Tag Archives: Jordan Henderson

Tales From London Again, Olé, Olé

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 10 October 2026.

The away game at Brentford seemed like a long time ago. That’s because it was a long time ago.

Three whole weeks.

The extended international break which embraced four England games – I couldn’t name all the opponents if you paid me – meant that there was no Chelsea in my life from Friday 18 September to Saturday 10 October.

And, for the first-time ever, I was more than happy. After that dismal performance in West London, I certainly felt that Xabi Alonso needed a lengthy period to replan and reset. I am sure I wasn’t the only one.

What would I do with myself in those three weeks? Unsurprisingly, Frome Town came to the rescue. There would be five games for me to get stuck into.

I took in a home FA Cup tie against Plymouth Parkway on Saturday 20 September. I enjoyed a competitive first half and Frome were in decent form. There really wasn’t much between the two sides. However, in the second period, we offered little until a late charge and fell to a 0-2 defeat. There was a decent crowd of 546, and a good away following from Devon.

On the following Tuesday, our furthest away trip in the league this season and a very competitive match against the same strong Parkway team. Despite conceding a poor goal early on, we recovered well and gave the home team a very tough battle. I was proud of the way we responded. Sadly, a second goal against the run of play proved decisive. An enjoyable match, though.

On Saturday 27 September, our first tie in the FA Trophy this season pitted us against old adversaries Willand Rovers. On a beautiful afternoon at Badgers Hill, Frome Town never really got going. We went 0-1 down on seventy minutes, but with five minutes to go a perfect cross from substitute Jon Davies found substitute Archie Ferris whose old-school header nestled in the net. We went to penalties, and assured efforts from Zak Drew, Albie Hopkins, George Dowling and Jon Davies, aided by two saves from Kyle Philllips, sent us into the next round. The highlight of this game was the appearance of Jimmy the Greek who joined my usual Dodgey match-day companions. He loved it.

On the following Tuesday, we met Somerset rivals Taunton Town at home. This was a decent game. We raced into a 2-0 lead on twenty-one minutes after two goals in a minute from Zack Ali and David Duru. In an open first-half, an own goal gave the visitors a lifeline. In the second period, their rapid breaks caused us problems, and they equalised on the hour. Frome then had a fair few half-chances but could not convert. The attendance of 656 on a wet old night in Dodge was – literally – fan-tastic.

Lastly, I travelled to Yate, just north of Bristol, on Saturday 3 October. Frome laboured on their huge pitch in the first half but kept it scoreless. The second half was a different beast: 0-1 down, 1-1, 1-2 down, 2-2, 3-2 up, 3-3. Our goals came from Albie Hopkins, George Dowling and Sam Meakes. However, the game will be remembered for the phenomenal support of some 100+ Frome supporters in the 520 crowd who really got behind the team. The standard for support for the rest of the season had been set. Top marks all round.

For the Bournemouth game, I left a little later than usual. I drove over to Nunney Catch, where PD and Jimmy joined me for a hearty breakfast before the Willand game a fortnight earlier, but I would be fuelling the car and not my stomach on this occasion. On this short ten-minute drive, the Somerset countryside looked immaculate. There was a surreal quality of light, with the early autumn colours being particularly intense in the surrounding fields and hedgerows, and the stone walls of houses and farm buildings jumping to life too. There was almost an Edward Hopper feel to the light. Everything was vivid and vibrant. It was as if I was being reminded that this was my home and that I was, surely, being foolish to be driving a hundred miles to a distant location. Frome Town, after all, were at home to Sholing up and over that ridge of land that defines Frome’s western border.

But no, London was indeed calling to the faraway towns, and by 8.30pm I had collected PD, Glenn and Parky. I sped east, made good time, and was parked up near Queens Club at 11am.

This was Chelsea’s eighth consecutive match in London, and I had mentioned to a few people recently that I was getting bored to death with it. I craved a fresh field, somewhere different. Thankfully, this will all change with a trip to Everton that is tantalizingly looming on the horizon. I look forward to that.

Has this been Chelsea’s longest-ever run of consecutive games in London? I wasn’t sure. However, I remembered that in 1989/90, the capital boasted no less than eight teams in the topflight (a record – and like this season, with no West Ham) so I checked the start of that season. My findings? From 19 August to 30 September, we played eight consecutive league games in London and nine with a home League Cup tie.

Is everyone still awake?

On the drive to London, we had spent many a minute discussing the modern malaise of topflight football, namely the dullness of the passing routines that dominate modern football.

Maybe it is because we will be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our magnificent 1997 FA Cup win this season, but I have been reminiscing about 1996 of late, and I made the point that in addition to us, there were entertaining teams everywhere you looked in the Premier League in 1996/97. Manchester United was a team of swashbuckling heroes, Arsenal could play a bit, Newcastle United were magnificent, Liverpool had some decent players, and even Sheffield Wednesday had Benito Carbone, Middlesbrough had Juninho and Southampton had Matthew Le Tissier. These days, we have regimented patterns of play and pressing statistics.

It’s enough to make a man cry.

My pre-match was spent in two locations; “The Half-Moon Café” for a full English, and then “Walham Green” for a few drinks with the usual suspects, where I again quoted Ian Dury with a post on “Facebook.”

“I could be the driver of an articulated lorry.”

I left to take a few outside shots of Stamford Bridge with my trusty SLR and was inside as early as 2pm. I wanted a few moments of quiet contemplation before the rough and tumble of a Premier League game. Over in the West Stand, our erstwhile travelling companion Ron Harris was attending his first game at Chelsea for eighteen months; he was a guest of the club with his son and daughter, celebrating the refit of the Harris Suite.

The team news?

Emiliano Martinez

Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill – Pep Chavarria

Jordan Henderson – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Joao Pedro

We had commented during the day that we are loathe to spend any money at Stamford Bridge – on programmes, on food and drink, on merchandise of any kind – and that, in reality, it shouldn’t be like this. I should be happy to give Chelsea some extra pennies during the season in addition to my £1,030 season ticket. But such is the sense of resentment with many of the club’s policies, that I tend to spend nothing at all these days. With half-an-hour to go, I was absolutely parched but immediately resented paying £4.59 for a bottle of “Diet Coke.”

No sale.

The ground filled up slowly. In the fourth row of The Sleepy Hollow, PD, then Alan, then Clive – fashionably late – joined me.

Overhead, blue skies. Inside, a fine mild temperature. Down at “The Shed”, a super new banner depicting the proud image of Bobby Tambling was held aloft.

It seemed implausible that it was October and yet we had only played just five league games.

But the time had arrived for our next one.

“Let’s go to work.”

The game began.

Within seconds of the start, we witnessed a foraging run from Palmer, in the inside right channel, and he was allowed space. He ate up the yards. As he approached the white lines of the Bournemouth penalty area, and halted his strong run to reposition his mind and look for options, I asked Alan “where’s Frank Lampard when you need him?” which has become a somewhat sad rhetorical question that I have often trotted out since he departed from our team in 2014.

Despite four other Chelsea players in the box, including full back Chavarria, the ball was instead played back towards Henderson, in prime Lampard territory, and the new signing took a perfect swipe at goal from the edge of the “D.” Luckily, I was right behind the course of the ball and saw it swerve, perfectly, beyond the reach of former blue Djordje Petrovic. It did not matter one iota that the shot clipped the post on the way in. We were 1-0 up and barely sixty seconds had elapsed. I clicked as the unlikely scorer raced off towards the East Lower in reckless abandon.

There was a quick “THTCAUN / COMLD” from Alan and myself, and I checked my phone for a couple of messages. Before I had a chance to really pay much attention to our next move, I saw the ball work its way out to the left-hand side of the Bournemouth penalty area and it fell for Morgan Rogers to clip a fine curler towards the goal. I judged there to be a slight flick-on from the head of a Bournemouth defender. It did not matter; the ball curled into the other corner of Petrovic’ goal.

Fackinell.

We were 2-0 up after – what? – just over two minutes?

Alan doubted we had ever scored two goals so early in our one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year history. Don’t worry, I haven’t looked it up.

There was the slight worry of the goal being chalked off due to offside, but VAR didn’t spoil it.

Just after, I saw that Frome Town were 1-0 up in beautiful bucolic Dodge City thanks to a George Dowling strike against Sholing, whose squad had been bolstered recently by the arrival of Andrey Shevchenko’s son Kristian. Just four minutes had passed in that game.

Everything was rosy in SW6 and BA11, but being a typical football fan, we all knew that my two team’s opponents could easily put the kibosh on proceedings.

Indeed, in the fifth minute of play at Stamford Bridge, a rapid break down the Bournemouth left, and a ball that just beat an offside shout allowed Rayan a chance, but he blazed wildly over.

We, unsurprisingly, dominated possession, but I have to say that at times the reluctance to push on and move the ball quickly was a little annoying. Midway through the first half, the away team enjoyed a little spell, but we coped with everything. Despite the 2-0 lead, I found myself getting upset with bits of our play, whether it was a ball that was played behind a team mate rather than in front – meaning an extra touch, some dithering, and the disruption of momentum – or the lack of movements of players into acres of space.

Maybe they were all waiting for everyone to be perfectly set before Passing Play 78/e could take place.

With Bournemouth looking a little more competent, I semi-seriously muttered something about “this game going 2-2 at this rate.”

A shot from Henderson drifted wide.

Cole Palmer, an extended deal recently signed, was a joy to watch on many occasions during this period.

He just does things…differently.

Watching Chelsea without him over the past few seasons would have been so much grimmer.

On thirty-eight minutes, another tight ball through to Rayan that again looked offside – to Alan and me anyway – and the Brazilian sped onto the ball. His shot at goal was well parried by Martinez, and the ‘keeper – clumsily – saved the follow-up shot from Ryan Christie. The loose ball was hacked away by Chavarria. Late on in the half, Martinez saved well from Antonio Silva.

It was 2-0 in SW6 and 1-0 in BA11 at the break.

After the debacle at Brentford, this was so much better. At half-time, we were happy bunnies.

The second half began and Chelsea again got off to a storming start. A lovely ball from Acheampong on the right was swept forward to Neto, and I photographed the moment that he rode a tackle from Silva, gathered himself, then spotted the waiting Joao Pedro inside the box. There was another Lampardesque finish here, and I caught our striker’s firm smash of the ball that flew into the net.

Pedro Neto to Joao Pedro.

For Pete’s sake, we were 3-0 up.

We had played just one minute of the second period. And it looked like my worries about a 2-2 scoreline were unfounded.

However, just five minutes later, an archetypal defensive mess from Chelsea and the away team plundered a goal. A low corner from in front of the quiet away corner was not cleared. Caicedo hacked at the ball, but the clearance struck Evanilson and ricocheted into the goal.

Again, we endured a slightly shady spell. But thank heavens that Moises Caicedo was back in the team. His positional play really is impressive.

On the hour, Alan muttered “we are hanging on here.”

Thankfully, on sixty-seven minutes, a fantastic ball just down below me by Chavarria – full of earnest endeavour, full of running – was tee’d up beautifully for that man Joao Pedro to poke home.

Thankfully he provided me with some lovely moments to photograph as he ran towards us.

“Joao Pedro again, olé, olé.”

Beautiful.

It was 4-1 now.

Phew.

Just three minutes later, a free kick in a very good position, and I photographed the whole shebang. Firstly, Palmer and Henderson chatting. Then the dummy from Palmer. Then the strike from Henderson.

What a beauty.

Petrovic was beaten with an incredible curler.

The photos continued as the two Chelsea players ran away together, pointing at each other. This training-pitch gem had been brilliantly reconstructed on the Stamford Bridge pitch.

“Hendo again, olé, olé.”

5-1.

Lovely.

The Matthew Harding begged The Shed to give them a song, and they – quietly – obliged.

Xabi Alonso made some late changes.

72 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Caicedo and Marco Palestra for Joao Pedro.

The debutant Palestra instantly reminded me of Paolo Maldini.

83 minutes : Danny Welbeck for Neto.

84 minutes : Estevao for Rogers.

88 minutes : Malo Gusto for Palmer.

Standing ovations for all five from me, if not too many others.

In the ninety-second minute, Estevao should have made it six but his shot from close-in failed to force a save.

Sadly, down in Deepest Dodge, Frome Town succumbed to a ninetieth minute goal that gave Sholing – no Shevchenko junior, nor his watching father – a share of the points.

Not to worry. This had been a decent game in West London, and the three points – plus five goals – gave us all a welcome fillip before our travels begin.

Right then, how do I get to Merseyside?

The International Break : Game One – Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway.

The International Break : Game Two – Plymouth Parkway vs. Frome Town.

The International Break : Game Three – Frome Town vs. Willand Rovers.

The International Break : Game Four – Frome Town vs. Taunton Town.

The International Break : Game Five – Yate Town vs. Frome Town.

London Again, Olé, Olé.

Tales From The Birds And The Bees

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Brentford vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2026.

Game number seven out of eight on the spin in London was a Friday evening set-to with neighbours Brentford at their compact Gtech Community Stadium. I drove up to West London from work at 2pm and deposited Messrs. Daniels and Parkins outside the Bell & Crown near Kew Bridge at 4.10pm. This plethora of trips to London were on one hand monotonous but on the other hand straightforward. In the case of Brentford, quick too.

On the easy drive to The Smoke, we mentioned that it felt odd to heap praise on the Premier League for once, but their decision to announce changes to the busy Christmas programme a few months in advance was very well received by everyone. Some changes were especially fortuitous for me. By moving our away game at Coventry City to Sunday 27 December, it meant that I could attend the Frome Town vs. Poole Town match on Boxing Day and by shunting our home match against Newcastle United to Sunday 3 January it will allow me to travel to Bath City the day before.

It’s a win-win for me, or hopefully a win-win-win-win.

I had arranged pre-parking further west at Ferry Quays and I slotted into a space there at 4.30pm. I had not had a great deal to eat at work all day, so I was famished. Within a few yards of the car park, there were Thai, Ukrainian and Georgian restaurants but I liked the look of a Turkish one called “Galata Pera.” It had opened at 4pm, so my timing was perfect. I spotted a couple at an adjacent table, and I recognised the woman from Chelsea. She didn’t seem to recognise me, but the man did. We got there in the end. They were from West Sussex. It was typical for me to bump into Chelsea folk at an away game.

What with this restaurant being new to me, its exotic food – I wolfed down some tiger prawns with wholesome Turkish bread and then a stuffed aubergine – and the Turkish music playing, this almost – almost! – seemed like an away game in Europe. It brought back memories of that time in Istanbul in 2014 when I sat outside a café, relatively close to Galata Tower (which this restaurant close to the Thames was surely named) before a titanic match with Galatasaray.

My mind took a flight of fancy as I was immediately transplanted to that exotic city on the banks of the Bosphorus. Overhead, however, the groan and grumble of aircraft descending towards Heathrow through a blanket of dull grey clouds brought me back down to Earth, or at least Hounslow.

Tonight was all about a domestic battle and points in the Premier League.

Knowing that there are severe searches at the away end, I had jettisoned my SLR for this game. Instead, I was having to rely on my far-from-top-quality camera ‘phone.

On the walk back to the pub, I attempted to take a few shots of the river, but everything was too dreary for words; the grey sky, the brown of the river, the gloominess of the trees.

Instead, I decided to point my camera at a tower that is the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam – doesn’t that sound as dull as Thames water? – but just before I took the photo a mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead. I was instantly reminded of that Alfred Hitchcock film. Was this a foretaste of doom? An indication of a nightmare ahead? Perhaps, then, at that exact moment I should have returned to the restaurant for some baklava and strong coffees and given the game a miss. However, I pressed on.

I joined up with PD, Parky and a bunch of friends from all over the Chelsea kingdom. I met up with Jimmy the Greek from North London, Salisbury Steve from Wiltshire, the brothers Dave and Glenn from Putney, BJ and two of his mates from Texas, the returning Nat and Sujin from Kansas and California, plus Matt and Rachel from Virginia.

“The Bell and Crown” became busy during my stay of over an hour. There was chit-chat, laughter and a few “hellos” to other Chelsea supporters we recognised.

The spikey issue of ticket availability was a main topic of conversation. I suspect that many Chelsea fans believe that foreign supporters are gifted an easier path to obtaining tickets at Stamford Bridge and at away venues than those from more local areas, but my friends from the US told me that it is getting increasingly difficult, rather than easier.

It always saddens me to read on various US / CFC pages on “Facebook” that supporters asking for advice on acquiring tickets to Stamford Bridge are often told to go down the hospitality route. I always felt this was a shame, especially for first-time visitors. First visits should aim to be among the rank-and-file in areas where – until recently anyway – there is more singing and more atmosphere.

For an avid Chelsea supporter to be watching a first game at Stamford Bridge in West View fills me with utter sadness, yet this is the route that the suits at the club crave. For many seasons, I was able to use my network of friends at Chelsea to source spares for visitors – face value, always face value – as did others. It was part of the fabric of our club. It was the way fans operated.

These days, it has changed.

I spoke to Matt and Rachel about this.

“Rather than doing the hard work, making connections with local fans, getting to know them, getting access to a seat via them, newbies feel like they have to use a fast-track system involving huge prices and the high-end hospitality areas of Stamford Bridge.”

I mentioned that my view of this can be compared to my view of AI. Rather than create content using individual skills, people are fast-tracked into getting AI to create God-knows-what, and at God-knows-what cost to the world. Everyone seems to love a short cut, a cheat, a line of least resistance.

I hate modern life.

We stopped by the colourful entrance to the pub on Thames Road for photos and then walked off towards the stadium. There was another photo on Lionel Road as we went our separate ways. Sujin and Nat had been unable to meet the criteria for US fans to get away tickets, so had – through a lucky contact of Nat’s – been able to get two tickets together in the home area.

I told them to sit on their hands should we score. Jumping to their feet should Brentford score would be a trickier operation, as I have found out at various locations such as Arsenal, Leeds United and Blackburn. I also told Nat not to get a selfie with Barry the Bee (“or whatever the fucking Brentford mascot is called”) unlike the div at Arsenal a few weeks ago.

Nat had replied, “good job I am allergic to bees.”

Quite.

Bloody typical, I waltzed through two security checks and wasn’t searched once. I could easily have wrapped my SLR in my rain jacket and smuggled it in. Bollocks.

For some reason, Brentford still went with paper tickets. A quick scan and I was in.

It was 7.35pm, just twenty minutes after we left the pub.

PD very kindly swapped seats with me as I said that taking photos so near the front – row 6 – would have been useless. He gave me his ticket for row 31, just four from the rear.

I spotted BJ a few rows in front; he had to get duplicate tickets from the home box office before the game so was happy that it went smoothly.

I also spotted Matt and Rachel, close by.

With ten minutes to go, the theme from “The Great Escape” was played in its entirety. Is that their song, now? OK.

Then, the lights dimmed and were followed by the usual technicolour barrage of spotlights and flashes. Thankfully no fireworks.

“Hey Jude” and both sets of fans joined in.

The excitable PA went through the teams.

For Jordan Henderson there were predictable boos (from the home fans, I might add) as he made his Chelsea debut. We surmised that Joao Pedro had been left out of the Brazil squad because of injury so his absence here was expected.

But Jordan Henderson and Danny Welbeck starting? Blimey.

Emilio Martinez

Wesley Fofana – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill

Pedro Neto – Jordan Henderson – Valentin Barco – Pep Chavarria

Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Danny Welbeck

I am always flabbergasted when I see the folly of wearing a predominantly black kit at a night game. Surely, I am not the only one.

We attacked the home end in the first half, and there was a loud succession of Chelsea songs from the choir all around me. A very noisy “One Man Went To Mow” was followed by an angry rendition of “Zigger Zagger” and I was pleased that I was joining in. What is it they say about football allowing us to get rid of pent-up frustrations from the working week? On the pitch we started very brightly and moved the ball around – but mainly forward – as quickly and as economically as most of us would wish.

This was promising to see.

There was the usual ode to someone called Solomon Kalou, and as soon as I heard it, I knew what I had to do. I sent a message via WhatsApp at 8.09pm to Jimmy the Greek ten yards or so to my right.

“It’s Salomon!”

At 8.09pm, Jimmy the Greek sent a message to me via Messenger.

“It’s Salomon!”

I then spotted him in the crowd, alongside Parky, and we smiled and then took it in turns, at breaks in the chant, to shout the same thing.

“It’s Salomon!”

Valentin Barco was impressing me with his neat give-and-go, and the passing was crisp. Pep Chavarria was an oft-used outlet down the left, and Pedro Neto on the right was often given the ball to run at his defender. On ten minutes, a cross from Chavarria, a neat set up by Danny Welbeck, but a shot from Neto was saved by Kelleher.

Brentford, despite looking a threat on breaks and at set pieces, did not really trouble the Chelsea defence that seemed, for once, to be on top of things.

The away support mocked the home club.

“You’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”

But for all our possession, we created so little.

On twenty-nine minutes, a free kick fizzed at the ‘keeper, but there had not been much else. Just after, the best ball of the game from Cole Palmer dissected the space between two defenders but Neto wasted the opportunity.

There were two chances in quick succession at our end; Emilio Martinez got down well to save, and then a shot was sent over the bar.

With five minutes to go to the break, Chavarria set up Morgan Rogers but there was a block by Jannik Schuster and the shot went wide.

The last chance of the half fell to Brentford, but another shot was aimed at Martinez.

The Chelsea crowd, so noisy at the beginning, were very quiet in the last few minutes of the half.

I sent a WhatsApp message out : “the steam has gone out of us, hasn’t it?”

The second half began, and the action was still up the other end. After five minutes, Brentford clipped the bar following a Martinez save but offside had been called anyway. Worryingly, the home team seemed to have more belief.

The away support wakened from our slumbers and raucously got behind the players.

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

Just after, a quick break, but a shot from Chavarria flew wide.

At this stage, it felt like a 0-0 game.

But what do I know?

On the hour, a Brentford corner away to our left. Again, there was an unhindered leap at the far post, by Schuster, but unlike the Hull City game, a looping header did not go straight in but sat up nicely for Jaidon Anthony to head home.

Bloody hell.

We tried to rally.

For a while, it seemed that it was going to be Private Sponge’s big day as Jordan Henderson took corner after corner. One delivery caused panic for the home guard, but the chance came and went.

On seventy minutes, a cross from the right from Neto was aimed at Welbeck. Our veteran’s response was to blatantly push his marker. What a load of nonsense.

Just after he was replaced by Geovany Quenda and Josh Acheampong took over from Wesley Fofana.

The three centre-backs had not performed at anything like the level we hope for and Fofana was the worst by a long chalk.

The Chelsea fans were quiet now. Our fight had disappeared too.

Our chances piled up, but virtually every effort was blocked by the legion of red and white shirted jerseys. Henderson continued as the corner-taker down below us, but annoyingly this often involved playing the ball short to Rogers. Surely his presence would have been better served in the penalty area? It baffled me.

Palmer twisted and turned and managed a stab at goal, but the ball spun wide. At times I thought our playmaker was too indulgent.

Lo and behold, on the eighty-third minute, a rapid break from Brentford and the ball was punched into space for Schade. I, of course, immediately feared the worst.

“Fackinell here we go.”

Schade approached and shot at goal. Martinez saved, but I still sensed danger. I brought my hands up and clasped my head as I watched the follow up from Igor Thiago go in.

Sigh.

I was sad to see many among the away support leave the stadium at this point.

What are we? Tottenham?

It was now the turn of the Brentford supporters to cheer with self-deprecation.

“We’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”

On eighty-seven minutes, Xabi Alonso made more changes.

Estevao Willian for Neto.

Mahdi Nicoll-Jazuli for Barco, a debut for him.

On ninety-two minutes, we conjured up a fancy free-kick routine – too little too late – and Maxence Lacroix headed over.

Two minutes later, while I was trying desperately to unlock my phone – so I could phone The Samaritans – I heard the deep burr of a Northern Irish supporter behind me gravely exclaim “three-null”.

I looked up to see Fabio Carvalho smash the ball in from close-range.

Good God.

Brentford 3 Chelsea 0.

By the time of the final whistle, there were virtually no Chelsea supporters around me. The photo of the empty seats was taken just after the final whistle. Only a few fans were left in my section by this stage.

I had noticed two American women in front of me during the game and I had enjoyed their reactions to the ribald singing in the opening minutes. I wondered if they were two of the many foreigners that had chosen this game as a “bucket list” assignment and if this was their first Chelsea match. As I made my way out, I made polite conversation with one, and she told me that she had been a Chelsea fan for years, and this immediately impressed me. She added that she would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.

Sigh.

I made my way out, hands in pockets, bewildered.

I met up with PD and Parky, whose faces were as long as mine.

Showing predictable gallows humour, I turned to three policemen out on the main road and said, “can you arrest me, so I don’t have to watch Chelsea over the next few weeks?”

Of course, that joke backfired on me as I soon realised that there would be no Chelsea, now, for three long weeks anyway.

What a horrible night. Were there any positives? Hardly. Although, looking back, many supporters thought that we had looked tighter defensively in that first-half. In the car, I singled out Pep Chavarria who showed some hearty endeavour before we all slumped together. But apart from him, and maybe Valentin Barco at times, what a lack-lustre performance. What on Earth did Xabi Alonso say to the team at the break? Whatever it was, let’s hope he doesn’t say it again.

Despite a 4am alarm call, thankfully I didn’t feel too tired as I drove west. I eventually reached home at 1.15am.

It had indeed been an evening of birds and bees.

And Chelsea had been well-and-truly fucked.

“A mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead.”

Brentford vs. Chelsea

“She would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.“

Tales From The Fast Show

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Chelsea vs. Luton Town : 27 August 2026.

Xabi Alonso’s first competitive game was behind him, and his first competitive game at Stamford Bridge was a League Cup encounter with Luton Town.

When the draw was made a few weeks ago, I wasn’t completely convinced that I would attend. This first week of the football season was going to be busy enough, with three Frome Town games and two Chelsea games from Saturday 22 August through to Monday 31 August; that’s five games in ten days. Did I really want to squeeze in another?

One of my main aims this season is to see if I can complete my fifth consecutive season of complete league fixtures; a run of 190 games. It would be quite some achievement and something that I would never ever have contemplated doing way back in my formative Chelsea years. Was I that fussed about missing an early League Cup game? Apparently not. After all, I have chosen to miss the occasional home game – invariably midweek – in past seasons, so one more game would not matter too much in the grand scheme of things.

Our new manager’s first home game was the friendly against Real Sociedad a couple of weeks ago, and on that day, Frome Town were at Havant & Waterlooville, aiming for a third consecutive league win. There was absolutely no way that I was missing that one.

However, as I thought about it, and as the decent price of £29 was announced, I threw caution to the wind and bought my ticket for the Luton tie. PD and Parky were keen to go too.

In the end, it would be rude not to.

Count me in.

It would now be a run of six games in ten days.

Back with a bang, eh?

Of course, there was a pre-season that centered on Australia and South-East Asia in July to kick things off for Alonso. I was certainly not tempted with that, despite gorgeous memories of Thailand and Malaysia in 2011, China in 2017 and Australia in 2018, but I saw the highlights of a few of those matches. Our first game of Alonso’s reign was against Western Sydney Warriors on 28 July; a match that ended 6-4 to Chelsea. I remember glancing at some of the unfamiliar names in our squad that night and some looked like particularly difficult selections of letters in a game of Scrabble.

Since those early days of 2026/27, Alonso has added to his squad. We have opted for a couple of old hands to add experience to the legion of “youngsters with potential” after the realisation that teams don’t “win with kids” too often became all too apparent last season. The acquisition of our perennial nemesis Danny Welbeck – I’ve lost count of the goals he nabbed for Brighton against us – was well received by me. However, our club’s desire to add Jordan Henderson to the mix was hard for me to swallow. I was aghast when he was named in the England squad in the US, and I could hardly believe that he was to join us at Chelsea. At the time it boiled down to Henderson, ex-Liverpool, or Xhaka, ex-Arsenal; neither to my taste. But then people spoke of Henderson’s role in helping to instil good practices in the squad environment and his leadership qualities.

Maybe he will turn out to be a Captain Mainwaring rather than a Corporal Sponge in the new army of players at Stamford Bridge this season.

We wondered if he might be involved against Luton.

At work the day after the Fulham game, several colleagues mentioned to me that they had enjoyed the match. This surprised me in a way. When I met up with the lads after the match on Monday night I had quickly judged the game as being 6/10, since it contained a mixture of performances. I think it was too close a result for me to enjoy it more and score it higher. Yet the neutrals had enjoyed the end-to-end passages of play, and why not? Perhaps I was being too harsh.

I worked another 6am to 2pm shift, but the commute up to my secondary place of work was hit by delays on the M4. On the raised section of this road at around Brentford’s stadium, I glanced at the shining arch of Wembley (a grim destination for us these days) six miles to the north and I also managed to spot the thin metallic needle of the Crystal Palace TV transmitter on the rise of high land around twelve miles to the south-east; the first-time that I had ever spotted it. This stunned me. I have seen over nine-hundred games at Stamford Bridge (and this means I surely must have visited London at least a thousand times in my life) yet I had not spied that spire ever before from the M4. It just goes to show that London never stops surprising me.

What with the delays, I didn’t drop the boys off outside “The Wolfpack” until 5pm. I revisited “Koka” again, then amazed myself by bumping into many Chelsea friends on the short walk down the North End Road. I then met up with PD, Parky, Jimmy the Greek and Salisbury Steve at “Tommy Tucker.”

We saw the team; Mike Penders, Valentin Barco and Danny Welbeck were debuting.

“Where do you think you are going, Sponge?”

Jordan Henderson wasn’t even on the bench. Perhaps he would be preparing the half-time energy drinks, checking the towels, or other light duties.

Rain was threatening with dark clouds overhead, and I only stayed a short while. There were a couple of photos on the walk to The Bridge (thanks for the photo, Jimmy; a rare snap taken by someone other than little old me and shared herein) and I was inside Stamford Bridge at just after 7pm. My phone would have to suffice for photos again and I apologise now.

Despite the cheap price of tickets, there were gaps everywhere. With around 4,500 Luton supporters in The Shed – to the west side – Parky was now repositioned alongside PD, and I was next to Alan.

With ten minutes to kick-off, “Our House” was played and I smiled. I was glad that I chose to attend this one.

Many of the away supporters were bedecked in the orange home shirt and I liked this flash of colour. Their kit has changed quite often over the years, and when we played them at Wembley in 1994, their first-choice kit was white shirts and light blue socks for some reason. I always like the orange and black combo.

At kick-off, many seats around us were unused.

We attacked The Shed.

First thoughts; four at the back this time?

Yes, it seemed so.

Mike Penders

Malo Gusto – Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Pep Chavarria

Reece James – Valentin Barco

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Danny Welbeck

Former Chelsea youth Kasey Palmer was in the Luton team.

It was all Chelsea for the first five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. There were a couple of rare forays into our half for Luton early on – enthusiastically cheered by the Hatters’ support – but they did not threaten at all. They sat deep, unsurprisingly.

Nerdspeak : “Luton had a low block.”

Immediately, we were passing quicker, moving quicker, finding gaps quicker. I immediately felt happier watching this style of football.

It was still Chelsea, but faster.

The bright ginger hair of Barco seemed to make him stand out and I could not help concentrating on our young Argentinian starlet. He immediately looked neat and purposeful.

After around ten minutes, the setting sun behind the West Stand caused the steel of the East Stand and the sand brickwork of the hotel above the stand to obtain a surreal terracotta blush. The photo I took of the Chelsea lion has not been altered; it really was that orange. It gave the Stamford Bridge stadium an ethereal glow.

The orange Luton jerseys, on the pitch and in The Shed, the orange tint to the surroundings, and the deep ginger mop on Barco’s head. It was all in synch.

On eleven minutes, a sublime shimmy and run from Cole Palmer, following a pass from Estevao, squeezed in among combatants in the Luton box, thrilled us all but his shot was blocked by the ‘keeper Josh Keeley, and his follow-up effort was saved too.

From the corner, Palmer’s shot went wide. Malo Gusto shot wildly over, and then Welbeck headed at Keeley from close range.

On eighteen minutes, a well-struck free kick from Reece James was saved very well by the Luton ‘keeper, at full stretch to his left.

This was nice stuff from Chelsea. We were playing with ease, and it all looked very smooth. Gone was the reticence of previous eras in the recent past. There were purrs of delight among the SW6 loyalists.

Thankfully, Stamford Bridge had filled considerably but there were still tons of empty seats. I had seen that 49,000 had attended the Tottenham vs. Charlton game the previous night in the same competition; an impressive number. I wondered if we might get up to 35,000; I suspected not.

Barco continued to impress. He kept the ball moving but not in the ponderous way of Jorginho. His touch was light, and he played passes with an unerring calmness, and with pin-point accuracy. I bizarrely spotted the likeness to Danny Bonadeuce of “The Partridge Family” from those joyful Saturday mornings of my youth; “Sesame Steet”, “The Partridge Family”, Sam Leitch on “Grandstand” with his football preview.

I had just mentioned to Alan, who lives close to the Crystal Palace mast, that the visitors had not enjoyed a single effort on Penders’ goal, when a minute or so later, a shot came in from an angle down below us but was blocked.

On thirty-eight minutes, Barco slid a fine ball to meet a beautifully timed run into the box from Estevao, just beating the offside line, and this resulted in a shot that was whipped low across the goal, but which went wide of the far post.

It was hard to believe that we had not scored in this half of football. But there were no catcalls, nor boos. We could all see that this was an improvement in a playing style; the quality of opposition notwithstanding.

Dear reader : it was such a bloody relief.

In the first portion of the half, Estevao and Palmer had looked sensational, combining well, and full of tricks. Again, lovely to witness.

I had mentioned to Alan earlier : “It’s the Estevao show tonight, mate” and, at that very moment, he double-touched the ball as he stumbled and it went out for a goal-kick. I need to learn when to keep my gob shut.

In the last few five minutes of the half, however, I whispered to Alan “we have plateaued a bit.” We had lost a little zip of energy. Passes were taking a little longer to be made.

With that, a Luton free-kick, and a header from Hakeem Odoffin was on target but Penders easily claimed it.

On forty-four minutes, Estevao was the creator again as he set up Morgan Rogers, otherwise relatively quiet, but his volley smacked against the bar.

Nice interplay between Chavarria and Rogers set up Palmer, but another blocked shot.

It had been a night, thus far, of almost total domination, but it was 0-0 as the half came to an end. Lacroix had impressed me; physically strong, pacey, and happy to make decisions quickly. Alongside him, Josh continued to look a fine prospect.

At the break, I messaged some pals in the US :

“The players look like they know what they need to do. Bit of a radical approach to be honest.”

Five minutes into the second period, Estevao played a decisive pass that allowed the overlapping Gusto – our least-effective player thus far – to punch a super cross over and onto the head of a leaping Welbeck.

GOAL.

A trademark Welbeck goal.

Fantastic.

How he loved celebrating that one.

Alan looked at me.

I looked at him.

We both fidgeted with our glasses, Eric Morecambe-style.

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

Lovely stuff.

We could relax, or could we?

Possibly not. A Luton equaliser, however unlikely, might mean that we would go into penalties right after the final whistle.

Barco continued his fine debut; receiving, a touch, a pass, on target, always. He reminded me of the light-footed Billy Gilmour with his economy of movement.

On the hour, Welbeck’s shot rolled just wide of the far post. Four minutes later, great shape from Palmer, but his beautifully struck shot skimmed the very top of the crossbar.

Three minutes later, a rare effort on Penders’ goal, a low drive from the other Palmer, but just wide.

Throughout this game, the atmosphere had not been too special. The away fans were hardly a wall of noise, but they kept producing a prime piece of glottal-stop English.

“Come on Lu’on, Come on Lu’on.”

They also quaintly sang of their rivals not as bastards or worse, but as just “Hornets.”

Bless.

Chelsea were quiet.

Shocker.

On sixty-seven minutes, some substitutions.

Jorrel Hato for Gusto.

Romeo Lavia for James.

Pedro Neto for Rogers.

On seventy-three minutes another.

Joao Pedro for Welbeck.

Or rather on seventy-four minutes; our punishment as Welbeck did not sprint off the pitch.

With ten minutes to go, Barco surprisingly lost the ball but soon wrestled the ball back and guided the ball to Palmer, who passed to Estevao outside. A shimmy, a shot at goal, but the unlucky Odoffin was in the way and could not divert the ball from going in.

Chelsea 2 Luton Town 0.

Phew.

Just after, Jamie Gittens replaced Steve-O.

Late on, Barco played the ball over to Acheampong but his header dropped just wide of the far post.

On ninety-minutes, a fine phase of possession football in and around their box, and an eventual shot from Joao Pedro that was blocked.

Then a moment later, a strong run from Gittens down below me but he smacked the post with a firm drive.

We should have won 5-0 really.

But I enjoyed this game. I saw glimpses of a fine future.

So, we play Leeds United at home in the next round, and a game that will be our eighth consecutive match in London. Just like Luton, we seem to avoid Leeds for years and years, but then play them again and again.

I think the atmosphere will be better for that one.

I met up with Parky and PD outside “The Mitre” at 9.45pm, and – an earlier one on this occasion – I was home at 12.30am exactly. It had been a smashing night of football.

Next up, another home match; Brighton on Sunday at 2pm.

I will see you there.

DAVE McCROSSEN.

Before the photos, a plug for my friend Dave McCrossen and his newly published tome, which covers last season’s slog, and is available on Amazon via book or Kindle. I have just bought my copy, and it promises to be a good read.

Us Chelsea matchday-going bloggers have to look after each other; there are only two of us.