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.
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.
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.
“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.
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…
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.
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.
Our third match of this new season was to see us play Fulham at home. Our nearest neighbours – I can hardly give them the honour of labelling them as rivals – had beaten us 2-1 on Boxing Day at Stamford Bridge last season and so we all hoped for no repeat. That defeat started a run of poor form from us, but ironically the win by the same score at Craven Cottage in April initiated a fine revival.
With the kick-off for this game taking place at 12.30pm, there was no time to lose. I collected PD at 7am and Parky at 7.30am. We called in at the “McDonalds” at Melksham and we breakfasted “on the hoof” to waste as little time as possible. There were grey skies on the way up to London, but the clouds cleared over the last part of the familiar journey. After driving down onto the Fulham Palace Road, I dropped the lads off at 9.45am at the very southern edge of the King’s Road, and I was parked up on Charleville Road to the north ten minutes later.
For twenty minutes I had driven right through the heart of Fulham, and I mused that the neatly-appointed terraced houses that have undergone a metamorphosis from pre-WW2 working class homes to the dwellings of the “well-to-do” formed an ironic backdrop to the lunchtime game, in a sport that has undergone its own gentrification over the past three decades.
Of course, Fulham is part of the larger borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, and within its boundaries there is another professional football club; Queens Park Rangers. We last played them in the league over ten years ago. What happened to them? Actually, who cares? I never liked them, and I dislike them much more than jolly old Fulham.
On the drive up to London, I was able to update the two lads about the fine form of my local team Frome Town.
On Bank Holiday Monday, I assembled with a few good friends, and the might of Frome’s travelling away army, as we travelled the eight miles over the county boundary into Wiltshire for the away game at Westbury United. In a scenario that strangely mirrors the situation in West London, there is a rather placid rivalry between Frome Town and Westbury United, whereas Frome’s most heated local rivalry is with Melksham Town, further away to the north.
Frome and Westbury have not met too often in recent league seasons, whereas Frome and Melksham have enjoyed many tussles over the years. The Melksham fixture has become a real “grudge match” of late, whereas with Westbury it seems a lot friendlier. To illustrate this point, when Westbury United were met with huge financial problems last season, it was Frome who allowed them to play a few home games at Badgers Hill.
A crowd of 842 assembled at Meadow Lane – now Platinum Hyundai Park – for the game on the Monday. It’s a pleasant little ground at Westbury, the green paintwork of the stands mirrors the all-green of their kit, and the pitch is surrounded on three sides by trees, leaving enough space for the white horse carved into the steep slope of Salisbury Plain to be seen in one corner. Like many non-league grounds, there is a perfect ambience.
Before the game, my Chelsea mate Mark who lives near the ground was able to pose for a photo in the main stand – two rows of seats – alongside Glenn and Ron, who were at their third Frome Town matches of the season. Mark and I go back a long way. He was with Glenn, PD and I on the drive to Stamford Bridge for the monumental game with Leeds United in April 1984.
On a bumpy pitch, and with a troublesome wind blowing, the first half began poorly. However, on thirty minutes a fine cross into the box was met with a leap from Archie Ferris who nodded down for new striker David Duru to slam home. It became an increasingly feisty affair, and the quality only improved slightly, but the away team held on to an important 1-0 win.
Thus far, Frome Town have won all their games this season; three in the league, one in the FA Cup, one in the FA Trophy.
After the Chelsea vs. Fulham game, whatever the score, my attention would be centered on a tough away game at Plymouth Parkway in the next round of the FA Cup that would be kicking off at 3pm.
I caught the train at West Ken, changed at Earl’s Court – bumping into three mates who were headed the opposite direction, “The Clarence” on the North End Road – and reached Putney Bridge at 10.30am. Our cosy corner of the pub just had enough space for one more. I squeezed in alongside the usual crew.
A big shout out here to my mate Ian, who I have only really got to know these past two years, but who was celebrating the fiftieth anniversary, to the actual day, if not the actual time, of his first-ever Chelsea match. His “first time” was an away fixture at Kenilworth Road in the old Second Division on Saturday 30 August 1975. The match unfortunately ended up 3-0 to Luton Town. The team that day was a real mixture of old and new, with 1970 stalwarts John Dempsey, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke alongside Ray Wilkins, Ian Britton, Teddy Maybank, John Sparrow and Brian Bason. The gate was a decent 18,565.
Ian’s non-league team Brackley Town, who were in the same division as Frome Town in 2011/12, would be featured on TV later in the day with their National League home game against Scunthorpe United being shown live.
It was super to meet up with Deano once again. Since we last spoke, he had visited Chile and Argentina with his dear wife Linda, and he regaled me with some lovely stories, although the time that a puma jumped up on top of his camper van during a night in Patagonia scared me to death.
I spotted an old photo of “The Eight Bells” and I include it for interest.
Our favourite Fulham pub dates from 1629. From 1886 to 1888, Fulham Football Club used it as their changing rooms when they played at nearby Raneleigh Gardens. Unlike Chelsea, Fulham have had many previous grounds, just like QPR, and flitted around this area, on both sides of the Thames for many years before finding a permanent home at Craven Cottage. It would have been all so different if Gus Mears had successfully tempted Fulham Football Club to play at Stamford Bridge at the turn of the twentieth century, eh?
Still wary of malfunctioning digital season tickets, I left the pub before the others at 11.30am. There was a gaggle of Fulham lads on the northbound platform and no doubt a lot of their match-going fans would have been drinking in the pubs in the immediate area of “The Eight Bells.”
There was no queue at the turnstiles, and no issues with my ‘phone, and I was in.
It was 11.50am.
On Thursday we had heard about the teams that we would be playing in the Champions League first phase, that long and laborious process that will stretch out from 17 September to 28 January. I have a few things to say about all this.
Firstly, I don’t like the fact that UEFA have tagged two extra games into this phase. An away game in Europe is no laughing matter for the many supporters that try to attend as many games as possible. Isn’t that the point of being a supporter? As a result of this, I am absolutely toying with the option of missing one of the four home games as a single game protest that won’t mean a jot to anyone else but will mean a lot to me.
Secondly, I am fearful of how much the home games will cost. Will the prime Barcelona game be priced at a different level to the other three, most noticeably Pafos? Or will all of these come in at the same mark? If so, how much? I am guessing £60 for my seat. Ouch. That’s £240 for those four games. Double ouch.
Thirdly, due to my attendance at four games in the US in June and July, I only have six days leave left until the end of March. Ouch again. With of this this in mind, I will try to get to one European away match, but surely no more. Domestically, I have a fruity little trip to Lincoln City – can’t wait – to plan out, plus there is the problem of the away game at Elland Road on a Wednesday in December, which will surely need paying attention to.
Munich is out. It’s too early. Plus, there is a part of me that wants to keep that 2012 memory pure, and unaltered. I might never visit Munich again for this reason. Atalanta is an option as it is the only stadium, and city – Bergamo – that I have not visited. Napoli is an exhilarating place, its team now managed by Antonio Conte, and during any other year, I would be tempted even though I visited it in 2012. And then there is dear old Baku. I have visited it three times already; in 2017 and 2019 with Chelsea, and last December on my return hop from Almaty. I would dearly love to return, but there is the huge problem of the time it takes to get to and from Azerbaijan.
All I can say is that is a lovely problem to have and watch this space.
Incidentally, isn’t it odd that we have been paired with four teams from the 2011/12 campaign?
Napoli, Benfica, Barcelona, Bayern.
Inside Stamford Bridge, all was quiet. Not much was happening. Everything was quiet. My focus, again, because of the proximity, was on the ridiculous line of “Dugout Club” spectators who were watching the players go through their pre-match shuttles pitch side.
At 12.20pm, a trio of pre-match songs that are meant to get us in the mood.
“Our House.”
“Parklife.”
“Liquidator.”
Enzo Maresca had chosen the same eleven that started at Stratford.
Willian and Pedro on the wings? Well, it worked in 2016/17.
“Blue Is The Colour” boomed out and now we joined in.
Beautiful.
As the teams appeared, fireworks were set off from the top of The Shed roof once again, and I wasn’t sure if I really, deep-down, liked this or not. It seems to have taken over from flames in front of the East Stand anyway.
Modern football.
Flash, bang, wallop.
Fulham have gone for an all-white kit this season and I wonder what their traditionalists think about it. On this occasion, they wore black socks.
With Clive and PD alongside me, the game began.
We were treated to an early flurry of chances; a Joao Pedro roller, a Liam Delap shot that was blocked, a well-worked Fulham move that ended with a shot just wide.
Fulham : “is this a library?”
Chelsea : “there’s only one team in Fulham.”
Alas, Delap went down with what looked like a strain as he chased a long ball, and after some treatment was substituted by the youngster Tyrique George, he of the equaliser at Craven Cottage in April. Without the physical presence of the robust Delap, we looked a lot weaker up front. I have never been convinced with George leading the line.
There were two shots on goal from Fulham, who were looking the livelier now.
On twenty minutes, a spin away from trouble by Rodrigo Muniz, and the ball was played forward to Joshua King. I immediately presumed that King was offside, as did one or two others. However, play continued. King turned Tosin easily and fired the visitors from down the road ahead.
Ah, bollocks.
I hoped and prayed that VAR would chalk out the goal for offside. Firstly, there was nothing, but after a considerable wait, VAR was called into action, but for a foul and not for offside. Colour me confused.
Then another wait. Eventually, the referee Rob Jones walked over to the pitch side monitor and gazed at it for yet more minutes. The decision was no goal because of a foul.
What foul? We never saw a foul.
Anyway, I didn’t cheer the decision and on with the game.
This “get out of jail” moment resulted in the loudest moment thus far as a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.
However, PD was unimpressed.
“We are awful.”
We toiled away but didn’t create much at all. There was a lovely, cushioned flick from Estevao that set up the overlapping Malo Gusto but his cross was easily claimed by Bernd Leno.
Fulham then retaliated, and Robert Sanchez blocked, but offside anyway.
“Neto is quiet, eh?”
On thirty-seven minutes, a passage of play summed it all up. Enzo Fernandez tried his best to plod away from his marker, but took an extra touch and lost possession, and then Moises Caicedo invited a booking with a silly and lazy challenge.
Oh dear.
When Tosin ventured forward for set pieces, the Fulham fans sang a very derogatory song about him.
“He’s a wanker you know, Tosin Adarabioyo.”
I was at least impressed that they knew how to pronounce his surname; a feat that is still too difficult for us Chelsea fans.
On forty-two minutes, at last a jinking run from Neto out on the left that forced a corner. From that, a header over.
Just after, I moaned about Estevao coming inside when he had so much space behind the last defender. With that – he must have heard me – he set off on a jinking run down the right and into all that beautiful space, but it came to nothing.
This was all so disjointed.
With the VAR delay, there were eight minutes of extra time signalled.
Deep into this stoppage time, there was a run of corners. Shots were blocked, pinball in the six-yard area. Then, one final corner from the boot of Enzo in front of the baying Cottagers. A perfect delivery, and a perfect leap from Joao Pedro. His header was clean, and unchallenged.
We were up 1-0.
Phew.
At the break, we reflected on a poor game of football thus far.
Thankfully, there was a tad more energy and vigour in the way we began the second period. On fifty-four minutes, with me trying to get a worthwhile shot using my pub camera, I spotted a Trevoh Chalobah shot / cross hitting the arm of a Fulham defender, and I immediately thought “handball”, before snapping the resulting shot from Caicedo on film. There was an appeal from Enzo, nearest to the referee, but I saw the man in black gesture that the ball had hit his shoulder. I wasn’t so bloody sure.
After what seemed an age, VAR was called into action, and then more staring at the pitch-side monitor from Rob Jones. After – what? – three minutes maybe, the mic’d up referee began babbling to the crowd but it wasn’t too clear. I then I heard him utter the phrase “unnatural position” and I knew our luck was in.
Penalty.
I whispered to Clive.
“Unnatural position? Is that the same as Parky going to the bar?”
Enzo made up for his wavering display by striking the ball right down the middle, right down Broadway, right down Fulham Broadway, right down Walham Green.
We were now 2-0 up.
Another phew.
There were glimpses from Estevao of potential greatness. There was a fantastic wiggle, but his effort went just wide.
“Champions of the World” sang the Chelsea faithful, and I toyed with notion of us being top, but I soon decided against a “Catch Us If You Can” update on “Facebook.”
I looked over at the Fulham fans.
They derided us with a “WWYWYWS” chant, and Clive and I just laughed.
“Villa Park.”
“Exactly.”
No more needs to be said. They couldn’t even send 20,000 to Birmingham in their biggest game for decades and decades.
I looked above The Shed, saw the “World Champions” banner and mused that they aren’t even champions of their own postcode.
On the hour, Joao Pedro came close with three efforts. He was sent through, one on one with Leno, but missed out. Then came a shot that was blocked. Then a fantastic cross from Neto down below us that picked him out, but the ball as just out of reach, which I just about caught on film.
On sixty-eight minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao.
“I’ve seen enough. He’s going to be good.”
Gittens looked neat in his cameo down below me.
On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution.
Andrey Santos for George, who had been quiet.
Reece James for Pedro Neto, who had improved in the second half.
With that, PD and Clive substituted themselves and left too.
On eighty-five minutes, a Joao Pedro volley but a fine Leno save. Our striker was everywhere inside the box in that second period; my man of the match, I think.
I am sad to report that the atmosphere was so mild, though.
Sigh.
There was a great cross from the Fulham substitute Adama Triore from the right that went unpunished, a free header missing the target.
A shot from distance from Reece James.
Another eight minutes of injury time was met with groans.
“Groans from even the Fulham fans I think.”
I just wanted to get on my way home.
There was a little late drama. Another cross from Traore was just a touch too deep, and then the resultant corner allowed a header that was hacked off the line by none other than Joao Pedro.
Definitely man of the match.
At the end of the game, at around 2.30pm, yet more bloody fireworks flew into the air from the top of The Shed.
Good grief.
The chap in front commented “that’s a bit much, innit?”
“Yeah, it’s only Fulham.”
Postscript :
On the drive home, I was elated to hear that Frome Town had beaten Plymouth Parkway 4-0 in the First Qualifying Round of the FA Cup. This was a fine away win against a team one step above in the football pyramid.
I always look forward to the first away match each season. I will bump into a ton of mates at the first home game of a new campaign, but way more at the first away fixture. At such games, in pubs or on concourses or in the away section, it’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without seeing someone that I know. It’s all about big numbers in small spaces.
The first away fixture of the new season would be sending us out to the East End of London, and despite the inconvenience of a Friday evening kick-off, that was alright with me.
West Ham United vs. Chelsea at 8pm on a Friday night?
Oh, go on then.
I was parked up outside Barons Court tube station on Margravine Gardens at 5pm, and I fancied a jolt of caffeine before Parky, PD and I headed out east. Our usual café just across the way from this red-bricked station, where Parky and I chatted to Seb Coe after a game at Arsenal in 2012, was closing and so we tried “Gail’s Café” for the first time.
“If we lose tonight, we shan’t be coming here again” I warned my two mates. My football-going routines are full of such superstitions.
After some expensive but bland coffee, we caught a District Line train to Westminster, then a Jubilee train to Canary Wharf. On these two journeys, we were the only Chelsea fans. We saw a just a few West Ham. The ratio on this day would be around 60,000 to 3,000 or 20 to 1, so it was not surprising that we were the lone Chelsea contingent. At Canary Wharf, we ascended into the light at the airy train station and into the London of finance, tall tower blocks and evening commuters heading away to their homes in the suburbs.
We turned a corner and spotted the first Chelsea presence of the evening; Leigh, Darren and a few others, mainly from Basingstoke as far as I could see, were drinking at “The Alchemist” and although we were tempted to stop, the consensus was to head over to the stadium even though it was still two hours to kick-off.
“Nice to see you chaps though evidently not that much”, I exclaimed, smiling, as we left them to walk over to the Docklands Light Railway. Before long, we had boarded the driver-less train (I was hoping that West Ham would be equally devoid of a leader) and we soon found ourselves at Pudding Mill Lane, which not only acts as the destination for away fans going to the London Stadium, but also for those attending the ABBA arena too.
It was a quarter of an hour walk to the away turnstiles, and it’s all so familiar now. This would be my ninth visit. Because we were there so early, and the foot traffic was very quiet, the immediate surroundings seemed even more anaemic than usual. There wasn’t the usual hustle and jostle of a football crowd. There were no street vendors, no hawkers of tat, no grafters, no food outlets, no noise, no nothing. It was a bland approach to the stadium, which itself is as bland as it gets. I was never a fan, even in its Olympic year.
There were quick security checks – no SLR this time either, my Sony pub camera was clasped in my hand and nobody spotted it – and the three of us were soon taking a lift to the area outside the away turnstiles. Sharing the tight space was a lone West Ham supporter.
“Here we go for another nine months of hell” he grumbled.
“That’s the spirit” I thought, remembering how awkward it used to be back in the ‘eighties when home fans talked to you as one of their own, and you tried to say as little as possible. I remember settling down to some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” on the Barking Road in 1986 and the West Ham fan sitting opposite trying to strike up a conversation with me about Tony Cottee or Mark Ward, and me being very taciturn.
More checks, more security, but we were in. I did say to the lads that I had fancied walking around the stadium to see if there are any things worth seeing, but without thinking, I was pulled into the away concourse, like a moth to a flame.
West Ham’s London Stadium might be the worst football stadium in London, in the topflight, maybe in the whole country, but I do like its airy concourses outside the steps to the away seats, which provide plenty of space for fellow fans to assemble, drink, and share a laugh. We soon bumped into “Eight Bells” regulars Jimmy and Ian. The latter bought me the dearest Diet Coke ever apparently.
“Cheers mate.”
And there they all were; many familiar faces, far too many to name, ready for the battle against our London enemy.
Yes, I love away games.
And yet, it has not been a good summer regarding away games in the up-coming season. To cut a long story short, many in our support base have felt let down by the club. Firstly, news about the away season ticket took forever to be communicated by the club. Then came the horrific news that away tickets were non-transferable, with the added piece of news that sporadic ID checks would take place at away games, a repeat of what allegedly happened at Tottenham last December.
This panicked many people. Two friends who have been away season ticket holders for a while have very kindly offered me their away tickets over the past seven or eight years if they could not attend games. They immediately contacted me to say that if they could not transfer tickets, they would opt out of renewing in 2025/26. This was understandable. But it meant that I would not be able to help many close friends to tickets, including Parky and PD on occasion.
If you are reading this and have received away tickets from me in this period, they have more-than-likely come via these two mates.
Then, long after the away season ticket cut-off time, we found out that Chelsea Football Club had reneged on this ruling – in other words, away tickets could be transferred – but without any clear communication in the change to their stance.
Everyone I knew was livid, not least my two mates.
It is rumoured that during this period of uncertainty, around two-hundred supporters left the away scheme.
That hurts.
What hurts even more is the near certainty that many away seats in the Chelsea sections at stadia in 2025/26 will be on sale on third party sites for extortionate and obscene prices. By creating a period of uncertainty in the ranks, perhaps on purpose, it’s likely that the club succeeded in weeding out some of our most loyal fans to gain financially from moving tickets to third party platforms.
It sickens me.
I was inside the upper tier with a good forty minutes to go as I fancied settling myself and clearing my head. I had been awake since 4.45am and was feeling a little jaded. My seat was in a very familiar position; the second row of the tier, right in line with the touchline. I was sat next to John and Gary.
The stadium took forever to fill up. I hated the booming dance music that sucks all the life out of the pre-match. I remember the days when football grounds would be bubbling away before kick-off, with songs being sung, and players being serenaded. Not so in 2025.
At last, bodies appeared. The stadium filled.
We heard, late on, that Cole Palmer had injured himself in the kick-in, so he was replaced by Estevao Willian.
Our team?
Sanchez
Gusto – Adarabioyo – Chalobah – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Estevao – Joao Pedro – Pedro Neto
Delap
“Bubbles” boomed as the players entered the pitch, the longest walk in football.
Chelsea were in all black.
Although this new kit looks clean and neat from a distance, I am not a fan of its odd white “false collar” but I absolutely loathe the Chelsea Collection badge from 1986. It was hated, really hated, when it came along almost forty years ago and there was a real sense of relief when the “lion rampant” badge was reinstated on our centenary in 2005.
In many circles, it was known as the “Millwall badge” and it is obvious why.
I then thought back to the “World Champions” logo on the rear of the hotel wall at Stamford Bridge and it all made perfect – muddled – sense.
Never mind, the oddballs who collect Chelsea shirts like a mania will love it.
West Ham themselves looked a little odd. There were no light blue sleeves, nor much sign of light blue anywhere on their kit. Their kit reminded me of the one they wore in 1986 when they finished in second place in the old First Division, their highest-ever placing.
At 8pm the evening’s entertainment began, and – as always – we attacked the other end in the first half.
It’s so difficult to get our whole section singing as one at West Hame, since there is that hideous void between the two levels. I have always had seats in the upper section and the view from there is bad enough, so God knows what it is like thirty-five rows behind me. I have had contrasting opinions of the view from the lower tier. Some say it’s OK, some hate it. The away fans tried to get behind the players as the game began.
In the first five minutes, Chelsea edged possession but then came the sixth minute.
The ball was played in to Lucas Paqueta, a long distance out, but allowed to advance. I immediately sensed the danger and yelled out “block the space” but nobody heard me. Chelsea backed off and the West Ham player strode on. To my utter disbelief, he struck a brilliant shot – moving and dipping over the flailing and failing arch of Robert Sanchez – and the ball crashed in. To my horror, I was right in line with the path of the ball.
Gutted.
The scorer shot off to celebrate in the right-hand corner and the home fans were in ecstasy.
Well, bollocks. After our staid draw against Palace, this was a horrible way to start our next game.
Behind me, four fans howled “we hate Sanchez” and I just glared at them.
We huffed and puffed and tried our best to get back to level terms. On fifteen minutes, we were given a corner on our right and Pedro Neto aimed at the near post. I captured the moment that Marc Cucurella lept and headed the ball on – a waning skill these days – and we watched with glee as a Chelsea player, no idea who, headed the ball in as it dropped inside the six-yard box.
GET IN.
Then, a scare. West Ham broke down our left in front of us, and the ball was played square. I immediately thought the recipient was offside, so when the cross was turned in by Niclas Fullkrug, whoever he is, I was adamant that VAR would rule it out. There was a wait, but yes, no penalty. Jean-Clair Todibo, whoever he is, was just offside.
Phew, but fuck VAR right?
Five minutes later, we did well to win the ball in the inside-right channel and Joao Pedro flicked a great cross over to a Chelsea player to sweep the ball in. I was too far away to be sure who scored and was too busy celebrating to watch the scorer run to the corner flag where he was mobbed.
A blue flare was dropped from behind me into the void below and the sulphurous fumes filled my nostrils.
On the pitch, we began to purr. You know we played well when I use that word.
The Chelsea support was loving this. With each move, we grew in confidence. Lovely.
On thirty-four minutes, a nice little moment of interplay between Liam Delap and Estevao enabled the young Brazilian to dance away inside the box – quite beautiful – and send over a teasing cross that a Chelsea player swept into the goal.
We were up 3-1.
You beauty.
Another race to the corner flag, more celebrations, more fist-punching from me, more snaps of the lads in black.
I thought back to New Jersey.
Another first-half with three goals.
I realised that I had sat the entire first half, leaning on the safe-standing rail in front of me, but totally engrossed in everything. It had been a cracking game thus far. As the players left the pitch at the break, there were audible boos from the home section.
We eventually learned that the three scorers were Joao Pedro, Pedro Neto and Enzo Pedro Neto, whoever he is.
What would the second half bring? Hopefully more goals.
To be honest, the second period was just funny.
We continued as we had finished. Enzo, though, shot over with a good chance.
On fifty-four minutes, a corner from Enzo down below us and the West Ham player in orange – their goalkeeper apparently – flapped at the ball. Moises Caicedo was on hand to smack the ball in.
More crazy celebrations.
Beautiful.
I remembered the poor bloke’s horrible debut on that sunny Sunday two years ago at the same stadium. Since then, what a revelation he has been.
Just four minutes later, a Pedro Neto corner from down below us, mayhem in the West Ham box, and the ball fell for Chalobah to smash in from close range.
5-1.
Heaven.
More celebrations in Chelsea-ville.
With half-an-hour to go, we hoped for more goals, but no. It wasn’t to be. But we didn’t care. To be honest, the home team conjured up a few chances, but we never looked like conceding.
The hapless Graham Potter was serenaded by the Chelsea faithful. Has there ever been a more lack-lustre personality linked with Chelsea Football Club? I think not.
Substitutions were made.
62 : Andrey Santos for Delap
69 : Reece James for Gusto.
69 : Wesley Fofana for Chalobah.
69 : Jorrel Hato for Cucurella.
A good chance for Estevao, running freely, but a mis-control and a touch too many and over. Ugh.
We didn’t care.
77 : Jamie Gittens for Estevao.
I spoke to the bloke to my left.
“This must be our biggest ever win at West Ham. Does it even up that 0-4 loss to them in 1986…that year again…no, I guess it doesn’t.”
I had answered my own question.
The last part of the game drifted away, as did a good proportion of the home fans.
My player of the match was Pedro Neto. His efforts up and down the wing were the stuff of legend.
At the end of the game, just happiness and smiles.
“Top of the league, lads.”
However, it has to be said; how poor were West Ham?
I trotted out to the concourse and went to use the gents before the trek back West. One of the idiosyncrasies of the gents at West Ham is that the toilets are like a maze, a never-ending pattern of urinals, going on forever. You’re lucky to get out. I reckon it’s one of the reasons why West Ham have gates of 62,000 every game. There was one bloke in there from the final day of the 2012 Olympics.
I met up with PD and Parky and we re-traced our steps. The first DLR train was an odd mix of West Ham fans and ABBA fans. People were dolled up for their night out and were wearing gaudy make up with bright and lurid fashions from the successful era of the mid-‘seventies to the early-‘eighties. The others were the ABBA fans.
From Pudding Mill Lane to Canary Wharf, the night now dark, and the return journey to Westminster, which always seems to be like something out of a dystopian sci-fi horror, then back to good old Barons Court at 11.30pm.
“Gail’s Café” passed its test.
I reached home at 2.20am and I fell asleep at 2.45am.
With the semi-final against Fluminense won, and with surprising ease, the third day of my eight days in Manhattan began with a lovely positive feel. I woke in Dom’s flat at around 9am, suitably rested after the football-related wanderings of the previous day, and for a while I just chilled out.
However, there was no rest for the wicked. This day was all about securing my ticket for the final on the Sunday. Tickets were to go on sale at 10am local time on the FIFA CWC App. Unlike the previous game, I was thankfully able to navigate this correctly. To cut a long story short, the $195 tickets in the upper deck, what the Americans call “nose bleeds”, soon went, leaving me to buy up one of the remaining tickets in the lower deck for a mighty $358.
Of course, this was much more than I wanted to pay, but I needed to guarantee a ticket for the final. After all the tickets disappeared on the FIFA App, more than a few US-based friends had missed out and I felt terrible for them. Their route to tickets would be via the secondary market, namely “Ticketmaster”, but there were many who were hoping that FIFA, in their desire to fill the stadium, would again offer free tickets to US-based supporters clubs as they had done for the semi-final.
After chatting to many friends about the ticket scenario, I eventually set foot outside at midday. It was another hot day in Manhattan. I devoured some pancakes at the “Carnegie Diner.”
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I chatted with a mother and daughter from Philadelphia who were all dolled-up and about to see a show. They were sat at the counter alongside me, and I entertained them for a few minutes with my tales of football fandom. I had to stifle a groan or two when they asked me, full of glee, about Wrexham.
Americans and football. It’s still a conundrum to me.
I then set off on a leisurely excursion down to the tip of Manhattan and took the – free – ferry to Staten Island. While I enjoyed the journey and the fantastic views of the harbour, I was aware that the second semi-final was taking place at The Meadowlands no more than ten miles away.
Who did I want to be victors?
Here was a dilemma, but not much of one. From a football perspective, it would undoubtedly be better for Chelsea for Real Madrid to win. I think that everyone involved with football would have agreed that PSG, the newly crowned European Champions, could claim the title of the greatest current club side in world football. Therefore, if we fancied our chances of winning this whole tournament, a game against Real Madrid would be preferred.
But with Real Madrid’s massive fan base – a former line manager from Latvia was a supporter, go figure – there is no doubt that this would induce a price hike on “Ticketmaster” and FIFA would have no problems in shifting all possible spares via their App. In a nutshell, Madrid reaching the final would mean less tickets becoming available for the Chelsea supporters.
So, my mind was easily made up. I wanted PSG to win so that more of my friends, mainly in the USA, could get tickets for the final.
It was simple as that.
On that ferry trip across the harbour, I soon heard how PSG had obliterated Real Madrid, scoring three goals in the first twenty-six minutes, and had eventually won 4-0.
So, the final on Sunday 13 July would be Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain. This would be a very tough game, a very tough game indeed. Honestly, I was worried, as worried as hell. Secretly, I was just hoping that we would not get embarrassed. I hated the thought of a 0-3, a 0-4 or worse. PSG were an established team, while we were still growing.
Later that afternoon, I overcame some personal anxieties and visited the area that is now called “Ground Zero”; the memorial that now marks the footprints of where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre once stood prior to the terrorist attack on 11 September 2001. I had walked around the bases of these two skyscrapers in the June of that year and had witnessed the events unfold as I was at home on the afternoon of the attack. In the intervening years, I had avoided re-visiting the area as it was all too difficult for me. However, while returning to Manhattan the previous evening with Alex, he had told me that he had lost no fewer than twelve friends on that day. That fact alone stirred me to visit. I did not regret it.
That evening, I rested in the apartment. I needed it. A lot had happened over the previous five days.
I decided to try not to think too much about the final on the Sunday. After all, in addition to following the team, I was of course on holiday. I owed it to myself to try to relax a little, to put negative thoughts about the final to one side, and to enjoy myself in – probably – my favourite city of them all.
From the Thursday to the Saturday, life was great.
I was in no rush to get up too early on Thursday. For starters, I had no real plan of what I might do with myself. This was now my nineteenth visit to the city in the past thirty-six years and there wasn’t too much left that I wanted, or needed, to see.
There had been historical landmarks, cathedrals from the inside and out, breathtaking ferry trips, towering skyscrapers, famous department stores, shopping sprees, walking tours, bridges, verdant parks, visits to Madison Square garden and five individual baseball stadia – and the site of one former ball park, Ebbets Field in Brooklyn – beaches, art galleries, museums, sports bars, dive bars, restaurants and diners. That I have been able to spend so many days in New York with many top friends, plus even one day in 2010 with my mother, makes all these memories all the more sweeter.
So, what was left?
Thankfully, I soon came up with a plan. Not far from where I was staying in Hell’s Kitchen was the Museum of Modern Art on 53 Street. I had only visited “MOMA” once before, and that was during the first few days of my very first trip to New York, and the US, in September 1989. I was long overdue a return visit.
I was out at 11am. It had rained overnight, and everything was a little cooler. I dropped in for another breakfast, this time at the “Roxy Diner” and at last found a decent coffee.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
I reached MOMA at just after midday and stayed for three hours. At times it was almost too overwhelming. I loved so many of the pieces on display, but especially some work by Gustav Klimt, Edward Hopper, Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet and Andy Warhol. The place was busy, almost too busy, and I needed time to myself on a few occasions.
I remembered that during that first visit in 1989, my college mate Ian and I were rather perplexed by the number of visitors who – rather crassly in our eyes – took great happiness in being photographed in front of their favourite paintings.
I also remember myself taking a photo of just one painting, Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol. I tried my best to locate it in 2025, and had almost given up, but eventually spotted it.
With an ironic nod back to 1989, I recorded a video of myself in front of this iconic painting and sent it to Ian via Messenger. He then quickly sent a video back to me of him in his kitchen in Fareham with a painting over his shoulder.
This was great. It felt like Ian was with me at MOMA after all these years. With that, I exited out through the museum shop just as “Blue Monday” by New Order was being played.
Perfect.
Back at the apartment, there was some Chelsea stuff to sort out. We had heard that Claude Makelele was to make an appearance at “Legends”, the large bar on 33 Street that hosts the New York Blues, on Saturday evening. It was ticket only so I spent a few moments sorting out that, more Apps, more QR codes, oh boy.
I passed this news on to a few Chelsea supporters who were making their way over to New York for the weekend. I looked forward to seeing more familiar faces from England in the city.
That evening, I fancied a very chilled and relaxing pub crawl around Manhattan. I was out early at 4pm and started off at “McSorley’s”, seven blocks from where Glenn and I had stayed on East 14 Street in June, and just one block where my friend Roma and I had stayed in 2001. It was great to be back; I made it my fifth-ever visit.
Next up was a visit to the Chelsea Hotel. I had twice stayed in the Chelsea district, in 1989 and in 2015 but this would be the first time inside. Of course, those of us of a certain vintage remember the infamous nature of this hotel in 1978 and 1979; Nancy Spungen, Sid Vicious, what a mess. It’s a cracking hotel, though, and I loved spending the best part of an hour at the bar, but I made sure that the small bottles of Kirsch lager, at $14 a pop, took ages to drink. I wanted to savour every drop.
Just along from there, on the same street, was a very funky place called the Trailer Park Lounge, and I popped in for a drink. This had the feel of a southern dive bar, maybe jettisoned from Florida or somewhere, and was a nice distraction.
Next, “Grey Bar”, a reasonable bar, but nothing special. Here I chatted to the barman, a Yankee fan, while messaging many folk about tickets for the game on Sunday. It seemed that Chelsea would not let me completely relax.
Lastly, I dropped into “Legends”, underneath the towering Empire State Building. Here I chatted at the bar to a guy from New York, Jeff, who was an Arsenal supporter, and whose main claim to fame was that he was, rather fortuitously, at the last-ever game at Highbury in 2006. My friends Leigh and Ben, from England, called in for the last few beers. We could hardly believe it when Jeff said he wanted us to win on Sunday.
“Mate, there’s no Arsenal fan back home that wants us to win the final.”
“I know, but I’m an American.”
Yes, it was still a conundrum alright.
I had enjoyed this relaxing amble around Manhattan, with two bars in Chelsea, but as far as pub crawls go, this was all very sedate. I was back inside the apartment at midnight.
Friday was to be busier. I was up early and was soon on my way to meet my friend Stacey at the “Tick Tock Diner” outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I have to say that of all of Manhattan’s fine sights, there is no nothing worse than seeing the arse end of the Port Authority as you approach it on foot from the west.
No surprises, I devoured a mighty fine breakfast at this lovely diner which I last visited with Stacey, to my reckoning, almost thirty years ago.
“Take a jumbo across the water.
Like to see America.”
The agenda for this morning’s activities was set as soon as my return visit to New York took shape. Back in June, we wanted to drop in to the International Centre of Photography, but it was closed until 19 June. We took a subway and then spent an enjoyable ninety minutes inside its interior. It was, amazingly, very quiet. At times it felt like we were the only visitors. We are both keen photographers and so this was just right. The main exhibit was by Edward Burtynsky, who takes magnificent photographs of the many various landscapes that he visits. I loved the scale and the clarity, and the composition of many of his photos.
Sadly, and much to my annoyance, the FIFA World Club Cup kept getting in my way. It seemed that, without warning, FIFA had removed tickets in the top tier from friends’ Apps, and in doing so had caused widespread panic. My ticket, in the lower level, remained. While at the photography museum, I had to spend many a moment messaging various friends.
Meanwhile, I heard on the grapevine that either FIFA or Chelsea – or both – had been contacting US Supporters Groups to offer free – yes, free – tickets to the game on Sunday.
On the one hand, I was happy for those that had not yet been able to secure tickets.
On the other hand, I was fuming that I had forked out $358 for mine.
So, in a nutshell, it appeared that in a move to make the lower tier as full as possible, FIFA were moving people down from the top tier – but without telling them first – and were offering up free tickets too.
Fackinell.
I had arranged to meet another old friend Lynda near Ground Zero, so said my “goodbyes” to Stacey. I hadn’t seen Stacey for almost ten years and had then saw her twice in three weeks.
I first met Lynda in 2010 when she came over to Stamford Bridge for a game and we have stayed friends ever since. When Chelsea played New York Red Bulls in 2015 I stayed one night with Stacey and her husband Bill in Flemington, New Jersey and then spent two nights with Lynda and her partner Tee in River Edge, New Jersey.
The night before the game in Newark in 2015, there had been another get-together at “Legends”.
It was Tuesday afternoon – around 5pm – and we sped over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Our excitement was palpable; we would soon be meeting up with many friends in a bar under the shadow of the Empire State Building, but there was an added – and wondrous – twist. Not only would former players Bobby Tambling, Mario Melchiot and Paul Canoville be making an appearance, but arrangements had been made – hush hush and all that – for Frank Lampard to make an appearance too.
What excitement.
My friend Roma, with her friend Peggy, from Tennessee arrived at about 6.30pm. Roma is a familiar figure in these Tales and has been a fantastic friend over the past twenty-six years. Roma has attended games at every one of Chelsea’s previous eight US tours (she is “one up” on me, since I missed the 2013 tour), and was doing all three of this summer’s games. However, when I calmly informed her that her hero Frank Lampard would be in the bar later in the evening, her reaction was lovely. To say she was excited would be an understatement. She almost began crying with joy. Bless her.
What a lovely time we all had. In addition to being able to reconnect with many good Chelsea friends, including the usual suspects from the UK, we were treated to an hour or so of valuable insights into the four guest’s views on various subjects. Munich often dominated the questions. Frank was very gracious and answered each question carefully and with wit and sincerity. I loved the way that he listened attentively to the other players. Near the start, the New York crowd began singing :
“We want our Frankie back, we want our Frankie back.”
Frank smiled and responded :
“I’ll be back.”
Lynda and I chatted at a restaurant next to the Hudson River for an hour or so, and it was lovely to see her again. Lynda was a keen footballer when she was younger, and I was reminded of the time when Chelsea and PSG first met in New York.
No, dear reader, it wasn’t the game on 22 July 2012 at Yankee Stadium.
Oh no.
The day before, on the Saturday, the various supporters’ groups within the US had arranged a six-a-side tournament involving supporters from across the US, but there was also, as a finale, a game between the supporters of Chelsea and Paris St. Germain.
It was one of my greatest honours to be named as the captain of the Chelsea team that day, and I include some words and pictures.
As the fans’ tournament, involving four teams of Chelsea fans from throughout the US, was coming to an end, I was as nervous as I have been for years. I had been chosen to captain the Chelsea team to play in the Friendship Cup game against Paris St. Germain.
When I had heard this news a few weeks back, I was very humbled, certainly very proud, but the over-riding feeling was of fear. I hadn’t played for two months, and I was genuinely concerned that I may pull a muscle, or jar my once troublesome right knee, or give away a penalty, or run out of gas after five minutes or just look out of my depth. This is typical of my times in various school football teams over thirty years ago when I would tend to be shackled by fear and a lack of confidence in my ability on the pitch.
Once the game began, my fears subsided, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We lead 3-1 at the break but soon allowed PSG to scramble some goals. At 4-4, I managed to squeeze in a goal and my heart exploded. Could we hang on? In the end, PSG went 8-6 up and my disappointment was real.
Lynda played in the Chelsea team, along with my long-time friends Steph,Pablo and Mike, too. The game was refereed by Paul Canoville and Frank Sinclair. Watching upstairs in the gallery was Ron Harris. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him after and tell him, with a twinkle in my eye, that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal. And yet he had seen me score for Chelsea after just twenty minutes.
Lynda, and Tee, and their two children Tori and Kai, had attended the Fluminense game on the Tuesday, but were off on a family trip to the coast at the weekend. We said our “goodbyes” and hoped to see each other in London again soon.
This was a busy day, and I caught the subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, and beyond. I was off to see the New York Yankees play the Chicago Cubs in an inter-league game in the South Bronx. Dom’s mate Terence had bought some tickets for this game and, luckily, had a spare. We were to meet, as always, at “Stan’s.”
I arrived at 4.30pm, perfect. I had arranged to meet up with Scott, Paul and Gerry and they were stood drinking at one end of the bar. The three of them had been based in Philly for the entire tournament apart from the last day or two. They were with a chap, Martin, who I had only seen for the first time on Tuesday afternoon at the Fluminense game. This surprised me since he lives in Sherborne in Dorset, just twenty-five miles away.
It was lovely to see some Chelsea faces in “Stan’s”, following on from my visit with Glenn, Steve and Mike in June.
“A “Rolling Rock” please, mate.”
Dom, Terence and three other lads arrived, and we had a grand time. Scott and Gerry became fans of baseball around ten years ago while seeing Chelsea in the US, and Scott is a Cubs fan. This was his first visit to Yankee Stadium. “Stan’s” sits right opposite where the original Yankee Stadium stood – the first version from 1923 to 1973, the second from 1976 to 2008 – and of course I regaled them with the fact that Ray Wilkins made his England debut “across the road” in 1976.
I got talking to Martin about baseball and Chelsea in equal measure. He has visited tons of baseball stadia over the past fifteen years or so. I mentioned how my love of the game has sadly diminished since around 2008.
I mentioned that the game against PSG on Sunday would be one hundredth live game of the current season, and I trotted out the numbers.
“54 Chelsea games, 42 Frome Town games, 3 games in Rio de Janeiro and 1 game at Lewes when we played Brighton in the FA Cup.”
Martin smiled and replied, “I went to that game, too.”
Fackinell.
Seeing a few Chelsea supporters in “Stan’s” took me back to that PSG game in 2012. I had stayed in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a week, then came down to New York for the game at Yankee Stadium, meeting up with tons of good friends in the bars of Manhattan and then the stadium.
First up, “Legends.”
Despite the game against PSG not starting until 7pm, I had arrived at Legends bang on midday and awaited the arrival of friends. I soon bumped into Tom, a fellow Chelsea home-and-away season ticket holder, who was revelling in his first ever visit to the US. His comment to me struck a chord.
“This is the most surreal experience I’ve had, Chris. This pub is full of Chelsea, but I don’t know anyone.”
Of course, to Tom, this was akin to supporting Chelsea in a parallel universe. I think he was amazed at the fanaticism from these people who he didn’t personally know. For Tom, it must have been unnerving. This scenario is so different to our experiences in the UK and Europe where the close-knit nature of the Chelsea travelling support has produced hundreds of friendships. In Wigan, in Wolverhampton, in Milan, in Munich, there are faces that are known. On this afternoon in the heart of Manhattan, fans kept entering the pub, with nobody leaving. I wondered if it would collapse with the volume of people in both bars. Thanks to my previous travels to the US with Chelsea, wherever I looked, I managed to spot a few familiar faces. I was sat at the bar, chatting with Scott from DC, his brother David from Athens, Phil from Iowa, Mark from England, Andy from California, Stephen from New Orleans. The blue of Chelsea was everywhere. Down below in the basement, a gaggle of around twenty-five PSG fans were singing, but their chants were being drowned by the boisterous chants of the Chelsea fans.
It dawned on me that the Chelsea fans that I would be encountering were not just English ex-pats or not just Americans of English extraction, but Americans with ancestors from every part of the world. Just the previous week in Portsmouth NH, I had met a young lad who had seen me wearing a pair of Chelsea shorts and had declared himself a massive Chelsea fan. His birthplace? Turkey. I asked him if he was a fan of Galatasaray, of Besiktas or of Fenerbahce, but he said that Chelsea was his team. This frankly amazed me. It confirmed that Chelsea has truly gone global.
The simple truth in 2012 is that people like Tom and me, plus the loyal 5,000 who make up our core support at home and away games in the UK and Europe are in the massive minority amongst our support base. For our millions of fans worldwide, the typical scenario is just what Tom had witnessed at first hand in NYC; a pub in a foreign land, bristling with new Chelsea fans, fanatical for success.
From “Legends” in 2012 to “Stan’s” in 2025…
We left “Stan’s” and moved further north along River Avenue and into “The Dugout” bar. Time was moving on and I seemed to be the only one who was keeping an eye on the clock. First-pitch was at 7.05pm, and with a logistical precision that I would be proud, despite missing the “Star Spangled Banner”, Dom and Terence finally sorted out their QR codes and ushered us in. We arrived in our seats in the front row of the top deck just before the final out of the bottom of the first inning.
That will do for me.
I even saw the end of the famous “roll-call” from the fanatics in the Bleachers, an echo of The Shed back in the ‘seventies.
Our seats, six of us in a row, were magnificent and only around fifteen yards from where we were sat against the Angels in June.
It was lovely to be back again.
At the PSG game in 2012, we were in the lower tier.
“The hardcore of the Chelsea support – maybe 2,000 in total – were spread out along the first base side, like different battalions of confederate soldiers at Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburg, ready to storm the Yankee lines.
Down in the corner, behind home plate, were the massed ranks of Captain Mike and his neat ranks of soldiers from New York. Next in line were the battalion from Philadelphia and the small yet organised crew from Ohio. Next in line were the wild and rowdy foot soldiers of Captain Beth and the infamously named CIA company. On the far-right flank stood the massed ranks of the Connecticut Blues who were mustered under the command of Captain Steve.”
In that game, Paris St. Germain went ahead in the first but Lucas Piazon – remember him, he only appeared on foreign tours – equalised in the second half.
So, the two games in Manhattan and the Bronx in 2012 had not given us a win.
Chelsea 6 Paris St. Germain 8.
Chelsea 1 Paris. St. Germain 1.
I wondered how the third game across the river on Sunday would end up.
The baseball game played out before me, and it was a fine night to be a Yankee fan. Cody Bellinger hit three home runs as the home team walloped the Cubs 11-0. It was my sixtieth major league baseball game, my 41st Yankee game, my 32nd Yankee home game and my biggest Yankee victory.
Two-thirds of the way into the game, we walked down to the centre-field Bleachers, the very first-time that I had watched a game from the Bleachers in either Yankee Stadium.
After, we decamped to “The Dugout” and then “Stan’s” before heading back to Manhattan.
It had been a fine night in the South Bronx.
On the Saturday, after the beers of the Friday night, I succumbed to another lie-in. I met up with Dom and Terence at the nearby “Jasper’s” on 9th Avenue just as the women’s final at Wimbledon, being shown on the TV, was nearing completion. There was a bar snack and I then caught a cab to the Guggenheim Museum. Although the temperature outside wasn’t too oppressive I just couldn’t face the walk up through Central Park. This was my second ever visit to this museum, and I loved it. It’s a remarkable building, and there was the usual array of fine paintings inside.
In the evening, we reconvened at “Legends” once more, and – as to be expected – the place was packed, although surprisingly maybe not to 2012 levels. I think there are quantifiable reasons for this. The 2012 summer tour was announced in good time and gave many supporters the chance to plan and attend, unlike the knock-out format of this competition. Also, I still sensed an innate reluctance to support this “money grab” of an extra FIFA tournament from many Chelsea supporters in the US.
And I can understand that.
But here we were, in Manhattan on a Sunday night and it felt like a gathering of the clans. Outside I chatted to Lorraine and Colin from Toronto and Pete from St. Petersburg In Florida. Ex-footballer Troy Deeney was flitting about in his role for “Talk Sport” and inside I spotted a few from the UK that had just arrived including Big John, who sits in front of me in The Sleepy Hollow, and Kev from the “South Gloucestershire Lot”.
There was an insipid Q&A with Claude Makelele, but it annoyed me that there were so many people chatting that I found it difficult to hear what the great man was saying.
It was quieter when Frank held court in 2015.
After fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal questions, I decided to go downstairs to the “Football Factory” for some respite and some beers. Here, I spent a fantastic time talking with Alex, who has so many funny stories up his considerably long sleeves, but there was also great fun seeing folk that I had not seen for ages. Most importantly of all, it seemed that everyone who needed tickets for the final, had them. Fantastic.
It’s funny, my modus operandi for the Saturday night was “don’t have too many beers, don’t want a hangover on Sunday.”
Well, I failed.
Many beers were sunk at “Legends” and I even had to time to slope off to “O’Donohue’s” near Times Square where I met up with a gaggle of lads from the UK who had arrived to join some chaps who had been out in the US for a while.
I met up with Neil, newly arrived via Rome, with Big Rich, plus Tommo, Tombsy and a few more.
At 2am, I made it home.
Sunday arrived, and I was only nursing the very slightest of hangovers. By the time I had left the apartment at 9.45am, it had disappeared. I took the subway down to meet up with Kathryn and Tim from DC, near “Macy’s” to catch the PATH train to Hoboken at 10.30am. Outside Penn Station, at the exact spot where Glenn and I had posed for photos in the drizzle in June on our first few minutes in Manhattan, I took a photo of Cole Palmer on an electronic billboard with the Empire State Building in the background.
What an image.
It wasn’t like this in 1989 when I only met one other Chelsea fan in almost ten months in North America.
I could hardly believe it all.
The plan was to get over to “Mulligan’s” again for a brief pre-match gargle and then heading out to the parking lots that surround MetLife to meet up with the New York Blues for a tailgate.
Delays with the trains meant that we only arrived at “Mulligan’s” at around 11.30am. But the usual crowd were inside again, and it was excellent to bump into Kristen and Andrew from Columbus, Ohio, and Adam from Texas, but also Ian, Kevin – who sits a few feet away from me in “The Sleepy” – and Becky, who had experienced a nightmare trip out via Istanbul.
Dom and Terence were with Alon at the bar, everyone together. With a couple of “Peronis” inside me, I was buoyed, and a bit more confident about the game. I was able to relax when the QR code for the game suddenly appeared on the FIFA App.
We needed to get moving, so Kathryn ordered a large uber to take Kristen, Andrew, Tim, herself and myself over to the stadium. As we tried to enter a main road, a police car blocked our entrance, and we waited for ages as the traffic on the main road cleared and a cavalcade of cars drove ahead of a coach carrying the Paris St. Germain team. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers in the coach.
We were dropped off near Parking Lot D at around 1pm; just right. I spent just over an hour here, drinking with some friends from all over the north-east of the US. It was a pleasure to see Sid and Danny from Connecticut, Tim from Philly and Steve from Staten Island especially. The weather was hot, but the beers were cold. It was a perfect mix. There wasn’t much talk about the game. Deep down, I was still concerned about us getting hammered. The New York Blues had provided a great array of beers and food. I gulped down a hot dog; just enough to stave off hunger pains, my only food so far during the day.
The younger element was getting involved with some singing, but I left them to it. My days as a willing cheerleader on these occasions are in the past now.
With about three-quarters of an hour to go before the 3pm kick-off, I made my way towards the stadium. We heard the buzz of three helicopters circling overhead, and with news that the President of the United States was to attend the game, many match-goers looked towards the heavens. I cannot confirm nor deny if there were any requisite hand signals aimed towards the passengers of the helicopters.
I was making good time, and I knew exactly where to aim for; the Chelsea end was now at the northern end of the stadium, opposite from Tuesday.
The security check and the QR scan was easy. I was in.
I spotted my mate Callum with a few of his mates from London, and I took a photo of them with their St. George’s flag. They had come over for the final, though Callum was at the two Philly games too.
Time was moving on, but I wasn’t rushed. This was just right. I got to my seat location at around 2.40pm. I was in a great location, around half-way back in the lower tier, just to the right of the goal frames. There were clouds overhead, and it didn’t feel too uncomfortable.
Then, what a small world…I suddenly realised that Rich, the guy that I had lambasted at the Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013, was stood right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder, and we virtually collapsed with laughter. I was in front of him in 2013, he was now in front of me in 2025.
Fackinell.
Pretty soon, the pre-match kicked in. First up, a set of musicians – dressed in the gold and black of the tournament – and mainly drummers as far as I could tell, and yellow plumes of smoke. Were they a college marching band? I immediately entertained memories of the “Marching Mizou”, from the University of Missouri, who were also dressed in gold and black, at Stamford Bridge against Derby County in 1975.
Next, a singer appeared out of nowhere, gold lamé suit, silver hair.
I turned to the two local lads to my right.
“Who’s that prick?”
“Robbie Williams.”
“Bloody hell, I was right.”
I had fleeting images of seeing him at Stamford Bridge in 1995, and his album cover that featured the Matthew Harding Stand that came out a few years after.
The boy from Burslem belted out a song that I had not heard before.
“Aim high, fly by, destiny’s in front of you. It’s a beautiful game and the dream is coming true.”
One of the lads to my right, both dressed in Chelsea paraphernalia, asked me for my prediction, and I had to be honest. I looked him in the eye and said “we’ll lose 0-2.”
This obviously took him back, and I said what I needed to say. We chatted a little about his Chelsea story and he said that the memorable 3-2 at Goodison in 2006, all three goals being belters, was a key moment in him becoming Chelsea.
By now, my senses were being pummelled visually and audibly. Not only was the sky full of plumes of smoke, but the PA guy was booming out over the speakers. This idiot wasn’t just talking loudly either; he was shouting, and the PA was turned up to eleven.
“Let’s see who are the loudest fans!!!”
I turned to the bloke to the right.
“None of us are as loud as you, you prick.”
It was all too much. The noise was deafening.
Next up, the American national anthem was played out and there were immediate boos. The natives squinted over to the left to see if they could see the president.
Awesome.
With all this hullabaloo, it was somewhat difficult to come to terms with what I was part of here. I looked around and it seemed that the stadium was virtually sold out. There was a knot of PSG fans grouped together in the lower tier opposite, though it was later pointed out to me by Callum that their ultras had been forced to evacuate their prime seats behind the goal by some law enforcement agents.
Things were happening so quickly now. The players walked on to the pitch, and were introduced one-by-one, how crap.
Our team surely picked itself.
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Enzo – Palmer
Joao Pedro
At last, Chelsea in blue, the first time for me in this competition. The Paris kit, all white, included an image of the Eiffel Tower.
I turned around and spotted Karen and Feisal, whose wedding I photographed back in 2021, just a few yards away. They looked confident. I wasn’t so sure.
Next, Michael Buffer and his ridiculous “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” bollocks. He had appeared at Stamford Bridge a few years back, and I was impressed then as I was now.
Next, a countdown to the kick-off.
I snapped as Enzo played the ball back to a teammate and the FIFA Club World Cup Final 2025 began.
It was surreal, it was mad, it was preposterous. Thirty-two teams had entered this inaugural expanded competition, and I bet hardly any Chelsea supporters expected us to get to the final. Yet here we bloody were.
And you know what, we began incredibly well. We seemed to be first to the loose ball, fitter and faster than the lauded opposition, and soon started to construct fine moves that stretched PSG in all areas of the pitch.
After five minutes, it was virtually all us, and I was so happy. Moises Caicedo took my eye at first, robbing players of the ball, and moving it on intelligently. But very soon it was obvious that Cole Palmer, being afforded more space than usual, was “on it” and the Chelsea supporters all around me sensed this.
After just seven minutes, a lovely passage of play featuring a few players moving the ball down our left resulted in Joao Pedro setting up Palmer right on the penalty box line. His shot was clean, curving slightly, and only just missed the left-hand post. Many thought it was in.
“A sighter” I chirped.
The guy to my right was still asking if I thought it would be a 0-2 defeat, and I smiled.
With Pedro Neto running back to provide valuable cover for Marc Cucurella, with Enzo Fernandez probing away with neat passes, and with Caicedo taking on the role of enforcer with aplomb, we were on top.
But PSG threatened on a couple of occasions. There was a great block from Cucurella, and a great save from Sanchez.
After a quarter of an hour, I leaned forward and spoke to Rich.
“Great game of football.”
On twenty-two minutes, a sublime kick out from Sanchez was aimed at Malo Gusto. The tracking defender Nuno Mendes was confused by the proximity of Gusto and took his eyes off the flight of the ball. With a degree of luck, the ball bounced on his head but released the raiding Gusto. He travelled into the box and set himself to shoot by coming inside. The shot was blocked, but Gusto received it back and calmly played it into the vacant Palmer. He seemed to immediately relax, and stroked the ball in, past the dive of Gianluigi Donnarumma.
The Chelsea section went wild.
There were bodies being pushed all around me and I lost myself.
I screamed.
I shouted.
I yelled.
“FUCKING GET IN YOU BASTARD.”
Bloody hell mother, we were 1-0 up.
Fackinell.
Rich’s face was a picture.
It seemed that I was indeed right about Palmer’s “sighter” a quarter of an hour earlier.
It was all Chelsea now, and PSG looked tired. Was our extra day of rest really that important?
During a break in play, I popped over to say hello to a gaggle of lads from England to my right. None of us could believe what we were witnessing.
We continued to impress. Many attacks came down the right, with Gusto in fine form. On the half-hour mark, a long pass out of defence from Levi Colwill – how unlike us, maybe Enzo Maresca has been reading my notes – released Palmer. He took the ball under his control with ease and advanced, sliding in from an inside-right channel, across the box, using the dummy run from Joao Pedro as a distraction, sending two defenders the wrong way, moving into a central position, then there was one extra touch. At that exact moment, I just knew that this extra touch had bamboozled Donnarumma’s timings. I just knew that he would score. From virtually the same place as eight minutes earlier, he rolled the ball in.
YES.
We were two up.
This time there were double fist pumps – downwards – from me as I stood bewildered amongst the exultant throng, very much aware that others were losing it.
This was mad.
The rest of that first-half was a blur. Chelsea were bossing it, and the world was a beautiful place. There were honest shouts of “Come On Chelsea” permeating throughout our section and I even forgave the locals for yelling that loathsome “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” nonsense.
Additionally, I realised that I now loved the way that the word “wanker” has permeated into US football culture.
We weren’t finished yet.
On forty-three minutes, we watched as a pass out of defence from Trevoh Chalobah found Palmer, ten yards inside his own half but ridiculously unmarked. I brought my camera up and watched him advance. Just outside the box, he split the space between two ball-watching defenders and passed to Joao Pedro who had made the finest of runs behind. As our new forward clipped the ball over the Paris ‘keeper, I snapped. I saw the ball clear Donnarumma and caress the netting.
Good God.
I simply stood still, silent, my arms outstretched, pointing heavenly, like some sort of homage to Cristo Redentor.
We were three-up.
I had this thought. Didn’t everyone?
“They can’t catch us now.”
At half-time, I contacted my mate Jaro who was watching with his whole family a few sections along. He came over to see me and we could hardly talk to each other.
This was unbelievable.
Up above us, on a stage so ridiculously high, a few acts sang, and the half-time show was rounded off by Coldplay.
“Cause you’re a sky, cause you’re a sky full of stars.”
I was more pleased to see Jaro than I was Chris Martin.
But with the sky above the MetLife, now clear of clouds, filled with fireworks and smoke, this only exaggerated the sense of incredulity in my eyes, and I am sure others too.
That first-half, let’s not kid ourselves here, was up there with the very best I have ever seen us play. It had everything.
I am shuddering now just at the memory of that moment.
I always talk about the first half when we beat Everton 5-0 in 2016 as being sensational, but Everton are no PSG. I remember the first-half against Barcelona in 2000. I remember other games, too many, perhaps, to list.
But at the MetLife on Sunday 13 July 2025, was that first-half the best?
I think it has to be.
The break lasted forever or seemed to. I think someone timed it as twenty-five minutes. That’s not football. It’s wrong for players to be kept waiting. Muscles tighten. Injuries are more likely. Stop that shite, FIFA.
But what a twenty-five minutes, though. If only all half-time breaks could be as joyful.
And I was convinced there would be no Chelsea Piers 2012-style second-half recovery from this PSG team either.
Not surprisingly, PSG started on the front foot in the initial moments of the second half. On fifty-one minutes, they worked the ball through, and a low cross was poked goalwards by Ousmane Dembele, but Sanchez reacted magnificently well to push the ball around his far post.
“Strong wrists there, Rich.”
Sanchez saved again, and although PSG enjoyed more of the ball, we were able to keep calm and limit them to few chances.
Off the pitch, I liked the noise that we were making in the stands. PSG, by contrast, over the course of the whole game, had made least noise compared to Flamengo, Tunis and Fluminense.
On sixty-one minutes, Andrey Santos replaced a tiring Enzo.
On sixty-eight minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.
Very soon after coming on, Delap was set free by Santos and advanced forcefully. At one stage he seemed to be running right at me. He did everything right, moving his defenders, and unleashed a cracking shot that really deserved a goal, only for Donnarumma to pull off a fine save to his left. The same player then cut in from wide but was unable to finish.
On seventy-eight minutes, two more changes.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for James.
Christopher Nkunku for Pedro Neto.
I didn’t see the incident on eighty-three minutes, but Cucurella hit the deck, clutching his head. VAR was called in to action and Joao Neves had pulled Cucurella’s curly locks.
A red card was issued.
In the closing moments, we all loved Cole Palmer taking the piss in the corner away to our left in front of the Chelsea support. If Palmer was – quite rightly – the man of the match, we all soon agreed that Robert Sanchez, enjoying the game of his life, was next best.
As the clock ticked down, we all relaxed a little and began celebrating.
The gate was announced as 81,118.
And that, dear reader, was just about it.
At the final whistle, a shout of relief.
Then, with the players in blue running towards us and celebrating, “Blue Is The Colour” rang out and I almost lost it. My bottom lip was going at one stage.
“Pull yourself together, Chris, mate.”
I recorded this moment on my phone and have shared it here.
“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”
I am not a fan of the ubiquitous use of “Freed From Desire” at virtually all football stadia these days and I am glad we no longer play it at Chelsea at the conclusion of our games but I did love the way that the players, Enzo especially, were cavorting at the end while the supporters were singing along to it.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na”
Fackinell.
On a very surreal day, things became odder still. As we all know, the President of the United States took a greater role in the presentation of medals and the trophy than anyone could have expected.
I’ll leave it there.
I loved the way that Reece James was able to lift the golden trophy to the heavens a second time, and not long after my bottom lip started behaving even more embarrassingly.
But these were joyous times.
I kept thinking to myself.
“32 teams.”
“32 teams and we fucking won it.”
And I thought back to my comment to Glenn in Philadelphia when Pedro Neto put us 1-0 up against Flamengo :
“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”
When I left the stadium, a good hour after the end of the game, I was alone, and very tired, and very dazed. I honestly could not believe what I had just witnessed. Originally, I had this notion of getting back to Hoboken and taking an evening ferry across the Hudson, with the setting sun reflecting off the skyscrapers of Manhattan. It would be a fitting climax to my one hundred games season; the World Cup metaphorically placed in my back pocket.
But I was so tired and just wanted to rest. My feet were on fire, after standing for hours. I made my way towards the lines for trains and coaches to take us free of charge back to Secaucus Junction.
In the line, I saw a very familiar face. Allie is from Reading, and I see him everywhere with Chelsea. He had the intention of attending some group phase games but decided against it. Imagine my joy when we clocked each other.
“Can’t miss a final, Chris.”
We stopped for the inevitable photo.
I took the bus to Secaucus, and I was just happy to sit for twenty minutes and take the weight off my feet.
I took the train back to Penn Station, and I snapped a photo of the Chelsea players celebrating the win on the same billboard that had depicted Cole Palmer in the morning. Now, Reece James’ celebratory roar beamed out beneath the New York skyline.
Those photos provide nice bookends to the day.
I ended up having some food, all alone, near Penn Station, and I just wanted to get back to the apartment. I was so tired that I didn’t even think to call in at “Legends” to see if anyone was around. I had heard that the Empire State Building was to be illuminated in blue in honour of Chelsea Football Club, 2025 World Champions, but this magical moment was to take place from 10pm until 11pm.
And I took a cab home at 9.15pm.
Although I was truly knackered, it saddens me that I just couldn’t hang on for one final hour and one final photograph.
Seeing the Empire State Building illuminated in Chelsea blue would have been a magical moment and a killer photograph, the perfect ending to a monumental season.
Sigh.
However, should we qualify for the next World Cup in 2029, which is expected to take place in Rio de Janeiro – where my longest ever season began last July – I wonder if Christ the Redeemer will be illuminated in royal blue after the final.
Because we never win these trophies just once, do we?
In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :
“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”
Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.
This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”
First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.
Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.
I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.
However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.
And it’s quite a story.
This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.
“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”
Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.
We kept in contact at various times over that season.
Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.
As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.
“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”
Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.
To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”
I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.
Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.
Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.
A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.
I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.
On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.
We were euphoric.
Of course, I had to take a photograph.
It’s what I do, right?
As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.
My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.
However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.
“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”
This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.
In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.
Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.
I think we were both amazed at our memories.
I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.
Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.
Fantastic.
With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.
I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.
It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.
Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.
This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.
But here we were.
The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.
Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.
As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.
Just imagine that.
Sssshhh.
During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.
I refreshed the flight options.
Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.
For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.
Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.
I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.
I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.
That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.
It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.
Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.
Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.
On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.
After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.
I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.
I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.
In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.
On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.
And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.
Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.
There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.
Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.
My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.
“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.
All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.
I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.
Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.
My heart exploded.
This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.
At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”
I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.
“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.
Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.
My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.
Then, I was in.
Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.
Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.
It did.
I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.
Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.
It was an 8pm kick-off.
The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”
And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.
The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.
I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.
It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.
Phew.
There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.
I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.
To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.
Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.
My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”
“Take a jumbo cross the water.
Like to see America.”
On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.
I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.
The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.
Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.
A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.
Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.
“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”
“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”
Fackinell.
The pints of Peroni were going down well.
We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.
I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.
Sigh.
The team news came through.
Sanchez
Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto
Joao Pedro
A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.
“No pressure, mate.”
Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.
Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.
It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.
Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.
I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.
At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.
I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.
“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”
At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.
I was in. I could relax. Maybe.
Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.
Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.
The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.
There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.
The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.
I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.
“Will New Jersey do, mate?”
In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.
The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.
We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.
On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.
What a screamer.
And how we screamed.
GET IN!
What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.
Blur on the PA.
“Woo hoo!”
I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.
Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.
“Good luck with the sulky twat.”
We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.
On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.
I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”
But I sang alone.
I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.
Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.
“Oh…shite.”
Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.
Phew.
On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.
Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.
At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.
I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.
I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.
In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.
On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.
Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.
Ecstasy in New Jersey.
There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.
The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.
On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.
Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.
Twenty minutes remained.
Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.
We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.
I whispered to Leigh :
“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”
On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.
Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.
Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.
The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.
On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.
Two very late substitutions.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.
Andrey Santos for Enzo.
There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.
The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.
From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.
As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.
After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.
I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.
What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.
As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.
I yelled out.
“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”
He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.
What a funny, crazy, small world.
I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.
This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.
We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.
It had been another long day, but one of the greats.
And yes, my gamble had paid off.
I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.
