster for Fofana and our disciplinary record this season is utterly embarrassing. But oh, those late substitutions; instead of providing extra security and cover, they just added to the nervousness and confusion.

On a day of artificial intelligence, much of our play and many of our decisions reeked of real stupidity.

Liam Rosenior, until this one, has managed his charges well, and I think most Chelsea supporters have been surprisingly impressed. This one, though, was a shocker.

Let’s hope lessons are learned.

After a break of one week, we meet up at Arsenal and then embark on a crowded schedule of seven matches in just twenty-one days.

On we go.

Tales From A Half-Time Teardrop And Full Time Frustration

Posted on February 15, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 10 February 2026.

Back in December, we experienced the nightmare of away games; an 8.15pm kick-off at Elland Road, a shambolic 1-3 defeat and a return trip home that didn’t finish for me until 4am.

This time, the boots were on the other feet, so to speak. The travelling hordes from Yorkshire, at least, were presented with a slightly better – 7.30pm – kick-off time for this midweek game.

After the wet conditions at both Arsenal and at Wolves, we were met with another day of rain for this match at Stamford Bridge. On the journey east on the M4, I had encountered horrible driving conditions for virtually all the trip. The worst of the season? Undoubtedly. After an early rise at 4.45am, and an eight-hour shift at work, it was the last thing that I wanted. However, I knew how to cope; doped with some coffees before and during the three-hour drive, I made it.

I spent my pre-match traipsing down the North End Road, getting increasingly soaked with each step, and I carried out my usual two visits to “Koka” – bruschetta, chicken kebabs, one day I will complete the entire menu – and “Café Ole” – a decaf cappuccino.

When it was time to make a dash for Stamford Bridge, I noticed that nobody was obeying orders that were being barked out by the first set of stewards to display match tickets. It was simply too wet to bother. I brushed past them and immediately realised that their role on this sodden evening was becoming increasingly redundant.

I was inside, out of the rain, at 7pm.

Chelsea vs. Leeds, then, a rivalry from the ‘sixties and ‘seventies that still exists today. The first game at Stamford Bridge took place in 1928 – a Leeds win – but we then went on a run of only losing one game in twenty-four matches at home. This took us up to early in 1970 when Don Revie’s team won 5-2 at Stamford Bridge. However, we would have the final laugh that season. Since then, the Chelsea vs. Leeds United game at Stamford Bridge has been “streaky”,

In fifteen matches from 1970 to 1995, Leeds won seven, including four in a row. Within that stretch of games, though, were the wonderful days in 1984 and 1989 when home wins over the Yorkshire visitors resulted in promotion from the old Second Division.

Since 1996, Leeds have won just one in fourteen games at Stamford Bridge.

After the defeat in December, this seemed like a night of revenge to me.

I had a look at the team that Liam Rosenior had chosen.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Estevao Willian – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer

Joao Pedro

I had successfully smuggled my SLR into this game and hoped to capture some decent moments on film.

The game began with the teams in exact opposites of each other’s kits.

Us : blue / blue / white.

Then : white / white / blue.

In the first few glimpses, it looked like Enzo was drifting to the left, and Palmer was coming inside. I guessed there would be some fluidity throughout the evening.

It was a lively start from both teams, and Leeds surprised me with their early attacking intent. A couple of free kicks were headed away by Chelsea defenders.

There was an early airing of an off-putting chant from the Leeds’ support for Ethan Ampadu, the former blue, to the tune of “Agadoo.”

On eighteen minutes, we roared Young Josh on as he made a very old-fashioned run from deep down the right, taking four Leeds defenders with him, but the run petered out and the ball was lost. I wondered how much money he would be fined for that free-spirited run.

The foul count was increasing and there definitely seemed to be a lot more “niggle” in this game than in others. Two Chelsea players were booked, to be followed by two others from Leeds. There were memories of a 0-0 draw in 1997 when Leeds had two sent off.

On twenty minutes, I captured the moment when Joao Pedro controlled a beautiful flick from Enzo. Alas his finish was awry.

Just after, a poor free kick from Enzo.

However, on twenty-four minutes we won the ball via Acheampong, and some tight passing allowed Palmer to play a delightful ball to the on-rushing Joao Pedro. His exquisite lob over the Leeds ‘keeper Karl Darlow was to perfection.

Chelsea 1 Leeds United 0

Alan, alongside me : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris, beside myself : “Come on my little diamonds.”

There is no doubt in my mind that the relationship between Palmer and Joao Pedro will be a huge part of any success that we might enjoy in the next few precious years; let’s hope they get to play together for an extended spell.

The reaction from the Leeds fans was not a surprise.

…“and shoot the Chelsea scum. Shoot the Chelsea scum.”

There was a lovely break from us, but a shot from Palmer at the end of it was surprisingly weak, and too close to their goalie. We enjoyed a nice period of play in the closing fifteen minutes of the half; some intricate and tricky stuff in the final third that lead to a mate, a Frome Town supporter, watching at home, to message me and say, “you are a lovely team to watch my friend.”

Are we? His synopsis surprised me and I probably concluded that I, like others, are sometimes reticent to praise our play which, at times, can look attractive and worthy of our name.

We continued on, looking to prise gaps in a resolute defence.

However, I did note a yawning chasm of space in the left-side of the Leeds midfield and defence that a central defender – I forget who – chose to ignore. A run into that space by Joao Pedro and a simple pass forward would have put Leeds under threat. But such is football these days that the central defender passed square, eating up time, and the chance was lost.

It is this lack of awareness of openings that sometimes present themselves that make my brain hurt. I yearned for a player to push that ball through. A free-thinker. A maverick.

Maybe next time.

A mesmerizing run by Estevao that I was happy to capture on film got us all salivating, but his shot was wildly off target.

The first half ended and I struggled to remember a genuine Sanchez save. We had played some pretty decent stuff and the feeling at the break was “more to follow.”

Among all this positivity, I was sad to hear Stamford Bridge so quiet. In all these match reports that I have been penning since 2008 – this is number nine-hundred-and-eight – me lamenting the lack of atmosphere at Stamford Bridge is a constant, and probably boring, feature.

Sigh.

Towards the end of the break, a couple of surreal moments to report. I spotted the match mascots Stamford and Bridget – I prefer the ‘eighties Stamford when he had a full mane and was a bit more of a rascal – grooving along to some dance music down below me in front of the West Lower, throwing some shapes, grooving.

They’ve come a long way, baby.

Then, I heard a voice that I immediately recognised. I asked Alan to listen to a sample during a track that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Listen, mate…Elizabeth Fraser.”

It had taken forty-three years, but I had at last heard the Cocteau Twins chanteuse at Stamford Bridge.

Elizabeth Fraser.

The voice.

At a Chelsea game.

Oh my.

It was a feint few bars, but my ears had somehow spotted it.

The sample was from “Teardop” by Massive Attack, from 1998, which featured the singer on vocals. And I was loving it.

It was a beautiful moment and seemed to crystalise the whole Chelsea and Leeds 1984 vibe into a present-day scenario. I became a fan of the Cocteau Twins in 1983/84 – their “Head Over Heels” album became the sondtrack of that greatest-ever season – and the 5-0 win over Leeds in April 1984, which included a Kerry Dixon hat-trick, was a defining moment.

It helped that Alan is a massive Cocteau Twins fan too, and Clive, alongside Alan, is also an admirer. Alan reminded me of the time that he had attended the Bromley vs. Solihull Moors Play-Off Final at Wembley in 2024 and just before the penalty shoot-out, “Teardrop” was played.

“Talk about emotion.”

Alan said that he knew at that moment that his team would win.

I enjoyed a similar Depeche Mode moment at Porto in 2021.

Music and football, eh?

At the break, Cucurella was replaced by Jorrel Hato.

Soon into the second half, Estevao slammed a low shot wide of the near post. We continued to dominate the game. Ten minutes into the second half a ball was sent forward into the inside right channel for Joao Pedro to chase. I took a photo of this but also happened to take one of a needless push on him by Jaka Bijol. It was an unnerving copy of the push on the same player by Verson Mosquera of Wolves in the last match. It was even in the same portion of the penalty box. The referee Robert Jones pointed to the spot.

Beautiful.

It took Palmer a while to be allowed to take the kick, but his shot was clean.

Chelsea 2 Leeds United 0.

My SLR whizzed into action after I had yelled an initial roar of approval.

This was going well.

Elizabeth Fraser’s voice and Chelsea 2-0 up.

I briefly thought about a repeat of the 5-0 in 1984.

On the hour, Chelsea were camped in the Leeds box as shots pinballed in and around the six-yard box, but the Leeds goal lead a charmed life, and they escaped without another goal being scored.

Pedro Neto replaced Estevao, a shame.

Some friends in the US and I had been quietly “WhatsApping” each other, and one mate joined in after being engaged in a work meeting.

“How are we looking?”

“Comfortable.”

And we were. At this point in time, with half an hour still to go, I was hoping for more goals.

Alas, alas, alas…on sixty-four minutes, a ridiculously clumsy tackle by Caicedo on the wonderfully named Jayden Bogle, and a penalty was signalled.

Lukas Nmecha slotted past Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 1 Leeds United 2.

The atmosphere was a bit riper now and Chelsea were coerced into replying to a few Leeds chants.

“We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds.”

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

“We’re Yorkshire’s Republican Army, we’re barmy, wherever we go.”

“Carefree, wherever you may be.”

“Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh.”

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds, Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”

On seventy-three minutes, there was sadly another calamity in our box. Young Josh lost the ball, Leeds put pressure on us and despite what looked like several chances to swipe the ball away, nobody did. This was hard to watch.

“Clear it!”

Somehow, Noah Okafor pounced to push the ball home.

Bollocks.

Chelsea 2 Leeds United 2.

The Leeds support now roared.

“Marching on together.”

On seventy-eight minutes, two substitutions.

Wesley Fofana for Acheampong.

Liam Delap for Santos.

I lost count of the number of times that Pedro Neto cut back onto his left foot out on the far touchline and attempted to connect with a target man. But there was no Kerry Dixon leading the line here, and I was never ever convinced that either Delap or Joao Pedro would connect. On one occasion his cross evaded everybody and just dropped past the far post. However, as the crosses were pumped in from both Neto on the right and Palmer on the left, more often than not they were headed out by Leeds defenders and Chelsea strikers alike.

But we kept trying.

On eighty-seven minutes, an amazing piece of close skill by Palmer resulted in a low cross but Delap touched it just wide.

Joao Pedro then hit the bar with a header from a Hato cross; he was stretching from the start and just could not get over the ball.

We were howling in pain by now.

But I kept hearing one voice behind me being overly obnoxious and using the “C” word as if it was going out of fashion. It seemed to me that this one fan was singling out individual players too.

Modern fans, eh?

In injury time, an impudent backheel from Gusto set up Caicedo who flashed the ball low into the box. We saw Palmer arrive.

This was it then?

Teardrops of joy at the end of this crazy game?

No.

The ball was slammed over the bar from just two yards.

Howls again.

I took a photo of a disbelieving Palmer who had ended up in the net, unlike the ball.

And then I heard it again.

“You cnut.”

That was it. I turned around and glowered at the bloke.

I decided that I had to say something.

Or rather, I barked at him.

“Hey, that’s Cole Palmer. Don’t call him a cnut.”

There was a stare down.

Eyeballs.

I don’t often get into it with fellow supporters, but I felt my words were vindicated.

Just after, the whistle went. We could hardly believe what we had just witnessed. The Leeds recovery – gifted to them by us – was bad enough, but that Palmer miss was difficult to comprehend.

A teardop at half-time and dropped points at full time.

How frustrating.

I exited the stadium – it was still raining of course – and I bumped into Huddersfield Mick along the Fulham Road.

He was fuming.

He scowled as he said, “bloody Northerners.”

I had to laugh.

“Yeah, Yorkshire bastards.”

He smiled.

“That’s five points we’ve dropped against them this season, Mick.”

“I’m off for a pint in The Cock.”

“Wish I could join you.”

Thankfully there was little traffic delay, and I was back home at 12.30am, which was far better than 2.20am the preceding Tuesday on the way back from Arsenal.

There’s no trip to Hull and back for me, so my next game is at home to Burnley on Saturday 21 February.

See you there.

Tales From Wet Wolverhampton

Posted on February 8, 2026 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2026.

I am happy to report that Parky was able to travel to our game at Wolves after missing the trip to Arsenal during the week. The signs were good; here was a match against the worst Premier League team by a mile, and we surely had to win this one. I collected PD and then Parky and we breakfasted en route before slipping on to the M4 at Chippenham. There was rain in the air, and it didn’t really stop for too many minutes during the whole of my three-hour drive north. Thankfully, from my home in Somerset, a trip to Molineux is one of my easiest away journeys of the season

Knowing that the chance to grab a drink in Wolverhampton city centre is very restricted, I drove to a pub around four miles to the south in a large village called Wombourne. “The Vine” was our base for a couple of hours. We settled next to a roaring log fire, and I kept peering out of the window to check the weather. Sadly, the rain kept falling throughout our stay.

Towards the end of our spell in the lovely boozer, we chatted to a West Brom fan about all sorts of topics related to football, and it was a nice way to seal off an enjoyable pre-match.

With the rain now falling heavily, I drove into the centre of Wolverhampton and aimed for our usual parking place at Broad Street. Molineux appeared down to our left and I was soon parked up. It was 2pm, just right for the 3pm kick-off. We, unfortunately, became drenched on the fifteen-minute walk to the away turnstiles. I had made the decision to leave my SLR camera in the car and use just my mobile phone for the day’s photographs. I knew that my ticket was for a seat at the front of the stand in Row B, so I played the percentage game and decided not to risk my camera becoming wet and possibly damaged.

It felt like a relief not having to go through the usual stresses involved in a potential camera search at the turnstiles. A quick “pat down” and I was in. I soon spotted Alan and Gary with a couple of mates, and we chatted for a while in the roomy concourse, all of us not particularly keen to reach the possibly wet area inside.

Once I reached my seat at about 2.45pm, I was pleasantly surprised. The roof of the Steve Bull Stand extended well over the seats and I was immediately impressed. This was a much-maligned stand when it opened way back in 1980, as it stood so far away from the pitch, prior to an eventual realignment. But it was doing a fine job on this day; plenty of room in the concourse to drink and chat, while a roof that – shock, horror – kept us dry pitch side.

As kick-off approached, there were many areas of empty seats in the home areas, though not as many as at our League Cup game – that crazy 4-3 win – in late October. However, three thousand Chelsea loyalists packed the lower tier alongside the pitch.

The skies were dark, the rain still fell, and I had to feel sorry for the several hundred home supporters perched on the open-air section between the home end and the main stand. At least they had been provided with ponchos. Back in the day, they could have huddled together on a terrace, like penguins possibly, to keep a little drier. Seeing them all sat out in the open just seemed like the worst football experience yet.

With ten minutes to go, club president Robert Plant belted out “Whole Lotta Love” and the teams were announced by the overly keen announcer. Like our team, the Wolves’ starting line-up was dominated by exotic-sounding foreign names. I wondered if their two defenders Hugo Bueno and Santiago Bueno were to be joined at some stage by a less-talented chap called Non Bueno, and I was soon to spot that their lone talisman upfront Tolu Arokodare possessed the body mass of the rest of his teammates combined.

Us?

We were back to the tried-and-tested 4-2-3-1.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevor Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer

Joao Pedro

“Hi Ho Silver Lining” was played and this energised the home support. Fair play, for a team destined to be relegated, they made a bloody racket.

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton.”

Wolves, of course, were in their brilliant old gold kit; it’s lovely, isn’t it? Gary, alongside me, admitted that he had a Wolves shirt as a very young child – though he didn’t explain why – and I remembered that my Frome Town mate Steve used to like them as a young lad before he got fully engaged with Bristol City a few years later. I also remember two Wolves supporters in the 1982/83 sixth form. My next-door neighbour follows Wolves. Maybe it’s something about those colours. I can’t think of another team, anywhere, that uses old gold as its main colour. In the UK, I can think of Hull City, Newport County and Albion Rovers who have worn amber and black, but not old gold.

We were in our much admired “off-white” away kit.

The home team, playing left to right for me, probably began the better of the two teams, and it took a while for us to get into the match. After just two minutes, there was a proper scramble in Sanchez’ six-yard box, and I was relieved when an unknown Chelsea defender lumped the ball away.

On ten minutes, in one of our first real attacks, I loved the way that Joao Pedro brought the ball down and then took a touch away from the defenders. There was a lunge by Matt Doherty and our nimble striker fell. A shout went up. After a slight pause, the referee Jarred Gillett pointed at the spot.

Palmer slotted home past Jose Sa.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to Cum On Feel The Noize.”

Chris : “Come on My Friend Stan.”

Our play improved from then, and Wolves became the secondary team. I liked the way we moved the ball quicker than under Maresca, and I loved how Palmer was carrying out his own brand of football alchemy only a few yards away.

A shot from distance for Enzo rattled in but was blocked.

On twenty-four minutes, we enjoyed three efforts in quick succession. First an effort from Cucurella was blocked by Doherty, Caicedo followed up with a shot and then a rabona from Enzo was saved by Sa.

Just after, I again marvelled at how Joao Pedro brought the ball down beautifully, before a quick turn and a blast at goal from an angle that Sa pushed over for a corner. Then a sublime dribble at pace from Joao Pedro – the kind of run you just don’t see much of these days – that took him past opponents with consummate ease.

Then, Gusto ran deep into the box on the far side and smashed a shot goalwards when perhaps a cross might have been the better option. Sa was the equal of it at the near post.

This was nice stuff. We were playing well.

On thirty-five minutes, Joao Pedro attacked the inside-right channel. I didn’t see the ridiculous hands-on push by Yerson Mosquera, I just saw our striker fall.

Another penalty.

Another Palmer strike, this time the other way.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

As he ran again towards the Chelsea contingent, I snapped away with my mobile camera, but the results were horrific.

At around this point, the rain temporarily stopped, as if to rub it in.

A third goal soon followed. And this was a lovely move, so pure and simple. Neto to Fernandez, then out to Cucurella, with me willing him on. He reached the goal-line, spotted Palmer advancing and cut a great ball back into the path of our Number Ten. Palmer dispatched his shot high into the Wolves net. It was struck with such venom. It was a beautiful goal.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Game over, surely?

The home fans must have thought the same. The South Bank met their predicament with gallows humour.

“How shit must you be? It’s only three-nil.”

The afternoon had turned against them, and they were increasingly vociferous in their booing of the referee’s decisions and felt aggrieved at every call given against them. I must admit, the 50-50’s did appear to be mainly going our way.

When Wolves eventually won a free-kick, Gary chortled alongside me.

“Come on ref, you’ve given us nuffing.”

That raised a smile from me.

As the referee blew for half-time, there were massive boos, but all for the referee no doubt.

Half-time came and went, and although – deep-down – I was hopeful for further attacks and further goals, I knew that we had a game on Tuesday and that we just needed to be sensible. There was an early chance for Enzo in the first few moments of the second period as the rain began again. His shot was blocked.

In the same way that we let Wolves back into the game during that crazy second-half in October, I did wonder if we might be in for a slightly rough ride as the second half continued.

I turned to Gary and said “you know what will happen? They will score and it will get shaky.”

Sometimes I hate my footballing sixth sense.

A shot from Mateus Mane was touched onto a post. Then, from a low corner on the Wolves’ left from Mane, the ball was flicked on and Arokodare was able to turn and slot home from mere yards away.

Bollocks. Here we go.

Fifty-four minutes were on the clock.

“Bloody hell, over half-an-hour to go…”

The home team improved throughout the second period, whereas we lost a lot of key battles. Throughout it all, the home fans were still feeling that they were being victimised.

“Premier League. Corrupt as fuck.”

On the hour, Palmer set off on a little run but then stopped and played the ball safely back. He then walked gingerly for a few steps and stretched both legs, and it looked to me that he wasn’t happy with his fitness. Soon after he was substituted by Alejandro Garnacho who took up residence on the left as Neto swapped over.

Wolves probably edged possession in the second period, and I was never at ease. I turned to the bloke behind me and admitted “only Chelsea could be 3-1 up and we are wanting the ref to blow up.”

Young Ernie, to my left in the front row, got the crowd going with a couple of lovely “Zigger Zaggers”. He is soon becoming one of our most famous fans, bless him.

A header from Mosquera bothered the souls in the South Bank rather than Sanchez.

On seventy-one minutes, Arakodare had a pacey run, but Fofana did just enough to put him off. His shot was a weak one, and straight at Sanchez.

With fifteen minutes to go, a double substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-four minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Santos.

Just after, Neto was free and unmarked but misfired horribly with a header. He then hit the side netting with a shot and Delap struck a shot at Sa.

Despite seven long minutes of injury time, we held on.

We “held on?” Yes, it seemed like it.

The Chelsea crowd were full of “Palmer again” bravado as we all exited the concourse into the rain, and I met up with the two lads outside. PD and I devoured a bacon cheeseburger with onions as we sheltered under the entrance to a building and we then slowly headed back to the car. Luckily, a lot of the traffic had already vacated the area, and the route back to the M6 at Walsall was quicker than usual.

This had been my twelfth ever visit to Molineux. In the last three visits we have scored thirteen goals, and I have to say I will miss it next season,

On Tuesday, Leeds United visit Stamford Bridge.

…just writing those words.

Tales From Much Ado About Nothing

Posted on February 6, 2026 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2026.

I was at the end of my own little personal stretch of eight consecutive games in London: four at HQ, one at Charlton, one at Fulham, one at Palace and now this one at Arsenal. During the day, I was asked about my thoughts of the outcome of the League Cup semi-final second leg at the Emirates. I wasn’t sure about guessing a score, but my prediction was that we had a 25% chance of progressing to the final at Wembley. After the first-leg loss, Arsenal would be a tough nut to crack.

Unfortunately, Parky had failed a late fitness test, so just PD accompanied me on this occasion.

We had been given almost six thousand tickets for this game, and I was delighted that Arsenal had not charged us an exorbitant price for tickets. Unlike the £60 for my ticket at Stamford Bridge, I paid just a little over £30 for this one at Arsenal.

The drive east in the afternoon was not easy. I drove through rain and spray on the M4. I had felt tired, at times, during my shift at work, and after getting up at the loony time of 4.30am, I was obviously dreading more tiredness both to and from London, but hopefully not at the game. Only time would tell on that one.

For years and years, we have parked for free on the road adjacent to Barons Court tube station – Margravine Gardens – for aways against Arsenal, Tottenham and West Ham, conveniently just off the A4, but I happened to notice new parking regulations were in place. Free parking used to be available in after 5pm on weekdays, but now it was after 10pm every day. This was a big kick in the teeth.

Here was the first “fackinell” of the day.

What did this mean?

It meant that I had to divert south to where I park for midweek home games, and we then had to walk over half-a-mile to West Brompton tube station. This wouldn’t normally be an issue, but Paul struggles with such distances. And this is yet another example of how the pleasure that comes from a day at the football is slowly being eroded.

However, we made the best of it and stopped off at my favourite restaurant on the North End Road for a couple of pizzas and then continued a rather wet walk to West Brompton. There was a change onto the Piccadilly Line at Earl’s Court, and then the thirty-five minute journey, through thirteen stations, to Arsenal.

I heard occasional shouts of “Carefree” further down the carriages, but the train obviously contained a few Arsenal supporters too. A family of five were positioned to my left and caught my eye. They stood and sat close to PD, and they each wore a different Arsenal replica shirt. I caught PD’s eye and shook my head. You just don’t see that at Chelsea; a whole bloody family kitted out in club shirts. The father even wore his home shirt over a normal sweatshirt – a real sartorial own-goal in my book – and topped it off with a bobble hat. He couldn’t have looked more gormless if he had tried. And talking of replica kits, the three sons were certainly replica kids – absolute spitting images of their parents – but it worried me that their mother and father looked alike too.

Let’s leave that there, eh?

Up through the tight tunnels at Arsenal, and out into a miserable wet North London night. Rather than turn left as we did when we used to visit Highbury, we know turned right and headed up the long stretch of Drayton Park, past an impressive amount of souvenir stands. PD was still struggling with walking. Eventually we turned right towards the stadium, opposite the Drayton Park Arms – still an away pub I believe – just in time for a few young Arsenal and Chelsea to lads take a pop at one another.

The neon colours of the stadium were reflected in the puddles outside and helped create a photogenic, if watery, feel to a smattering of photos that were taken.

We were in quickly, out of the rain, at 7.20pm and took our seats not long after. PD was seated right next to the three seats of “no man’s land” between us and the Arsenal support, while I, thankfully, was further away, and in row eighteen, well under the roof. Those sitting in the first few rows were in for a soaking.

There were many familiar faces dotted around this lower tier. The split was three thousand in the lower, and a further three thousand high up in the top tier to my left. It annoyed me that away season ticket holders were denied choosing the upper tier. I would have loved to have watched the game up there for the first time, as – I am sure – would many.

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

The players were on the pitch going through their pre-match drills. They were wearing a homage to the worst Chelsea kit of all time, the hideous tangerine and graphite monstrosity from the mid-‘nineties, complete with the most hated badge of all time, that nasty Millwall lookalike.

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

The place filled up, and – what a surprise – yet another club has chosen “London Calling” as an intro before the teams stepped foot on the pitch.

We then had to endure the historic “Good old Arsenal” ditty which I always forget about until I hear it at their stadium. It certainly doesn’t have the lasting resonance of the theme from “Z Cars” at Everon nor “Marching on Together” at Leeds, to name but two.

Next, a light show…oh please stop this…let’s get to the football.

The teams eventually appeared.

I was surprised how many Chelsea clapped Noni Madueke when the team line-ups were named. Nobody clapped Kepa Arrizabalaga.

Us?

It took a while for me to work it all out. In fact, I needed to see the players on the pitch before I had a chance.

In goal?

Easy, Robert Sanchez.

It then got a little difficult.

It looked like three central defenders.

Wesley Fofana on the right, in front of us, then Trevoh Chalobah in the middle, then Jorrel Hato on the left.

We then had Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella out wide.

OK, that was the easy part. Kinda.

Andrey Santos and Moises Caicedo were playing, holding things together.

It looked like Enzo Fernandez was playing a little higher up the pitch.

But we then had Joao Pedro in attack alongside Liam Delap, but with Delap drifting over to the right wing at every opportunity.

Blimey. A rather unorthodox system, eh?

We dominated the early possession, much to my pleasure, and in the sixth minute, Delap came in from the right but scuffed a snapshot well wide of Kepa’s right-hand post. That the striker then kept to the right flank for the rest of the half certainly caused a stir among the Chelsea faithful.

Arsenal forced a series of corners, and we watched as three of our attackers raced out of the box at the last minute, dragging some Arsenal players with them.

This lad Liam Rosenior certainly has some “left-field” – or maybe “right-field” – ideas that he is not afraid to use.

For a while, there was a commotion above and behind me as some Chelsea lads tried to pin a beautiful blue flag – featuring the 1984 two-tone colours – on the top balcony wall. That kit is synonymous with us at Highbury, and I loved that the flag was being given an airing at Arsenal’s new pad. By now, that top section was crammed full of our supporters, and I noticed that every single seat was being used in my section, a fine showing.

Robert Sanchez palmed away an effort from Piero Hincapie, whoever he is, and Gabriel Martinelli made a mess of the rebound.

The home fans weren’t particularly loud once they had settled down after their warbling to the “North London Forever” dirge before kick-off.

North London forever, you say? Not until 1913, you mean. It took until then for the Woolwich Wanderers to settle.

On twenty-six minutes, Moises Caicedo shot wide, well wide.

Wesley Fofana enjoyed an absolutely top-notch purple patch over ten glorious minutes, heading away, recovering well, tackling, playing it out with calmness personified. Excellent work.

The Chelsea choir asked, “is this a library?” and I wondered if the home support were saving themselves for another corner before they might get excited.

On thirty-three minutes, we were all concerned when Gusto let Martinelli get past him, but he recovered so well and saved the day with a bloody superb tackle.

Chances dried up at either end. Although Chelsea seemed to edge possession, there was a paucity of efforts on goal.

At various times in that first-half, that promised so much but delivered so little, Delap managed to fall over the ball, fall over his legs, fall over his marker’s legs, and sometimes run in the opposite direction to the ball. His continued presence in that position confused me, but I – at least – gave some sort of credit to Rosenior in his attempts to confuse the opposition too.

In the forty-third minute, at last a shot. An effort from Enzo was dramatically punched away by Kepa.

It was 0-0 at the break, and I have to say that the mood within the packed away support was positive. I think that many of us solemnly expected that we might get torn apart, so I think that the fact that were still very much in the tie helped us battle our overall feelings of dread.

The rain still fell as the second half began with Chelsea attacking the two zones of Chelsea support in the Clock End.

In the very first minute, Enzo came over to take a corner right in front of us. The ball dropped in to the near post area and the ball was stabbed at goal, took a deflection, but still went wide.

The game became a little scrappy, with niggling tackles all over the pitch, but the Chelsea support remained loud, giving the team some excellent support. When it got going in both sections it reminded me of our support at an FA Cup tie at Villa a few years ago – Enzo’s finest game in a Chelsea shirt – and at Arsenal on this wet old night the usual Chelsea songs were defiantly sung with passion and, er, gusto.

Joao Pedro was putting in a very strong performance all game, showing some neat touches of skill, and a surprising amount of strength when needed. He is impressing me of late.

Again, we were still in this tie.

A little secret; on the drive up to London, wary of a potentially long night ahead, PD had asked what we would do if we were losing 0-3 at half-time. Would we leave? My response was that we would hang on to the hour mark.

On sixty-one minutes, we saw Estevao and Cole Palmer appear on the far side, and they replaced Delap and Hato. A bloke in front of me, who had just returned from the loos, asked his mates who had come off.

I leaned forward and replied “Delap came off twice.”

So, was this Rosenior’s game plan? Get Arsenal used to a cumbersome lump on the wing for an hour, then replace him with a spritely wing wizard, and change the shape too, plus the bonus of Cole Palmer?

If this came off, I was ready to doff my non-existent cap.

We increased our possession with the two additions, and in one move we had the agreeable sight of both Palmer and Estevao attacking down the left within yards of each other. A shot from outside the box from Cucurella curled just wide.

If only we could hit the bloody target.

On sixty-four minutes, the best move of the match, but Enzo shot wildly over. This followed nice wing play from Estevao following a perfect pass from Palmer.

Joao Pedro fell after a challenge from Gabriel but it looked like a dive to me.

“Fucking embarrassing”.

The bloke in front agreed.

Arsenal made some quality substitutions of their own; on came Leandro Trossard and Kai Havertz, who was booed by a sizeable proportion of our support.

I whispered “fasten yer seatbelts” to the bloke to my left.

The mercurial Alejandro Garnacho appeared after seventy-five minutes, replacing Santos. He took his position on the left with Estevao flipping over to the right. This was a case of “do or die” now, but Chelsea found it difficult to squeeze the ball through the packed home defence. Too often the ball was played into the middle, expecting too much from Joao Pedro, and our wingers were not utilised as much as I, for one, wanted.

On eighty-one minutes, another Enzo corner and a Fofana flick, just wide.

Then, just after, an Arsenal break but a beautifully timed sliding tackle by Chalobah as Martinelli looked to exploit some space on the right.

I pleaded with Garnacho to run at his defender and make something happen, but I don’t think he ever did. And virtually every time that he chose to cut back and cross, the ball was blocked.

After eighty-seven minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

The game continued, but the Chelsea players still tended to slowly move the ball from player to player with the fans being the only ones showing the right amount of passion. I wondered if it had sunk in that a place at bloody Wembley was at stake here.

On eighty-nine minutes, Enzo shot over again.

Fackinell.

There was frustration everywhere in our ranks, but I was pleased and proud to note that hardly any of us were disappearing early. We would see this out.

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

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

We continued on.

Alas, Arsenal broke on ninety-six minutes, and they had spare men.

I spotted who was free on the right.

“Oh no, Havertz.”

We all watched in agony as he touched the ball past Sanchez and neatly slotted the ball home.

It was, awfully, not unlike a goal he scored one night in Porto.

Bollocks.

The referee blew up, and that was that.

Our travels had taken us to Lincoln, to Wolverhampton, to Cardiff and London, but there was no silverware in the League Cup this season.

With a deep sense of resignation that we never really gave it a go until very late on, we turned and began the slow shuffle towards the exits. I did that thing where I faced away from the pitch, but semi-turned to clap the players as they walked over to our support.

It was a very slow, and wet, walk back to Highbury & Islington tube station. For about fifteen minutes, we did not move an inch as we waited on the Holloway Road.

The Arsenal fans were jubilant and one bloody song kept repeating.

“60 million down the drain, Kai Havertz scores again”

I always remember reading a fan’s reminiscences about walking down the Seven Sisters Road after two consecutive semi-final defeats to Arsenal in the FA Cup in the ‘fifties – it was probably Scott Cheshire, that great Chelsea historian – and how depressed he felt. These were in the days when Chelsea, almost fifty years old, had not won a single thing, and so just imagine how those defeats must have hurt.

This hurt, but it was absolutely nowhere near the same scale of sadness.

At least it meant we could enjoy a first-ever visit to Everton’s new stadium on a Saturday rather than a Tuesday night.

We reached King’s Cross at 11pm, and we eventually got back to West Brompton. I shot off to pick up the car, and collected PD outside the station bang on midnight.

I eventually reached home at 2.20am.

I am never one for hitting the sack straight away; I need to scan my photos to see what I had taken, plus there is the inevitable late-night chit-chat with pals in the U.S.

I fell asleep, eventually, at 3.30am.

4.30am to 3.30am.

Bloody hell, Chelsea.

Tales From A Perfect Day

Posted on February 2, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 31 January 2026.

Prior to our London derby – the District Line Derby of old – at home to West Ham United, our results had experienced a noticeable upturn, and there was an air of positivity as I collected my three mates – PD, Glenn and Parky – and then set off nice an early for yet another trip to HQ.

I had been unable to watch our magnificent away win in Naples on the Wednesday, but it was the sort of result that brings such a depth of joy that is difficult to beat.

The four of us had a big day ahead. PD was celebrating his sixty-fourth birthday, and so for the second time in three weeks we were staying over in deepest Fulham after the game. I was parked up at just after 10am in the car park of the Premier Inn at Putney Bridge, and we dropped into “The Eight Bells” where Salisbury Steve and Jimmy the Greek were waiting for us. The place, not surprisingly, was virtually empty. It was, after all, around seven and a half hours until the game began.

From there, we headed west to six more pubs along the River Thames, gathering friends along the way, and all of us enjoyed this fantastic pre-match ramble. I sorted out an Uber to take us to the first of the pubs, “Old City Arms” next to Hammersmith Bridge. Ian and his son Bobby – aka “Small Bob”, aka “Bobby Small” – were already there. It was just after 11.15am. From here, we took in five more pubs, all favourites, all located next to the Thames. In “The Blue Anchor” we were joined by our good friends Hans and Jon from Norway, and the famous brothers Dave and Glenn, plus their mate Eddy. We hopped next door to “The Rutland” and Jon’s son Sven joined us. At “The Dove” we squeezed together out on the terrace that overlooked the river and met up with Rob and his wife Alex. Here, Dave from Northampton joined up with us too. Next was “The Old Ship” and then the last port of call, “The Black Lion” which we reached at about 3.45pm.

The weather was unbelievable. Not a hint of rain. A fantastic afternoon in and out of the sun, and in and out of these magnificent pubs. It’s interesting, looking back, when I realise that we never really spoke about the game at all.

We ordered two Ubers to get ourselves down to Fulham Broadway. It had been a perfect pre-match. One for the ages.

As soon as Glenn and I set foot on the Fulham Road, we were really chuffed to bump into an old friend – Olly, now eighty-one – who we used to chat to in The Harwood Arms thirty years ago. He was wearing his trademark blue-and-white Chelsea bar scarf and was equally happy to remember us. We had not seen him for a few years. I always remember that we sat with him in “The Seven Stars” on the North End Road after we won the FA Cup in 1997, and after the Cup had been paraded at Fulham Broadway on the Sunday. A lovely time.

We wolfed down a hot dog apiece and made our way into Stamford Bridge. Waiting for us in The Sleepy Hollow was Alan.

The boys were back together again; four of us in a row.

Chris, Alan, Glenn, PD.

Throughout the afternoon, a couple of friends had been updating me with news of Frome Town’s home game with Willand Rovers. While we were setting up to leave the last pub, a text game through to say that Albie Hopkins, a local Frome lad, had scored. And as I made my way into Stamford Bridge, I heard that this is how the match had ended.

Frome Town’s overall record in the league this season is an admirable 23-4-2. In the last ten games, the team has dropped just two points. My hometown club remained eleven points clear at the top.

Frome Town 73.

Malvern Town 62.

Portishead Town 60.

Winchester City 58.

Shaftesbury 54.

We are also top of the home attendance figures too.

Frome Town 499.

Melksham Town 392.

Malvern Town 343.

Portishead Town 336.

Winchester City 323.

The kick-off at Stamford Bridge was not far away, and I checked Liam Rosenior’s choices.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Jorrel Hato

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Jamie Gittens – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Liam Delap

The match began and we attacked The Shed and began well enough.

“COME ON CHELS.”

However, after just seven minutes – just as I was juggling pub camera and mobile ‘phone – I looked up to see a cross from Jarod Bowen that ridiculously avoided everyone and bounced equidistant from the two central defenders, who both turned around to see who had tapped them on the shoulders, and in front of the ‘keeper. The ball squirmed in at the far post.

Bollocks.

The three-thousand visiting supporters roared, and our hearts dipped.

“1-0 to the Cockney Boys.”

Ugh.

On fourteen minutes, a Badiashile error, but a shot from Valentin Castellanos was saved by Robert Sanchez at his near post.

We were dominating the ball but were doing nothing at all with it.

I commented to Alan “Gittens is hard work.”

There was a moment just after when one of our centre-backs had the ball, and was not under a great deal of pressure, but there was simply no movement from anyone in a blue shirt ahead of him. It was infuriating. I started yelling into the abyss.

Our play was terrible. There was no physicality, no desire; just a timid bunch of players who seemed lost.

On twenty-six minutes, we were forced into a change as Gittens was injured. Pedro Neto took his place.

A shot from Moises Caicedo flew past Alphonse Areola in the West Ham goal.

On thirty-six minutes, a long ball out of defence found Bowen, who passed forward to Aaron Wan-Bissaka. His cutback was adeptly poked home by Crysencio Summerville.

The Cockneys and the Mockneys roared again.

Another ugh.

This was awful.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

The Irons continued.

“Build it up with Claret and Blue.”

Just horrible.

This was my thirty-first Chelsea vs. West Ham United game at Stamford Bridge and our record in the previous thirty had been fantastic.

Won 20

Drew 6

Lost 4

I remembered the four losses vividly and I had bad vibes about this one now.

Just on half-time, West Ham had a corner down below us. I watched the Chelsea players just pacing around with no urgency, nobody talking to each other, nobody cajoling others to roll up their sleeves and get close to their men, nobody taking the lead, nobody shouting.

What a terrible sight.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

I muttered to a few friends, with no joy, that the first-half performance that I had just witnessed just might have possibly been the worst I had ever seen.

We had nothing. We had hardly carved out a single chance. I remember a Cole Palmer free kick, but that was the sum of our efforts on goal. Alejandro Garnoch – God, I want him to do well – had been dire, as had many.

It had been such a pallid, tame, grey performance.

There were, unsurprisingly, three changes at the break.

Wesley Fofana for Badiashile.

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Joao Pedro for Garnacho.

I liked the idea of Joao Pedro playing just behind Delap but hoped that he wouldn’t get too tired chasing after his knockdowns.

However, the improvements were not immediate. After forty-seven minutes, we had to rely on a fantastic save from Sanchez from Mateus Fernandes, and three minutes later a quickly taken free kick resulted in a shot from Bowen that Sanchez saved again.

On fifty-five, Cucurella played in to Delap, but a delicate touch took the ball wide of the far post.

Two minutes later, a tantalisingly good cross from Fofana on our right was aimed perfectly at the leap of Joao Pedro. From close-in, he scored.

GET IN.

The bridge, at last – it had been so quiet – got going.

“CAREFREE. WHEREVER YOU MAY BE. WE ARE THE FAMOUS CFC.”

Immediately, our players now looked like they wanted it. Their body language changed and there was a bounce in their step.

After an hour of horrendous football, the boys were back in town.

On sixty-three minutes, a thunderous blast from Caicedo was superbly saved by Areola.

Four minutes later, a shot from Castellanos whizzed past a post, low and wide.

On seventy minutes, a deep cross from Neto on our left was headed back across the goal by Malo Gusto. A defender headed the ball onto the bar as Delap jumped with him, and the ball bounced down. In came a diving Cucurella to head it home.

The net rippled.

What a goal.

What a moment.

I found myself standing in the walkway above my seat, punching the air with booth fists, only to see the bloke behind me doing exactly the same thing. We screamed at each other. It could not have been choreographed any better.

Bloody hell.

Then VAR stepped in.

The goal stood.

I didn’t cheer the VAR decision.

The game continued. The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. The visitors were silent now.

On eighty-one minutes, Reece James replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, a snapshot from West Ham’s Jean-Clair Todibo hit the side netting. How he missed I will never ever know.

Cole Palmer slapped a low shot towards goal that was deflected away at the last moment by a West Ham defender.

Fackinell.

Referee Anthony Taylor’s assistant signalled five minutes of extra-time.

Could we do it?

In the second minute of added time, Palmer played the ball square to Caicedo. An intelligent run by Joao Pedro was spotted by our Moi. At this stage I pulled my camera up to my eyes and caught a very blurred shot of the pullback to Enzo. I clicked as the Argentinian shot – a ridiculously blurred photo – and exploded with joy as I saw the net ripple.

I was up on my feet yelling like a lunatic. Inside I was boiling over, outside I was beaming a huge smile, But I bizarrely I remained stupidly calm to take some photos of the scorer.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some of them worked. I hope you like them.

Late on, we watched on from afar as some players lost control down near Parkyville. It took forever to work out what was happening, and again the folk watching on TV must have had more of a clue than us. There was a VAR check, but nobody in the stadium knew which player was being scrutinised for a possible red card.

In the end, in the eleventh minute of added time, Jean-Clair Todibo was ordered off.

Soon after, the whistle blew.

What a last half-hour. What a comeback. What a day.

By now, only PD and I were left in our row in The Sleepy Hollow, and we sang along to “Blue Is The Colour” like a couple of sixty-four and sixty-year-old schoolkids.

Fantastic.

Eventually we made our way out, and we walked through “Jimmy’s” down below us. I bumped into Paul from Reading – his smile wide – and after a few seconds we found ourselves in an embrace, bouncing up and down like bleeding idiots.

Outside on the Fulham Road, we met up with PD and Jimmy, and we wolfed down some cheeseburgers.

Then, over to Frankie’s where we bumped into a brilliant cross-section of Chelsea friends and faces. Jason Cundy was holding court in the corner, ex-player Garry Stanley breezed in, we met up with Alex and Rob again, plus a few famous and infamous Chelsea personalities.

The three of us returned to “The Eight Bells” where we met up with Hans, Jon and Sven once again.

At about 11pm, I left PD and Parky to it and trotted over to room 310.

It had been a bloody perfect day.

Oh and – this:

Played 31

Won 21

Drew 6

Lost 4

Next up, Arsenal in the League Cup Semi-Final.

I will see six thousand of you there.

Outside And Inside The Pubs Of Hammersmith And Fulham

Outside And Inside Stamford Bridge.

The Birthday Boy With Garry Stanley.

Tales From An In-And-Out Mission

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2026.

I have previously penned ten match reports involving Chelsea away games at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace and I suspect that in each one of them I have mentioned the difficulty in reaching the stadium via whatever means possible.

It’s just not an enjoyable journey by train nor car.

Also, once the immediate area of the stadium is reached, there is only one pub that is hospitable to away fans.

For these reasons, and for the fact that the kick-off time on this Sunday in January was 2pm, it was soon decided that this would be a simple “in-and-out” trip with no pre-match, and a hopefully quick exit after.

PD had recovered from his ailments that forced him to miss Pafos, and I collected him at 8.30am, and Parky at 9am. Bizarrely, my sat nav took me east into very familiar territory – Fulham Broadway – before I shot over Wandsworth Bridge and straight south to a pre-paid parking spot to the north of Selhurst Park on Holmesdale Road, from which the Palace home end is named.

I spoke to the lads about my trip to Bristol the previous day to see my first Frome Town game of the year, and my first for over six weeks. My home town team defeated our old rivals Bristol Manor Farm 3-2 and are now, quite remarkably, a massive eleven points clear at the top.

This last section of driving took me a full forty-five minutes, and it honestly felt that I had driven on every street in south London. In the last couple of miles, my car climbed to the summit of Beaulieu Heights – and the views over a misty south London caught my breath – thus placing me within a hundred yards of the famous TV mast that has peered over Selhurst Park for decades.

Every time I see that mast, it takes me back to my first-ever visit to Selhurst Park in August 1989 when we lost 0-3 to tenants Charlton Athletic, my last Chelsea game before I disappeared off to North America for ten months. Emotional goodbyes to a loved one, surely, should never be that crap.

I dropped the lads off as close to the away turnstiles as possible, and was parked up at 12.30pm, a full four hours after picking up PD.

I had been expecting a typically soggy Selhurst, especially since I was in the front row for this game. However, on the walk to the away end, I was amazed how mild the weather was, and that the rain had held off.

There is an impressive mural in honour of Wilfred Zaha on the end of a house that overlooks that top corner of Selhurst. It sets the scene nicely. There are street vendors, vloggers, and both sets of fans milling around. You really get a sense of how the pitch was dug into the hilly contours of the area, much like at Hampden Park and Molineux. The rising line of houses on the hill at the far end evokes memories of players such as Don Rogers, Alan Whittle and our own Charlie Cooke playing for Palace in the early ‘seventies. It seems that Selhurst Park will always be set in the past, despite a flash upgrade on the main stand being given the go-ahead recently.

Inside, I soon bumped into PD and Parky – with the famous Druce brothers – and spotted the Kentuckians who were still in town. They were amazed how Selhurst sat cheek-by-jowl with tight residential streets. The visitors had seen Bromley play – and win – on the Saturday. They were looking for three straight Chelsea victories on this trip. There was also time for a photo with Stuart, a Chelsea season ticket holder from a nearby village to me. Lastly, a chat with Dave from Alsager in Cheshire, who has recently started penning some entertaining match reports this season.

I reached my seat in good time. Damn that winter sun shining bright above the main stand. And damn the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car.

I was joined by my mate Stephen from Belfast, via New Orleans, and we had a good old natter.

After years of awful sightlines in the away end, I was just happy to have an unimpeded view of the entire pitch, even the corner flag away to my left, an object that I only ever presumed existed having not seen it since a visit to see us take on Wimbledon – another tenant – in 1998 when the Chelsea fans were lodged behind the goal that was to my right.

The kick-off approached.

Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James

Benoit Badiashile

Trevoh Chalobah

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Estevao William

Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Flames, fireworks, and the sky was flecked with red, white and blue plumes of smoke.

Crystal Palace were in the latest version of their red and blue stripes and Chelsea were in the off-white ensemble but with those muted green socks.

The Chelsea lot were in good voice as the game began.

We attacked the curved roof of the Holmesdale Road Stand, but the first chance for either team took place at the Whitehorse Lane End. The much-derided Badiashile lost possession, and the striker Jean-Phillippe Mateta struck a firm effort goalwards. Thankfully Sanchez was in fine form, the ball hitting his right-leg, and then flying away to safety.

As against Pafos, we watched a succession of James corners being flighted towards the near post. There was a shot from Enzo, centrally, that was fired over the bar.

Mateta was a towering presence, and he was involved with a few good battles with Chalobah as the half-developed.

The home team had been going through a tough time, with their manager deciding to let on that he was feeling perhaps too claustrophobic among those narrow and overcrowded Selhurst streets and that he would be away in the summer. Their form had dipped prior to this game. There seemed like a degree of tension from their fans.

We goaded them with chants about their “famous atmosphere.”

It was a mixed start to the game with dull build-ups from us, but then occasional rapid breaks. Both Stephen and I noticed that Estevao was quiet in the first twenty minutes.

I tended to become nervous when the ball was played to Badiashile. I always feel that his left boot is on his right foot, while his right boot is on his left foot.

Meanwhile, Cucurella was charging around, covering the inadequacies of others with his usual terrier-like dynamism.

Limited chances were exchanged. Both teams struggled to find their feet, and the game took some time to really get going.

On thirty-four minutes, a defensive mistake in front of the old main stand – an errant back-pass from Jaydee Canvot, whoever he is – and Estevao was away, racing at top speed towards the Palace ‘keeper and captain Dean Henderson. I thought that he had taken the ball too far, but he lashed it past the ‘keeper and the Chelsea crowd roared.

FACKINGETIN.

Huge celebrations from us all, and I turned my pub camera towards my fellow fans in the front row.

Euphoria.

From a few yards away to my left.

“THTCAUN.”

Alan was at the game, fantastic.

The home team improved after our goal, and it became a decent contest.

There was still time to annoy Palace though : “where’s your famous atmosphere?”

Stephen commented “give it to Estevao, he’s more of a threat than the rest put together.”

Five minutes before the break, Estevao took off on a brilliant run, racing past his marker with aplomb, but we watched in agony as his low shot whizzed past the far post.

Fackinell.

At half-time, I was happy. The players had improved in that first forty-five minutes. With them attacking us in the second period – and with me in the front row with my camera – everything was looking positive. The rain was still holding off.

The players “huddled” before the second half, and I wondered why.

Four minutes into the second-half, Chalobah won a battle with Mateta and intelligently passed to Joao Pedro, who passed to Enzo. Enzo passed to Estevao who lofted a beautiful first-time pass towards Joao Pedro. He sold Adam Wharton a dummy, cut inside and struck at goal. I saw the ball fly up and into the roof of the net.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

More noise.

I felt a hand push me forward from behind – “here we go, these celebrations at Selhurst can get ridiculous” – but that was it. I steadied myself, as best I could, and snapped away.

We were 2-0 up and our play improved further as the second half continued. This was very enjoyable.

Estevao – “Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o!” – then let fly at Henderson who kept him at bay with an acrobatic one-handed save.

On sixty-four minutes, Henderson got a hand on a cross from Enzo, and the ball fell to Joao Pedro. He shot, but it was blocked. Play continued, we thought nothing of it.

Then after the best part of a minute, VAR chirped up.

Another minute.

Why do these fucking reviews take so long?

The mic’d up referee Darren England spoke…

He first talked about an “accidental handball” but then pointed to the spot, and I could not have been more at a loss as to working out the modern laws. The “accidental” bit saved him Canvot – yes, him again – from a red.

Enzo collected the ball from down in front of us, placed it on the spot and steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

He shot.

I shot.

Goal.

We were 3-0 up.

GETINYOUBUGGER.

More up-close-and-personal photos.

Lovely stuff.

I had not noticed Wharton’s first yellow, but on seventy-two minutes he fouled again and a voice nearby went up :

“Second yellow!”

Indeed, the referee agreed and off he went.

This reminded me of the away game at Manchester City at the start of the month when a nearby wag shouted “second yellow” every time a City player tackled a Chelsea player with extra aggression. Ah, that terrace humour.

On seventy-four minutes, changes.

Wesley Fofana for Caicedo.

Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

On eighty-one minutes, another change.

Jorrel Hato for James.

On eighty-five minutes, a final change.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Bizarrely, being down to ten men seemed to inspire Palace and they enjoyed a surprisingly positive end to the match. On eighty-eight minutes, Sanchez saved well from a Jefferson Lerma header, but Chris Richards was on hand for a consolation goal.

A huge nine minutes of extra time were signalled, and yes – of course – this caused ripples of concern in the Arthur Wait stand.

But we saw them out.

The players came over to milk the applause, and shirts were hoisted into the away end.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

I am warming to the bloke.

Outside, I met up with a few mates and eventually Parky joined PD and myself. We trundled back to the waiting car.

We were happy as hell.

It had been a fine day in deepest South.

Tales From A Day With Foreign Friends

Posted on January 24, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 17 January 2026.

PD, Parky and I were heading to the capital once again. The league game at home to Brentford would be our fourth of eight consecutive matches in London.

On the drive east, we spoke about the two domestic cup competitions.

The tickets for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final at Arsenal will go on sale from Tuesday 20 January, and I fancied the idea of watching from the upper tier at The Emirates for the first time. We have an allocation of 5,975. The last time that we went to Arsenal for a semi-final, we were all in the lower tier. The only problem with this game will be the time we get back home in Somerset. I am guessing it will be around 2.30am. Oh the joys.

Sadly, none of us will be attending the FA Cup tie at Hull City on Friday 13 February, and the main reason is that I can’t afford to give up a whole day’s holiday for another domestic game when I might have to use my last few days for the Champions League. It’s a shame, because we don’t mind visiting Hull. We have good memories of our visit in the FA Cup in 2020. The hotel that cost us £7.50 each still gets a smile six years on.

Brentford were one of the form teams in the Premier League and were one place above us – fifth – in the table ahead of our encounter at Stamford Bridge. We knew we would be in for a tough game. All eyes would be on their free-scoring Brazilian Igor Thiago. At work on Friday, I predicted a 2-2 draw when a Brentford-supporting colleague enquired of my thoughts.

I was forced to park way out, by Queens Club, and it took me a full twenty-five minutes to reach Stamford Bridge by foot.

I met up with some friends from the US at Stamford Bridge at 11am.

Ben, from Baton Rouge in Louisiana has been a mate since 2012. I last saw him in Wroclaw in May. Matt from DC has been a friend for only a few years, and I last saw him in Philly in June. I have known Josh, though, since around 2008, and we first met at a game in Baltimore in 2009. This was Josh’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge, and it was fantastic to see him. I saw him in Philly in June too. Josh hails from Louisville in Kentucky and was with two fellow Chelsea supporters Roger and Andy. We were able to chat to a few of the former players who take part in the hospitality at Stamford Bridge. John Boyle was especially entertaining as he reminisced on a visit to Los Angeles with Chelsea when Tommy Docherty was the manager, and how he was captain of the Tampa Bay Rowdies team that won the “Soccer Bowl” against the Portland Timbers in San Jose in 1975.

We then decamped to “The Eight Bells”, no big surprises there, eh?

We met up with the usual crowd and chatted about a million things at once.

This was the day of the protest against Clearlake, and we had been tipped off to arrive at the turnstiles a little earlier than usual. To that end, we caught the tube back to Fulham Broadway at around 1.30pm. I took the lads over to meet Mark at his stall.

“I always say the same thing to first time visitors, Marco…if we lose today, Josh isn’t coming back.”

Josh replied “well, I have three games to get that win.”

I replied “you might need four.”

The so-called protest did not amount to anything much. I am all for demonstrations and free-speech, but I was never sure what would be accomplished by a protest out on the Fulham Road (it was outside the “Kona Kai” – or “Vloggers Corner” as I call it) and by the time I reached it, just random Chelsea songs were being chanted, and I walked away when a young kid of around fourteen was singing about “bugle”.

It was time to get inside.

At 2pm, I was in, and it allowed me time to relax before the game. I spotted a couple of tourist-types (replica shirts, scarves) taking selfies in the gangway behind my seat and I volunteered to take their photos in front of the empty pitch and stadium. We got chatting and they were from Iceland, just outside Reykjavik, and of course Eidur Gudjohnsen’s name soon came up.

“He is why I am a Chelsea fan.”

The stadium filled. I checked the team.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Tosin – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

The three Kentuckians would be watching from the Matthew Harding Lower. Ben, who was with his father, would be watching in a hospitality area, while Matt would be watching a few yards away from me in the Matthew Harding Upper. Now then, dear reader – for those of a nervous disposition, you might want to skip over this next sentence or two – Matt is a lovely bloke and I have met his wife, and she is lovely too. But – and it’s a big but, I can’t deny it – she is a Tottenham supporter and was in fact watching their game with West Ham in the bleak Badlands of North London while were in salubrious SW6. It just so happened that as I saw Matt walking over to see me at about five minutes to three, “The Liquidator” was playing and, with perfect timing, Matt arrived just as we both belted out “We Hate Tott’num.”

We cracked some smiles, and I wondered, worryingly, if that just might be the highlight of the day.

As the teams took to the field, I took to my seat, and the Icelandic couple took their seats right in front of me.

The game began, with us attacking The Shed.

Within the first minute of play, Brentford registered a shot on target via Kevin Schade, but Robert Sanchez was able to save.

On ten minutes, a lovely swivel from Enzo in a central position and he surged on and released a ball for Joao Pedron to use. He ran into the box but couldn’t seem to get the ball out of his feet. He fell to the floor after contact with a Brentford defender but there was no penalty.

On nineteen minutes, a nice break, initiated by a long ball from Sanchez to Pedro Neto on the right. He set up Cole Palmer, but his shot was sent curling over.

Just after, Brentford advanced and Thiago set up Schade, who then looked free and about to cause problems. Surprisingly, he returned the ball square to Thiago. Tosin deflected the ball towards the goal, but Sanchez reacted well to block. Reece James then booted the ball clear.

“Save of the season, that” uttered Clive.

At this point in the game, I was warmed by a few pieces of decent attacking play from us and optimistically hoped that the Rosenior era would blossom. But I then thought again and wondered if my standards had dropped and I was being too kind to the fare that was being played out in front of me.

On twenty-six minutes, Chelsea were trying to win the ball on the edge of the Brentford box, and Enzo was the main protagonist. Luckily a clearance from a defender conveniently rebounded off him into the path of Joao Pedro. His quick shot was blasted high past the Brentford ‘keeper Caiomhin Kelleher.

Get in.

We were up and celebrating, but then VAR took control of proceedings. After the usual wait – it’s always too long – the goal stood.

The home crowd roared and “Chelsea Dagger” was aired. I turned to anyone that might be listening and shouted, “I’m not cheering a VAR goal and I am not singing along to this shit.”

I believe the phrase that describes this is “shouting into the abyss.”

I do a lot of that at football.

The play continued and Brentford enjoyed a very good spell. On thirty-five minutes, a header from a corner whistled past the post. Just after, a long ball out to their left was turned into the box, and after a clever flick-on, the ball fell to Mikkel Damsgaard but his volley shaved the far post. Then, an effort from Damsgaard was saved by Sanchez.

Accompanying all these Brentford near misses were a variety of shrieks and yells from the female Icelandic visitor in front, and it reminded me of some of Bjork’s best efforts.

She was certainly living every second of her visit.

On forty-three minutes, a strong tackle from Enzo instigated a break down our right and Pedro Neto raced on before slotting a brilliant low ball across the six-yard box. We saw the blonde mop of Garnacho arrive, level with a defender, but his effort flew wide.

Garnacho pulled his Edvard Munch face and we screamed our displeasure.

Fackinell, and whatever that is in Icelandic.

It had been deathly quiet all game, and it drains the life out of me, it really does. Every season it gets worse. Before we know it, we will be able to hear the reversing beepers of London buses in Oxford Street and the shuffle of papers inside the British Museum during games at Stamford Bridge.

Brentford were lively on the break, and we needed to thank Moises Caicedo to block an effort from Yehor Yarmolik just before half-time.

The second half began with a shot that was blasted high and wide by Pedro Neto. Soon after, another Brentford break set up that man Schade and he raced on to a ball, before steadying himself to shoot. He attempted to curl an effort towards the far post but miraculously Sanchez stuck out his left leg and the ball went wide.

Superb stuff.

On fifty-seven minutes, a double substitution.

Wesley Fofana for Tosin.

Andrey Santos for Garnacho.

Brentford then dominated the game and we struggled to compete. Brentford created some half-chances. We did not.

On sixty-six minutes, my frustration rose as we were awarded a free-kick wide right and chose to work the ball inside not once but on three separate occasions, and this just about summed it all up. Each time the ball went back to a central defender. This systematic “playing by numbers” is ruining my love of the game.

Fackinell.

On seventy-two minutes, Thiago’s towering header went wide.

After seventy-four minutes, Liam Delap took over from Joao Pedro.

Just after, Palmer put Nathan Collins under pressure, and the defender was forced into playing the ball to his ‘keeper. Kelleher’s touch was poor, and the substitute Delap tried to reach the ball. Kelleher bundled him over.

I saw the referee bring the whistle to his mouth, then point to the spot and I roared.

Phew.

All eyes on Palmer.

Snap.

A cool finish.

Get in.

But no usual celebration.

Chelsea 2 Brentford 0.

At last the Matthew Harding sang.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

Two late substitutions for Rosenior.

Josh Acheampong for James.

Jorrel Hato for Enzo.

I rated Enzo as our best performer on this day in SW6. He impressed me with both his defensive and offensive qualities and was the engine that kept the gears turning. I liked Trevoh Chalobah in this game too; strong tackles, good headers away, a decent performance. Robert Sanchez, of course, made a couple of fantastic stops. More power to him.

The game dwindled on, and many left before the end.

At the final whistle, relief for the points if not for the overall performance. This had undoubtedly been a lucky win, this one. Brentford deserved at least a point.

My takeaway from the game?

A saveloy and chips from “The Anchor on Lillee Road”, just the job on a long cold walk back to the car.

Tales From The Bigg Market

Posted on December 26, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Tales From A Day Of Total Football

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Woverhampton Wanderers : 8 November 2025.

Rarely would a day be as totally devoted to football as this one.

When I went to bed on the Friday, I knew that as soon as I woke up, I would be on a conveyor belt of football-related activities that would last the whole day.

There would be a breakfast with my good friend Courtney from Chicago, visiting for a Frome Town game, then a blog to finish off, then a Frome Town game at 3pm, then a drive to London for a Chelsea game in the evening. And heaven knows what time I would be home from that.

During the week there had been, of course, the game in Baku and it was bittersweet to see so many friends travelling over for the match with Qarabag while I remained in England.

To coin a phrase from the Falklands War, “I counted them all out, and I counted them all back.”

Everyone enjoyed the trip by the look of it.

I was awake at 6.45am, and I drove into Frome to collect Courtney for a breakfast at one of the Farm Shops that have evolved over recent years in the local area. We chatted over a breakfast that included black pudding and Bubble & Squeak, and Frome Town was the dominant topic rather than Chelsea. It wasn’t surprising. He is, after all, the Frome Town chairman. Courtney had hoped that our game with Wolverhampton Wanderers would be shunted to the Sunday so he could attend two matches during his very short stay, but it wasn’t to be.

On the way back to Frome, I drove through a few local villages to give Courtney a taste of the local scenery. We drove past the majesty of the George pub at Norton St. Philip – built in the fifteenth century – and saw the stocks on the village green at Faulkland, then on into Frome via Hardington and Buckland Dinham, with the autumn colours giving a vibrant backdrop to our journey, and with a pure blue sky above.

Once I was home, I finished off the “match section” of the Tottenham blog after editing the photos and typing out the “pre-match” a few days before. As ever, it took me between three and four hours to complete the entire thing.

I eventually posted it at just after midday.

It was at this time that my usual match-going colleagues – PD and LP – were arriving in London at Paddington. They had made their own way up and were going on a mini pub crawl with “Greek” and “Salisbury” before the match and were then coming home with me.

I arrived earlier than usual at Badgers Hill, at around 1.45pm. It was still a beautiful day, no clouds above, and I was able to stop and chat to a nice selection of friends – a couple I met back in 1978 – and match-going acquaintances before the game with Hartpury. The visitors represent Hartpury College in Gloucestershire, and this was our first-ever meeting.

I was hoping for a gate of around 500 for this game. The two games before drew 525 and 514.

Before the match, the crowd quietened and the players of both teams stood in the centre circle. A bugler played “The Last Post” and this was followed by two minutes of pristine silence. I stood, head bowed, near the corner flag.

I was pleased that Courtney was able to witness this moment.

Of course, there is a special link with Chelsea Football Club and the recognition of remembering those lost in conflict, and I hoped that I would arrive at Stamford Bridge later that evening to witness the pre-match ceremony. If not, at least I had this.

Unfortunately, the first half of the game was a very scrappy affair and not many chances were created for either side. I thought the visitors shaded the first half-an-hour, but Frome slowly improved. I photographed a header from Albie Hopkins that brought a fine save from former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. We watched the first half from the Clubhouse End but switched to see the second half in The Cowshed along the side. Courtney chose to watch from the Clink End alongside the Ultras’ flag that bears his name.

I love the many little parts that make up Badgers Hill, all with their own little quirks and charms.

My Chelsea mate Glenn appeared to watch the second half with my gaggle of Frome mates, and we were rewarded with a much-improved second half showing. We turned the screw as the game continued and played the last half-an-hour with three strikers. Although we went close, that all-important goal wouldn’t materialise.

It stayed at 0-0 and the gate was just shy of my target; 495.

It meant that Frome Town were in third place in the league but were top of the attendances by some margin.

Frome Town 473

Melksham Town 379

Westbury United 327

Malvern Town 311

Portishead Town 306

I met up with Courtney, with Glenn by my side, at the end of the game, just before I left the stadium.

“Well, I just wish both of you could hop into my car and we could go to Chelsea tonight, but…”

My voice trailed off.

I pulled away from the Selwood School overflow carpark dead on 5pm.

I was on my way east.

My GPS signalled that I would roll in at about 7.20pm.

“Perfect.”

On the drive to London, I half-listened to the Sunderland vs. Arsenal game. There were intermittent reports from Twickenham and the England vs. Fiji rugby union game, and after each one I belted out “no one cares.”

At around 6.30pm, I found myself driving right past Twickenham, and I certainly didn’t care.

When Arsenal went 2-1 up, I turned the radio off.

Traffic slowed a little, and I wasted a few minutes finding somewhere to park, but at 7.30pm I was parked on Barons Court Road opposite West Kensington tube station.

Despite my best efforts – and with speed limits always honoured – I reached the Matthew Harding Stand at 8pm. When I reached the turnstile, there were only four people behind me. However, I didn’t reach my seat until 8.07pm, thus missing the minute of silence, and the kick-off.

PD was happy to see me as I sidled past.

I would soon learn that we had got off to a very decent start.

I would also find out that a very late Sunderland equaliser had spoiled Arsenal’s day out in the North-East.

Right. I needed to acclimatize.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Garnacho

Delap

This was our second game against the Wanderers from Wolverhampton in ten days, but since the last match they had dispensed with their manager, and were now being coached by committee, one of whom could well have been their coach driver.

With just two points on the board this season, it felt like they were down already. Their team was largely unfamiliar to me; here was an ensemble of whoevers, whatevers, and even a Hoever on their subs bench.

Well dear reader, despite the apparently decent start, as soon as I plonked my ‘arris on Seat 369, the game went to pieces. It was if it was my punishment for arriving unfashionably late.

So, for this, I am truly sorry.

The game meandered along at a very leisurely pace.

One incident on twenty minutes summed up my frustration and the frustrations of those around me. The ball was just outside our box after a tepid Wolves foray into our half, and Enzo was on the ball, centrally. I looked up to see Pedro Neto, right on the halfway line, holding his position, but ready to bust into acres of space, his marker tucked inside.

I yelled out “hit him Enz’, it’s in your locker.”

He ignored me – maybe I should learn Spanish – but chose to play trigonometry in the “D”, knocking the ball to a spare defender, who then played it to Sanchez; we favoured tiny triangles in the penalty box rather than a long chip into space.

How irritating.

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, we then saw a flurry of activity at The Shed End.

Enzo crashed a bouncing bomb of an effort at the Wolves goal, but their ‘keeper Sam Johnstone tipped it over. From the resulting corner, Enzo’s inswinger was hacked off the line by a defender. We then hit the side netting with a shot from close in.

On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding suddenly realised that it is their job to support the team and a rather lacklustre and lethargic “Come On Chelsea” was heard.

The play down below me was equally lacklustre and lethargic.

I mumbled to myself “the new Chelsea ethos – why take one touch when you can take five?”

There was a slightly more spirited show of support when an “Amazing Grace” rumbled around The Bridge but this was a poor game, both on and off the pitch.

In the closing moments of the half, Joao Pedro screwed a shot wide of the far post after an effort from Enzo was blocked. Alejandro Garnacho was the instigator of this chance, and he looked like the only one who was being a little more direct. Marc Cucurella was full of fight, but only these two seemed to be playing with much integrity.

Just before half-time, my Frome mate Steve messaged me: “another 0-0 would be cruel.”

At the break, I heard from PD about their four-stop pub crawl from Paddington to Fulham; seven hours of it. Gulp.

The second half began with Steve’s words ringing in my ears.

Two goalless draws would indeed be cruel.

In the first minute, a bursting run from Pedro Neto and a cross to the otherwise quiet Liam Delap, but his delicate touch went well wide.

Five minutes later, Garnacho and Cucurella teased an opening down below me. The former sent over a cross with his right foot, and I watched with pleasure as Malo Gusto arrived at the back post to head down and in.

Chelsea 1 Wolves 0.

Phew.

My rise to my feet for this goal was slow, and it honestly shocked me. Maybe I was just fed up I didn’t have my camera out to snap the goal. I made sure I took some of the celebrations. It was Gusto’s first-ever goal for us.

A strike from outside the box from Delap was hardly worthy of the name.

On the hour, the first shot of the game from the visitors.

On sixty-four minutes, a change.

Estevao Willian for Delap, and Joao Pedro was shunted forward. This warmed the crowd, especially in the absence of Cole Palmer; someone to excite us.

His impact was sudden. He accelerated past two markers and aimed a low cross towards Neto in the box – on film, but too poor to share – but the ball was deflected towards Joao Pedro. He slammed it in.

Goal.

Chelsea 2 Wolves 0.

Lovely stuff.

Wolves were faced with the choice of “stick or twist” and chose the latter. They opened up a little. On seventy-three minutes, an aimless punt was headed away by Trevoh Chalobah, and Enzo adeptly pushed it up towards Garnacho. This time, my camera was ready. He put the burners on and raced past his marker. As he neared the box, he spotted Neto inside. My photo is a little blurred, but I think it captures the moment. Neto slammed it in.

Chelsea 3 Wolves 0.

That goal could have been Pedro and Diego Costa in the autumn of 2016.

We were home and dry now, and the manager changed things again.

Marc Guiu for Pedro Neto.

The substitute came close, soon after, when Moises Caicedo won the ball back, and set up a move involving Estevao and Joao Pedro, whose shot was parried, and Guiu could only stoop and head against the post on the follow up.

If only Marc Guiu could be a little more like Mark Hughes.

Garnacho was on fire, and set up Guiu, but a shot went wide.

Two late substitutions.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Jamie Gittens for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-five minutes, a Cucurella error and a rare Wolves shot on goal.

Meanwhile, in the closing moments, The Shed occupied itself with some old-school chanting…

“We’re the middle, we’re the middle…”

“We’re the west side, we’re the west side…”

It would have been pretty funny if Wolves joined in.

“We’re the white wall…”

The game was won – well won – in the end, but oh that first-half, as at Frome, was so poor.

I met up with Parky for the first time of the day as I picked them both up on Lillee Road.

Sadly, traffic delays on the M4 and a diversion via the A4 meant that I did not reach home until 2.30am. I couldn’t even be bothered to check the photos from both games and shot straight to bed soon after.

6.45am to 2.45am.

Sixteen hours of football.

It’s a good job I am on time-and-a-half on Saturdays.

See you all at Burnley.

FROME TOWN VS. HARTPURY

CHELSEA VS. WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS

Tales From Passyunk Avenue To Worcester Avenue

Posted on November 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 1 November 2025.

When I left the office on Friday afternoon, ahead of the game at Tottenham Hotspur on Saturday evening, a co-worker asked me about the match.

My answer was short and sweet.

“…dreading it.”

Our last two results had hardly been inspiring; an insipid display at home to Sunderland, and a very odd game at Wolves that resulted in a win but it didn’t leave many of us too enthralled. Then there is the nervousness that comes with these mighty games against traditional foes. I suspect that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter heading to N17 that was slightly queasy about that evening’s game. As I said to a few people, “it depends on which Chelsea shows up.”

Despite the evening kick-off, I was still up early. To save time, PD had picked up Parky in Holt at 7.30am and I collected them both at PD’s house in Frome at 8am. I then drove down to Salisbury to collect Steve.

It was a decent drive up to London and I was parked up at Barons Court at 11am. We then caught the Picadilly Line north. The others were off to meet up with Jimmy the Greek and Ian in a pub at Arnos Grove at around midday. I had other plans.

I have wanted to visit a Philadelphia-themed bar/diner for ages, and so as I had some time to kill on this particular match day in London, I alighted at Tottenham Court Road and set off through Fitzrovia, a part of London I had never visited previously. From there, it took me around twenty minutes to reach “Passyunk Avenue”, the original Philly bar in London, now part of a chain of four. It’s not far from the British Telecom Tower.

I stayed an hour, and I really liked it. As soon as you walk in, you are immediately transported to a dive bar in the US. The walls are adorned with all things-Philly, and the draught ales are – as far as I could see – all US imports. Unfortunately, the Philly cheesesteak that I ordered was average, but I loved the place. In lieu of the time that I have spent in Philadelphia, not least in the closing weeks of last season, I thought it worth including in this match report.

I want to go back, and when I do, maybe I should take a photograph of Peter Osgood in his Philadelphia Fury days and ask the bar staff to find a place for it next to memorabilia of the Phillies, the Eagles, the ‘Sixers and the Flyers.

After my visit, I walked to Great Portland Street and took a train to Kings Cross. I bumped into Philippa, Brian and Martin on the tube, and they didn’t seem particularly confident of our chances either.

At 1.30pm I joined up with the rest of the lads in the pub. We used it before the Arsenal away game last season, and the less said about that the better.

We stayed until 4.15pm. It’s a big old pub, in the Arts & Craft style of the early twentieth century, and we perched ourselves at a central table. The only negative was the fact that a children’s birthday party, complete with shrill shouting, was taking place in one of the wings.

We covered a large and rambling list of topics, too many to list here, but at no stage in the afternoon – despite the others quaffing a fair few bevvies – did we become even slightly confident about the outcome of the game. I must admit that we had a bundle of laughs between the five of us, including a top trivia question that was posed by Ian.

“Who was the only person to appear on two different songs on the same edition of ‘Top of the Pops’ in the 1980s?”

We caught an uber and chugged slowly towards White Hart Lane. And no, that’s not an error, we ended up at White Hart Lane, the actual road, where we hopped out and then walked the ten minutes to the away entrance on Worcester Avenue.

Incidentally, you must wonder why the White Hart Lane moniker never made it to the new stadium. In fact, Tottenham’s new stadium is nearer White Hart Lane than the old place. I know it’s rather wordy, but “The Tottenham Stadium at White Hart Lane” covers all the bases and links the old with the new. As a comparison, I can think of “Orioles Stadium at Camden Yards” in Baltimore and that gets shortened to Camden Yards, and I think it would be the same at Tottenham.

Christ, that’s enough time talking about them.

What about us?

Here was the team that Enzo Maresca had picked for this crucial fixture in the Chelsea calendar.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

The pre-match drinkers in the pub were all split up in various sections of the away quadrant. I found myself in the usual place at this stadium, low down along the side, alongside Gary and John. However, there was the added spice of being right next to the three-seat-no-man’s-land that separated us from the home fans in the East Stand.

There was the usual pre-match bluster from the announcer who peddles the usual Tottenham “to dare is to do” guff as he stood on the pitch wearing a shirt and a tie that look too tight, and also a vision of Thomas Frank on the huge TV screens urging the supporters to get behind the team.

Modern football, eh?

I had read reports of the home fans making a special effort for this match and wondered if there was a special tifo earmarked for us. As the teams entered the pitch, there was the 2025 staple of dimmed lights and flames, but nothing much else.

“Oh when the Spurs” boomed out, and this was their “YNWA” moment; noisy at the start but then – I hoped – quiet thereafter.

The game began, and as always, we attacked their monstrous South Bank in the first half.

Tottenham in white / blue / white, Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

With me standing, and everyone in the home section to my left sitting, I had a completely unhindered view of the game to my left. It was a brilliant position.

A Tottenham substitution came after just seven minutes.

“Great, that has upset their plan.”

By the end of the first quarter of an hour, I realised that it was us that had easily dominated possession, and I mentioned to Gary and John that we had “quietened them down”, which is always a priority, but sometimes easier said than done.

If I had tentatively approached this game with my fingers crossed – and possibly my eyes, my arms and my legs, like a human pretzel – now I had the warming sensation that we had a decent selection of players out on the pitch and that, minute by minute, we were the more dominant force.

Despite not creating much in the way of clearcut chances, I liked our ball possession, the way we utilised the wide men, and the combative nature of our midfielders.

After twenty minutes, there had been just two efforts on the Tottenham goal, from James and Garnacho, but I was content with our start.

We continued to control the tempo and control possession.

Marc Cucurella was his usual energised self, just in front of us, throwing himself into tackles, encouraging others.

“He’s so reliable on a day like this,” said John.

“He gets it how much we hate this lot” I replied.

Tombsy, in the row in front, said “I was just about to say the same thing.”

It was odd that the atmosphere in most of the stadium was quiet, such is the way these days, but the away support was trying to get some songs going.

I took one photo of such a moment, with the Chelsea support teasing Tottenham; it was a shot of the East Lower, docile and seated, save for one lone supporter, standing by herself and giving us the finger.

On the thirty-minute mark, a shot from Joao Pedro, one on one with their ‘keeper, but Guglielmo Vicario managed to block.

A rare Tottenham attack followed, but Mohammed Kudus blasted over the bar.

On thirty-four minutes, with Moises Caicedo doing what he does best, the sense of anticipation within the massed ranks of the three thousand away fans rose, as he won back-to-back duels high up the pitch. There was one last drag back towards Joao Pedro, and the anticipation levels were magnified further.

Joao Pedro was free, in space, with the goal at his mercy. I inhaled in expectation. One touch, and then a shot.

Bosh.

His effort flew high into the net.

Yes!

I turned and raised both my arms and screamed at the Tottenham support to my left.

You can imagine how much I enjoyed that.

While the scorer celebrated with his teammates in the corner, I gathered myself, turned back towards my right and roared among friends.

Two things to comment upon here.

One, we absolutely go to football for moments like this. There is no similar sensation in our humdrum lives.

I have said it before; I am a goal addict.

Two, there was no comeuppance for my guttural roar of joy coupled with my stare and triumphal stance from the nearby home fans. There was no scowling, no gestures, no irate body language, no pointing, no verbal abuse, nor real signs of annoyance. In some ways it annoyed me.

Aren’t you upset, Tottenham?

To be honest, and I had suspected it for a while, but I think I was positioned next to “Tottenham Tourist Central” if the appearance and demeanour of the spectators to my left were anything to go by.

The Chelsea fans bounced and bellowed for the remainder of the half.

On forty-three minutes, a cross from Gusto on the right, and a shot close in from Joao Pedro. However, Vicario’s reflex save was excellent.

But it again annoyed me that there was no applause, not even the slightest ripple of appreciation, from the thousands in the home areas to my left.

Bloody hell, what has the game come to?

Just after, a super ball from Chalobah inside the full back, but Garnacho’s touch was heavy. Our often-derided young defender had enjoyed a fine half, but Wesley Fofana was even better, a real plus thus far.

The tackle on James by Betancur seemed late, and a melee ensued. Incoming texts suggested the yellow should have been a red.

“We’ve rattled them,” said John.

In stoppage time, Kudus curled a very rare Tottenham shot at goal – their first of the match thus far – but Robert Sanchez was equal to it and pushed the ball away adeptly.

In the concourse, at half-time, smiles aplenty with a few friends.

Ian and Jimmy the Greek, supping pints, happy.

I breezed past Philippa, Brian and Martin.

“Don’t know why we were so worried. Playing well, aren’t we?”

And then a quick chat with Nina and David – last seen in Philadelphia in June – and the rare luxury of a pint, probably my first this season.

Happy days.

The second half began, and we continued the dominance.

We created more chances than the first half, and the Chelsea crowd were louder too.

Reece put pressure on Tottenham and won the ball, and a great move developed in front of us. Caicedo, enjoying a monster game, then set up Enzo, but Vicario was his equal.

Next, a James cross from in front of us but Enzo headed over.

Then a shot from Neto in front of goal, a miss-hit, but it was saved by Vicario.

Then a low cross from Garnacho on the left that somehow evaded a final touch.

In a nutshell, we were all over Tottenham like a rash.

On sixty-six minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

How we laughed on seventy-three minutes when Xavi Simons, the substitute, was substituted.

Despite our domination, I was of course worried about us only winning 1-0 and was a little reticent about joining in with the load chanting of “it’s happened again.”

With a quarter of an hour to go, a shot from Neto from an acute angle, then Reece curled an effort over.

James was enjoying a hugely dominant game and let’s hope those worrisome days of injury tweaks are in the past.

On seventy-six minutes, Romeo Lavia replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, Estevao Willian replaced Neto.

On eighty-nine minutes, Tosin Adarabioyo replaced Fofana.

Throughout the second period, there were boos aplenty from the home support and this warmed my heart.

However, it still stayed at 1-0.

After winning 4-1 and 4-3 at this place the past two seasons, this was too tight for my liking.

We had two outrageous chances to score in injury-time. First up, a quick breakaway down our right, and Estevao played the ball in to Joao Pedro, who moved it on towards Gittens. Surely this would settle our nerves.

The ball bobbled, Gittens swiped, and the ball flew crazily high over the bar.

Fackinell.

Then, Estevao to Enzo, to Joao Pedro, but another fine save from Vicario when it looked easier to score.

Thankfully, the final whistle soon blew.

We had done it.

Another one.

Another victory at the New Three Point Lane.

The domination continues.

The Chelsea players came over to celebrate with us, while I took a rather self-indulgent selfie in front of the meek and demoralised Tottenham supporters.

And now I could whole-heartedly join in.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Some numbers :

In the last eighteen games against Tottenham Hotspur in all competitions and all venues, Chelsea have won fourteen.

In the last seven visits to Tottenham Hotspur in the Premier League, Chelsea have won six.

In all our visits to their new stadium, we have won seven out of nine times.

Of my twenty-seven visits to “Tottenham Away (Love It)” my individual record is –

Played : 27

Won : 12

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

Gertcha.

We loitered around, as per usual, grabbing some chicken and chips at “Chickin Warriors” on the High Road so the crowds could dissipate.

We caught the 9pm train south at White Hart Lane to take us to Liverpool Street.

I spoke to a Dutch guy who had just arrived in London with his wife and son, and who had watched from the expensive seats above us. His son had been gifted a few items from the Tottenham club shop. I didn’t waste much time informing him which team I supported, and with a few Tottenham fans within earshot, I couldn’t resist dropping in a few mentions of us beating PSG in New Jersey in July. I also joked that there was still time for his son to eschew Tottenham and choose Chelsea instead.

I was getting some seriously dark glances from the locals, and I loved it.

We were back at my car by 10pm.

I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at midnight.

Back to Holt, back to Frome…I eventually made it home at 1.30am.

Oh – the trivia answer?

Alan Brazil.

“Tottenham, Tottenham” – the Tottenham Hotspur F.A. Cup Final Squad.

“We Have A Dream” – the Scotland National Football Team.