Tales From A Doubler

Posted on April 19, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 18 April 2026.

Here was another fortuitous moment. With Chelsea’s home match with Manchester United kicking off at 8pm, it meant that I could squeeze in Frome Town’s match at local rivals Melksham Town at 3pm. When I first thought about this as an option, I was slightly wary of having to explain to PD and Parky that they would have to get up to London under their own steam, via train – though not steam train – since nothing gets in the way of them and a pre-match bevy. Thankfully, they half-expected this and had already discussed going up from Frome to Paddington between themselves.

A Melksham Town vs. Frome Town derby is a very local affair; the two football clubs are just sixteen miles apart.

Before the game began, I met up with my usual match-going mates and chatted to others that had travelled over the county border from Somerset to Wiltshire. There were also two work colleagues – my place of work is just half-a-mile away – who I had a quick chat with. They were both supporting the home team. This was a bigger match for them than for Frome. If we beat them, and fellow strugglers Willand Rovers won, Melksham Town would be relegated.

One of the Frome lads shouted over to me.

“Doubler?”

I nodded.

The Oakfield Stadium at Melksham is new – it opened up in 2017 – but I am not a fan. Despite a big block that houses bar facilities, and a measly number of seats, it has the appearance of an open prison. This block backs on to a rugby pitch; it therefore serves both rugby and football. Elsewhere, there are covered stands on only two of the remaining three sides. It’s an anaemic ground with little character. They have enjoyed large attendances since the club relocated, though, and sit second behind Frome in the attendance table of our division.

The Frome faithful took position under the small stand roof at the western edge of the stadium as the game began and soon began taunting the home support about relegation.

However, the home team took hold of the game and scored via Levi Irving after just six minutes. Frome toiled but found it difficult to penetrate a resolute Melksham back-line that included former Frome players Mark Cooper and Alex Hallett. Frome chances were rare. I changed location for the second half and squeezed into the back row of the main stand. Again, more toil from Frome, but few clear-cut chances. With twenty minutes remaining, Joel Smedley turned in a second goal for the home team and that was that. Just after, Frome captain Sam Teale was dismissed for a reckless challenge. With approaching five minutes to go, I said my goodbyes and headed off to London. This was Frome’s third loss in forty-one league games this season, and the first loss that I had witnessed in the competition in person.

I left Melksham Town’s car park at 4.45pm. The route to London took me up the A4, the old Roman road, and I joined the M4 at Hungerford at 5.30pm. The traffic was light, the weather was perfect, and I was parked on a small driveway on Brecon Road bang on 7pm, when my “JustPark” booking started.

I hot-footed it to Stamford Bridge – there was no signs of the protest against BlueCo – and just outside the stadium on the Fulham Road I heard that Brighton had tied it 2-2 with a ninety-sixth minute equaliser at Tottenham.

Beautiful.

I was inside The Sleepy Hollow just after 7.30pm.

There were chats with the chaps – I like the photo of Clive, PD, Daryl, Gary and Ed – and I then settled into my seat in preparation for the day’s main event. This would be my forty-sixth Chelsea match against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge, second only to fifty-one against Liverpool.

Before the pre-match noise and nonsense, former director Colin Hutchinson was remembered. He recently passed away aged eighty-six. He was a key board member under Ken Bates, navigating many pitfalls to acquire top players and help steer the club forward. He was a key figure in the history of our club.

RIP Colin Hutchinson

With injured players unavailable, Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Pedro Neto

Liam Delap

Over in the far corner were the United fans, and with flags from Failsworth, Rossendale and St. Helens. I sometimes wonder if flags from further south are banished for United away games. It’s noticeable that all the permanent banners on display at Old Trafford honour players, managers and games. At Manchester City, Chelsea and Arsenal – among others – banners featuring supporters from all over the world are festooned everywhere. It’s almost as if United are trying to downplay their global reach whereas others are looking to celebrate it.

I scanned the United players and turned to Clive :

“That little scrote Mount isn’t playing, is he?”

He wasn’t.

At 8pm the game kicked off.

I found myself praising Delap as he chased a lost cause in front of The Shed and forced a corner, but it came to nothing. I spotted Enzo playing very deep, starting moves behind Caicedo.

Very soon into the game, everything was taking shape and it wasn’t pleasant. The movement of the ball and the movement off the ball was painfully slow, and Clive and I were bemoaning the robotic nature of everything. Players were hustling each other to get into positions so their AI orchestrated moves could begin.

“No bastard spoke about ‘patterns of play’ in the ‘nineties, Clive.”

There was a penalty shout that was dismissed, and then on eleven minutes, Estevao cut inside onto his left foot and struck a shot at goal. It breezed just past the far post and may have touched the post.

Just after, there was a fortuitous breakaway, but Estevao could only meekly shoot at the United ‘keeper Senne Lammens, whoever he is.

Unfortunately, the young winger took a knock and was replaced by Alejandro Garnacho, and the United fans were stirred into a frenzy.

The game then diminished in quality.

By the half hour, it was dull as hell.

Cole Palmer was fouled just outside the box. He took the free-kick, but it was wasted.

On thirty-two minutes, Garnacho played the ball in to Enzo in the United box, who shimmied past a defender and then did well to win the ball back. He steadied himself and we watched as the ball just missed the goal frame, missing the far post by a whisper.

On thirty-seven minutes, there was a frenzied attack and a save from Lammens from Enzo. Palmer won the loose ball, played in Delap, who fired home.

Alas, we saw the flag was raised. Offside.

Throughout all this, United had offered little. With a minute to half-time, a break down our left found Bruno Fernandes and was given too much space by both Garnacho and a recovering Cucurella. His pull back was slammed in by Matheus Cunha. At the time, we were down to ten men; Wesley Fofana was receiving treatment after clashing with Sanchez when he came to superbly punch away a free kick.

There were strong words from everyone at half-time. Despite occasional half-chances from us, and very little in the way of a threat from United, we were far from happy. Our play was dull and slow. It was so tedious to watch.

What would happen in the second half? Considering we never seem to play the same for an entire game, at least there was hope.

First, there was an attack from the visitors, and a shot from distance from Fernandes that drifted wide. The United fans, typically, had been singing all evening and the buggers were still singing about John Terry, eighteen years after that miserable wet night in Moscow.

I was pleased that we soon managed to get behind the team with a rousing “Amazing Grace” which came out of nowhere and surprised me.

On fifty-one minutes, an effort from Caicedo was deflected wide for a corner. Enzo came over to take it, down below me. For all of his foibles, he remains a favourite of mine and the crowd. We urged him to send over a decent delivery.

No, the ball didn’t clear the first man. In fact, the defender chested it away. Shocking corner. Must do better.

Sadly, not long after, the same player, the same near post, the same terrible corner, this one headed away.

A clipped cross from Pedro Neto found the leap of Delap, but his glanced header hit the crossbar. We squealed in agony. A

We had reached the hour mark, and for short bursts the noise created inside Stamford Bridge was excellent.

Well, to be precise, not 1986 excellent, not 1996 excellent, not 2006 excellent, not 2016 excellent, but for 2026 it was good as we can expect.

A snapshot from Palmer from a Malo Gusto cross was guided wide, and I felt that eventually one of these chances would go in.

On sixty-four minutes, though, a United break, and a shot from Fernandes looped up after hitting Fofana. However, Sanchez scrambled across to steer the ball around the post; a fine save.

At our end, a fine bit of wing play, eventually, from Neto who placed a fine cross towards the six-yard box. The resulting Fofana header was deflected onto the crossbar.

Ugh.

However, the noise boomed again around Stamford Bridge.

On seventy-five minutes, Gusto did well, after a long chase, to drag the ball back and a succession of acrobatic kicks followed, but the United goal lived a charmed life.

A strong Bryan Mbeumo run was halted by a strong, and splendid, tackle by Jorrel Hato, who had played well all game, and was my man of the match.

Throughout this second-half we had played better, no doubt. But it was still difficult to watch Garnacho who, apart from one rare moment when he sauntered past two markers, always chose to run, shuffle, stop and pass back to a teammate. It was also odd to see the other winger, Neto, advance, cut back onto his left peg, then pass to Gusto, our right-back, to swing over a cross.

Inverted wingers, my arse.

On eighty-one minutes, Rosenior made some changes.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

Defensive changes. When we need a goal. Fackinell.

Mason Mount, the little twerp, appeared and strutted around.

Just after, a low blooter from Caicedo, and this went narrowly wide of the far post.

One last change.

A voice behind me.

“Guiu surely.”

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

Needless to say, United held on for the three points. Back at the car, we agreed that despite our issues with our manager, some of our players and most of our tactics, we deserved a point.

Alas, my doubler had returned no points, and I didn’t get home until 1.45am.

It was one of those days.

On Tuesday, a trip to Sussex by the Sea awaits.

See you there.

GAME 1 : MELKSHAM TOWN VS. FROME TOWN

GAME 2 : CHELSEA VS. MANCHESTER UNITED

Tales From The Men In Black

Posted on March 9, 2026 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 4 March 2026.

Chelsea were amid a run of away games against Arsenal, Aston Villa, Wrexham and Paris St. Germain; this midweek fixture at Villa Park was being talked about within many Chelsea circles as a “must win” game, bearing in mind Villa’s place in the league – just ahead of us – but also because they were on a run of poor form.

This had been a simple enough flit up the M5 for me – via a curry at “The Vine” in West Bromwich – and I was parked-up on Bragg Road around fifteen minutes from the away turnstiles at 6.30pm. I fastened my coat and walked east. Kick-off was an hour away.

It was the usual scene at Villa Park; the police vans parked on the roundabout where Witton Road meets Aston Lane, the approach along Witton Lane, the bloke with the “God Is Love” placard, the red bricked buildings, the souvenir sellers, the floodlights in the distance. I did notice a new pre-match hospitality area as I got closer, a good use of those old existing buildings. Villa have plans to enlarge the existing North Stand, and they have plenty of space to enlarge the hospitality areas further.

I was sat in the second row alongside John; alas Alan and Gary could not make this one. Parky and PD were down in the lower tier.

The famous old stadium slowly filled, and we were soon treated to the usual pre-match rituals at Villa of “Hi-Ho Aston Villa”, flames, and fireworks, and dear old Ozzy belting out “Crazy Train.” Other clubs – yes, including ours – have gone for the “Flames & Fireworks” as a pre-curser to the match, but Villa have taken it to a different level. If you were to rate their pre-match claret and sky-blue pyrotechnic trickery, it would certainly be top of the pile. In fact, Villa are so desperate for silverware these days that we might soon find this in their honours section of their match programme.

Amid the sulphurous fumes, the teams made their way onto the pitch.

Liam Rosenior had chosen this team :

Filip Jorgensen

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Was Robert Sanchez injured or dropped?

We were dressed in our all-black kit, and I had immediate memories of us in that colour at this venue in other years, most memorably the Frank Lampard game in 2013 when he equalled and then surpassed Bobby Tambling’s 202 goals. I also, and oddly, remembered the black-shirted Alexandre Pato’s penalty kick in a 4-0 win in 2016.

The game began with us attacking the towering Holte End. I spent the first few moments trying to work out who was where on the right side of the field. Was Reece at right back, but able to push into midfield with Malo Gusto as a right-sided attacker – unlikely, I know – or was Gusto at right back, with Reece alongside Caicedo in midfield? The positioning of Enzo and Palmer seemed to confuse me more than help me. I think it was the initial position of Gusto, so high on that far side, that had baffled me. Within those first fleeting moments, we had won a corner but then got caught on a rapid break from the home team. I took a couple of photos of Leon Bailey teasing away down below us. He got the better of Hato and drove a low ball into the box, where Douglas Luiz delicately and deftly touched it past Jorgensen.

Only three minutes had passed, and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I was shell-shocked.

The home support was enlivened.

“Holte Enders in the skoy.”

Two minutes later, Garnacho on the left curled a great cross over for Joao Pedro to head down but Emilano Martinez saved well.

Soon after, at a Chelsea corner, we noticed how the Villa team left four players up, and of course it meant we had less numbers in attack. It was a new and novel approach to defending corners, though I seem to remember Jose Mourinho leaving three up in his first stint with us.

Palmer shot weakly at Martinez on a quarter of an hour, and up until now our support was getting increasingly frustrated with the slow approach play from the back. Chalobah must have touched the ball more than anyone else in this period.

“Get it forward!”

I heard that Arsenal were 1-0 up at Brighton and I told John “I hate football.”

On twenty-one minutes, another chance for Palmer inside the box after a great ball into him, but his finish was as weak as before. Then, two minutes later, and with Chelsea picking up the pace and finding some good angles and spaces, a lovely move set up Enzo, but his effort was hit tamely at Martinez. By now, Garnacho was getting more and more involved out wide and giving Matty Cash a real test.

The game was hotting up. We had, also, quietened their crowd, always a good sign.

Out on the far side of the pitch was Ian Maatsen, our former player, and I could not help noticing how short he seemed in comparison to the other players. I had only been commenting to Alan, I think, at a recent home game how we never see short players at football these days. It’s a mark of the modern game; how most players need to be tall and physically strong, and especially fast, in this era. Gone are the days when will o’ the wisp players…cheeky wingers, midfield dynamos…were everywhere…our own Pat Nevin, our own Mickey Thomas, our own Gianfranco Zola spring to mind. All these players – and Maatsen – were 5’6” and it’s an oddity that there seems to be a shortage – sorry! – of these players today.

Maybe I noticed Maatsen because I am 5’6” too.

We continued to be press forward.

Just after the half-hour I turned to John to say “it’s a much better game now.”

We had thrown off our shackles and were now having a real go at Villa. There was a shot from the energetic Garnacho, and the Chelsea choir were now getting behind the men in black. But Villa were still an occasional threat and Ollie Watlkins perhaps should have tested Jorgensen better when one-on-one.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful ball from Enzo was sent over the Villa defence to the onrushing Gusto. He spotted the run of Joao Pedro and I sensed a goal. I mouthed “here we go” at the exact moment that he arrived to slide the ball home.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

More Chelsea pressure, Garnacho revelling in the space out wide.

“Go on son, get past him.”

Cash was being run from arsehole to breakfast time.

In the third minute of added time, Hato – who was enjoying a very solid game – dribbled into the Villa box with ease but his shot was blocked.

Then, a rapid Villa break, and I kept an eye on the passage of play, trying to spot if an offside was about to happen. The ball was passed out to Ollie Watkins who struck the ball past Jorgensen. The Villa hordes roared again,

To me, it looked onside. Thankfully, VAR ruled otherwise. Phew.

Then, with five minutes of added time played, Chelsea were again knocking on the door, and Garnacho was involved once more. He found Enzo who wriggled into some space and lifted an exquisite ball into Joao Pedro. He nonchalantly guided the ball past Martinez.

Now it was our turn to roar again.

Then, to our horror, VAR was called in to rule on a potential offside.

Nah. The goal stood.

At the break, we were 2-1 to the good.

“Great recovery that, John.”

I just hoped that we could continue in the same fashion. Sometimes we just can’t seem to play two consecutive halves in the same way, can we?

Joe Cole, with former Chelsea fan Peter Crouch on TV duty, were spotted a few times and Joey walked over to pose for some photos with a few Chelsea supporters in the break.

Before the second period, more “Crazy Train” and another Chelsea huddle on the centre-circle that seemed to irritate the Villa players.

The second half began, and there were two early chances for Garnacho but he spurned them both.

On fifty-five minutes, we broke when Caicedo won a ball inside our half and we moved the ball quickly – no honest, we did, I was there – via Palmer and Joao Pedro and found Reece on the wing. His low cross was punched away by Martinez, but only as far as Palmer. The Palmer of old – er, two seasons ago – would have struck it home easily, whereas the little less confident Palmer of 2026 might struggle. I watched to see which version would prevail.

He struck the ball with venom. Its trajectory was unhindered. The back of the net rippled.

GET IN.

I watched Palmer cup his ear as if to say “what’s that you been saying about me?” and then saw his trademark celebration.

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

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

We were 3-1 up.

Beautiful.

We continued to purr, and the Chelsea fans were energised and happy. This was just how I wanted us to play. With more freedom. With more pace. With more style.

Chelsea is all about style.

But this was still an open game – Mourinho would have hated it – and chances for Palmer and Garnacho were matched occasionally by Villa. Watkins was put through, one on one with Jorgensen but he dallied, enabling Chalobah to twist his body and dig out the ball, a fine piece of defending.

On sixty-three minutes, former blues Jadon Sancho and Ross Barkley were among the three substitutions made by Villa.

A minute later, Caicedo – from deep – swept the ball out to Gusto, who touched it to Palmer. His trusted left peg floated the ball out to Garnacho. I photographed his surging run, deep into the box, and watched as he very unselfishly played the ball square to Joao Pedro who guided the ball in, his hat-trick.

The goal immediately reminded me of that Lampard goal from 2013.

The scorer raced over to the Chelsea section, and I was lucky enough to capture his beatific smiles.

4-1.

Fackinell.

Not long after, there was an audacious bicycle kick from Joao Pedro.

On seventy-two minutes, Tammy Abraham came on and so Villa now had four ex-Chelsea players in their eleven.

In the last fifteen minutes, Rosenior rang the changes.

75 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Gusto.

79 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo.

79 minutes : Tosin Adarabioyo for Fofana,

85 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

85 minutes : Andrey Santos for Palmer.

John and I had a little laugh about Lavia and his unfortunate habit of getting injured. I envisaged a scenario where he is chosen to start a game and lasts the entire match. He comes into the Chelsea dressing room at the end of the game and sits on the bench alongside his teammates.

Liam Rosenior sees him and asks “what the fuck are you doing here?”

With the game won, and the number of changes, it was no surprise that the game drifted towards the end. It was nice to see the former Chelsea players again, and Barkley had a trademark shuffle through the middle and shot.

“I can actually see them scoring” I said to Gary, just as Barkley floated a ball in and Abraham leapt to head the ball on to the top of the bar.

In the stadium, the home fans were drifting away, and the Chelsea crowd aired the “fire drill” chant.

The game finished and the men in black had triumphed. This was a lovely surprise, a great Chelsea performance – admittedly against an increasingly disheartened Villa team – and a perfect response to the doom mongers after Arsenal. The plaudits must got to Joao Pedro and his sublime touch, and his ability to drift in and score, but Garnacho was a revelation, his best game for us by a country mile. A special mention for Hato, too; what a polished performance.

I was able to take a selection of photographs at the end as the Chelsea players celebrated down below. I loved the way Enzo was serenaded. He has many admirers at Chelsea. And I loved how we sang Tammy’s name as he walked, slightly, towards us. The photo of him with Trevoh is my favourite of the whole night.

And so that was that. A great away win in a “must-win” game, and a nice fillip before trips to Wales and France.

Oh, there were three extra bits of drama that I won’t bore you with that took place during the afternoon and evening involving Parky’s ‘phone, my SLR camera and my wallet.

“I still can’t download the ticket. I reckon I’m knackered.”

“You can’t bring that camera in. There’s a “drop-off” place just over there.”

“The team are doing a sweep of the stadium; it’s going to be an hour mate. Will you wait here to see if we can find it?”

Thankfully, everything worked out.

Next up, a first-ever trip for me to Wrexham.

Stay tuned.

Tales From The Addicks And The Addicts

Posted on January 13, 2026 by Chris Axon

Charlton Athletic vs. Charlton : 10 January 2026.

The two domestic cup competitions continued to serve us well in season 2025/26. After a decent Autumnal tour of England and Wales – Lincoln, Wolverhampton and Cardiff – in the League Cup, the FA Cup first gave us an away day at Charlton Athletic, a ground that I had not visited since the opening day of 2002/3, and which the club had not visited since early in 2007.

A visit to The Valley was long overdue.

The kick-off time of 8pm would normally have resulted in much wailing – more of that later – but on this occasion, the timings worked out in our favour. I spotted a good deal at the Premier Inn opposite “The Eight Bells” and booked four of us – Glenn, PD, Parky and little old me – in for the Saturday night.

It took me a while to devote some time to planning a pre-match pub-crawl but on the Friday night (just before I set about writing the Fulham match report), I decided that we would hit a few pubs that were centered on The Strand. It is an area that we have covered before, but most of the hostelries would be new.

I left home at 8.45am and soon collected the three chaps. There was a filling breakfast at “McDonald’s” in Melksham, and I soon found myself driving down the Fulham Palace Road only two-and-a-half days after driving up it after the limp 1-2 defeat at Craven Cottage on the Wednesday. We booked in at the hotel, prised Salisbury Steve away from “The Eight Bells”, which was slowly being filled by Middlesbrough fans prior to their cup tie at Fulham, and headed off to Embankment.

By about 1pm, we were drinking outside the first of the pubs of the day, the “Sherlock Holmes”, and the oddest part of that short visit was being approached by a bloke from the Florida Keys – on his first day in London, in England, in Europe – who told us “he just likes hearing you guys talk.” He seemed harmless enough but looked completely confused when I started unravelling the story of the FA Cup for him and soon tried to divert the conversation back to his domain, the world of College Football. His wife soon dragged him back inside the pub, perhaps afraid he would catch a cold, or worse, gain a sudden passion for “soccer.”

We then walked the twenty yards to “The Ship & Shovel” which we visited a few years back before a trip to see us lose to Tottenham in their second season at Wembley. It’s a unique pub, with two rooms either side of a narrow walkway.

From there, another short walk to Villiers Street and a pint at “The Princess Of Wales” where we soon learned that Macclesfield Town from the sixth level of the English pyramid had defeated Crystal Palace, the current FA Cup holders. Here was a beautiful illustration of how the FA Cup, certainly in the early rounds, still captures the imagination of the romantics among us. By the time of the latter rounds, all the magic is sadly squeezed out of the oldest football competition in the world.

I remember dropping in to this pub en route to The Valley in November 2000, when we lost 0-2 on my first-ever visit, and Claudio Ranieri came under torrents of abuse from many among the Chelsea support. He was just finding out about his new charges and was prone to playing odd systems as he struggled to find a winning team. I seem to remember he played Dennis Wise as a right wing-back in that game, and we were collectively awful.

We then hopped over the street to visit “All Bar One”, the most modern of the pubs that were on the list, and probably the least enjoyable.

Next up, a minute walk to “Theodore Bullfrog” and I was so pleased to be able to tell the lads that Frome Town were winning 3-1 at promotion rivals Winchester City. I highlighted this game as the most difficult that we would face all season. The beer in this pub tasted all the sweeter.

By this time, a few folks had spotted our travels on “Facebook” and had suggested a couple of pubs that were not originally on my list.

Pub number six was “The Harp”, possibly my favourite of the new pubs, a cosy – but packed – boozer that oozed charm. It was now 4.30pm, Frome were still 3-1 up, and the beers continued to flow.

Next up, another unplanned pub, “The Marquis”, which was virtually next-door to the previous gaff, and another packed and cosy boozer, with lots of musical references around the bar; posters, props, artifacts, etc.

I asked a woman to take our photo of us in the bar.

I checked the photograph; it was a cracker and told her “You have the job. Welcome to MI5. We will see you on Monday.”

The last pub, number eight, was “The Nell Gwynne” and we had been joined by Small Bobby. He had played a game of football at 2pm and was keen to join us before heading over to the Chelsea match. We reached here at about 5.15pm and decided to make this the last call of the evening. It had been single drinks in all the others, but we stayed for three in this one, eleven all told, but I mixed some pints with some bottles to remain as lucid as possible. Stop laughing at the back. We found ourselves next to three women “of a certain age” who were – unfortunately for them, and us – Tottenham fans, but it didn’t spoil the evening.

In total, the eight pubs were covered in just twelve minutes of walking time. The first five were south of The Strand, the final three were north of The Strand.

It had been a blast.

We left there at about 6.30pm, and we all decided that catching an Uber was probably the best bet as it saved scurrying around the steps and escalators of various underground and mainline stations en route to The Valley.

While in the uber as it set off towards the Tower of London, past Canary Wharf and Poplar, then under The Thames, I spotted a quote on “Facebook” by ex-Leeds United manager Marcelo Bielsa that hit a chord.

I am not one for sharing too much that isn’t my own stuff on “Facebook” but I did so on this occasion.

Here it is :

“I am certain that football is in a process of decline. More and more people are watching the sport, but it is becoming less and less attractive. There are fewer and fewer footballers worth watching, and the game is less and less enjoyable.”

This mirrors my thoughts, and many that can compare the far less regulated styles of football in the past to the robotic “keep ball” of today, and it elicited a decent number of responses.

The conclusion?

It’s a drug, this football lark, and I commented that I am too old and too stupid to give it up.

My name is Chris, and I am a Chelsea addict.

Like many who were assembling at The Valley, no doubt.

The Uber ride took exactly an hour, and we were dropped off a few hundred yards away from the entrance to The Valley on Floyd Road. As I have only visited it twice before, and the last time was almost a quarter of a century ago, the approach wasn’t too familiar. As we reached the bottom of the incline, I found myself walking right in the middle of a mob of baying Charlton fans, and then within seconds an equally boisterous mob of Chelsea. There was a bit of a ruckus, but not much to get excited about.

With the stadium in view now, I quickly snapped a couple of photos of a chap grafting away and selling the hated “friendship scarves.”

“Half-Man, Half-Trinket, the face of shame.”

It was reassuring to see many old school faces queuing up to get inside. I guessed that absence made our cumulative hearts grow fonder and this was why we flocked to The Valley once more.

I was inside at 7.45pm and quickly found my seat…er position. Halfway through the first half, I realised that Glenn was two rows in front of me. 3,300 Chelsea were in the Jimmy Seed Stand and we were just a few feet apart. What were the chances?

The evening was already getting colder, and I was beginning to regret not wearing a warmer coat. But it’s always a balancing act when we dive in and out of pubs. I weighed up the options and plumped for being comfortable in a pub for six hours and cold at the football for two hours rather than too warm for six and toasty for two.

There was the usual modern-day nonsense of lights being dipped, flumes of smoke, and the home fans added to this silliness by going all “Spursy” by holding their phone torches above their heads, the loons.

Liam Rosenior was in charge for his first game, and we had touched upon our thoughts of him in the first pub or two. He seems an articulate so-and-so, and confident, and of course we wish him well.

His first Chelsea team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

Guiu

The game began and it seemed unreal that I was back at The Valley after a gap of over twenty-three years. In 2002, we won 3-2 on a hot and sultry August afternoon with a late goal from Frank Lampard but the weather was so different on this occasion. We attacked what used to be called “The Covered End” and a cross from Jamie Gittens on the right was soon claimed by the Charlton ‘keeper Will Mannion.

It seemed very much like we were playing the same way as before in the opening few minutes; I guess it’s difficult to change to a new style immediately.

There was a medical emergency in the first few rows of the Main Stand, and this held the game up. We really did not need any further hold-ups. God knows what time we would leave the stadium if this tie went to extra-time and penalties. A good guess would be 11pm and God forbid that.

There was a lovely Facundo Buonanotte lofted chip for James Gittens but his header was easily saved. We enjoyed a flurry of corners without testing their ‘keeper and then on eighteen minutes, Andrey Santos did not connect well with a shot, and it spun wide.

Halfway through the half, I could not help but chastise the players for absolutely no movement off the ball.

“You’d think the buggers would want to run around a bit in this cold weather, eh?”

I spotted that the bloke behind me had been behind me at Fulham too and I said to him “you would not invite a friend to watch this dull shite.”

A thunderous strike from Acheampong was well saved by their ‘keeper.

On the half-hour mark, a ridiculously high shot screamed over the bar, and this led to the first-ever time – I am sure – that the infamous “FCUKING USELESS” chant was directed at our own team and not after a shocking piece of play by the opposition.

Yes, we had sunk this low, and it brought back memories of when Ranieri was given a terrible verbal onslaught at The Valley way back in 2000.

The build-up continued to take forever, such is the way of football in the second quarter of the twenty-first century. This slow and meticulous “pass, pass, pass” style of play has blighted the game for years now, and it makes many – including Marcelo Bielsa no doubt – question the sanity of it all.

It feels to me that this is a mode of football that has been spawned by AI. It’s as if every game of football ever played has been processed through a series of huge computers the size of the Maracana and the boffins have observed that the most effective way to play is to relentlessly pass the ball across the pitch until the defending team momentarily loses concentration, or the will to live, until the ball is pushed home from eight yards.

No thrills, no imagination, no skills, no entertaining dribbles, no one-on-ones, no crunching tackles, no variation. Just a grim grinding of gears as players go through set patterns of play that have been practised on training pitches for hours on end.

I don’t know what Cloughie would make of it all.

Football is now like a car journey, planned meticulously by Sat Nav where the only concern is fuel economy and not the scenery. It’s like travelling from Bristol to Birmingham and keeping to the greyness and monotony of the M5 motorway and avoiding the beautiful Cotswolds, the picturesque villages and market towns, the sweeping views of the Severn Vale and the patchwork of fields with stone walls and hedgerows.

On thirty-three minutes we played the ball back to Jorgensen and the Chelsea faithful clapped sarcastically.

Then, a loud burst from us.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! – ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

I pleaded for someone to drop a shoulder. For somebody to do something.

On forty-four minutes, a Garnacho shot was blocked.

The play was so poor. I wanted the players to be less conservative, to take a chance.

In the fourth minute of injury time, a cross from our left was aimed at Marc Guiu who headed the ball back to where Jorrel Hato was stood. The ball bounced once and the left-back smacked it cleanly into the roof of the net.

Get in, thank the Lord.

We were ahead, just.

Half-time was reached.

A friend texted me to say that we had enjoyed – if that is the correct word – seventy-eight percent possession in that first-half.

Five minutes into the second half, down below me, Bounanotte lashed a great free-kick towards the near post and Tosin speared the ball in via a fine glancing header.

Not long after, a confident run from Alejandro Garnacho was followed by a cheeky curler that just went wide of the far post.

On fifty-five minutes, Charlton enjoyed their best chance thus far and the ball went off for a corner. From the resulting kick, Jorgensen did ever so well to pat away a header, but the rebound was crashed home by Miles Leaburn, who is the son of former Charlton striker Carl Leaburn.

Another name from that haunted 1987/88 season. After Leroy Rosenior scored against us at West Ham – as mentioned in my last report – we played Charlton at home and Carl Leaburn was in their team who equalised in the ninetieth minute, forcing us into the play-offs.

Red and white smoke bombs rained down from a corner of the home end. I spotted a Charlton flag in that corner that featured their “Addicks” nickname, one of the oddest in our professional game. The story behind it is very fishy.

On sixty-two minutes, Garnacho dribbled in and set up Buonanotte. His shot was weakly parried and Guiu slotted home. I captured his celebrations with my pub camera.

On sixty-six minutes, Estevao replaced Gittens and the away choir sang his Samba song.

Bloody hell it was cold.

On sixty-nine minutes, more changes.

Liam Delap for Guiu.

Enzo Fernandez for Buonanotte.

Five minutes later we kept warm by sing a loud “One man went to mow” and Estevao cut in but his shot was finger-tipped over.

Estevao added a little pizazz to the game and set up Enzo and Delap before again threatening Mannion with another shot.

Then the fog hit us, and the place became greyer and greyer.

And colder and colder.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, more changes.

Wesley Fofana for Hato.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

A shot from Enzo, high and wide. Then in the first minute of injury time, the Argentinian World cup winner sped forward and passed to Neto. He lost his marker and then drilled a low shot in at the near post.

Three minutes later, Mannion fell at the feet of Estevao after another lively incursion, and the referee pointed at the spot.

Enzo smashed it home. It was the last kick of the game.

Charlton Athletic 1 Chelsea 5.

The players came over to thank us for our support on this cold and foggy night.

We soon serenaded the new manager.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

Job done, can we go home now?

Actually, no we couldn’t. For some reason that was never fully explained, the police kept us penned in on the crowded road that connected the exit of the away end to Floyd Road for around forty minutes, with all of us getting colder and colder by the minute. We were towards the back, so just stepped away from the mob, but tempers were rising as the sirens wailed, the lights flashed and the night drew on.

Eventually we slowly walked to the top of Floyd Road, sadly managed to avoid finding the Uber driver I had booked – and he managed to avoid us too – and so we eventually caught a train back to London Bridge at around 11pm or so.

We gobbled down some bloody awful “McDonalds” burgers under the station’s arches and then took a beautifully warm Uber at midnight that took us through South London, over the Thames at Lambeth, then close to the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and eventually down the Kings Road to Fulham. We reached our base at 12.30am.

Sleep!

Next up, a League Cup semi-final at home to Arsenal.

Bernie Slaven’s son doesn’t play for them, does he?

Let’s All Go Down The Strand

Up For The Cup

Tales From An Evening Out In London

Posted on August 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 22 August 2025.

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.

This Chelsea day at lasted from 4.45am to 2.45am.

Mamma mia.

Next up, another London Derby awaits.

See you in the pub.

BARONS COURT TO PUDDING MILL LANE